Avoid lorries

Never wait between the kerb and a lorry at a junction. If the lorry turns left, the driver may not see you. Stay well behind or, preferably, in front, where you can be seen.

Stay clear of the kerb

The kerb is not your friend. Ride clear of it so that drivers steer around you. Hugging the pavement invites them to try and scrape past.

Show your face

Looking at drivers at junctions helps them to view you as a fellow road user they would rather not run over. Do the same to vehicles on your tail.

Use your neck

Learn how to look over your shoulder without wobbling and do so regularly – particularly before making a manoeuvre, when you should also stick out an arm.

Obey the code

Some may argue that it is safer, say, to jump a red light than wait in a lorry’s shadow but egregious violations endanger you and harm the image of cyclists.

Overtake buses

If you’re approaching a bus at a stop, look over your shoulder, and move to overtake. If you can’t, wait behind the bus. Never undertake.

Be bright

It’s more important to show your face and position yourself well, but bright clothing, strong lights and reflectors will help you get noticed.

Plan your route

It stands to reason that you’re probably more vulnerable in three lanes of traffic doing 40mph than on a residential side street.

Find a friend

If you’re a new or lapsed cyclist, venture out with a more experienced friend. Keep a good distance behind and watch. Then let them follow you and take their advice.

These tips are taken from The Independent. For the full article, please go to - The ‘ghost bike’ revolt: Families demand action on cyclist deaths

Dad at Rome Olympics 1960

Dad’s legacy. Over half a century ago, when Malta was still under British rule and the members of their armed forces stationed here offered stiff competition to the locals in the sporting field, my dad was one of the leading cyclists on the island. The culmination of his career was when he represented Malta in the Rome Olympics of 1960. Such was his dedication that although marrying a few weeks before the event, he convinced my mum to delay the honeymoon until after the Games. Credit to him for his focus and kudos to her for accepting. I grew up in the shadow of his achievements and the expectations that I was to follow in his wheels…..cadence…..slipstream were inevitably high. This seemed to hold true when in my first official racing season in the “schoolboy” category (as it was known then), I always placed in the top three – excepting the occasion when I had a humiliating encounter with a tree after miscalculating the sharpness of a bend at the bottom of a hill along the panoramic Zurrieq road. However, when I was around 17, the tedium of daily training dampened my enthusiasm and I found myself drifting into other sports and activities. Cycling had become an ex-love but the reach of my dad’s successes never receded. Possibly I’m still in search of an activity where I can say I’m the best local athlete in that event. Truth be told, time is not on my side but, quiet please, my brain is trying to keep that fact hidden from my body.

An affinity for hills. And if it means negotiating a mountain, all the better. With my dad I used to love watching the major tours which, in those days, could only be watched on Italian television: Giro d’Italia and Tour de France. As I still do today, for that matter. However, the real draw was always the mountain stages. I dreamed of being there, even if not necessarily in the peloton as a pro cyclist. Inevitably my heart rate would rise which each switchback and a shiver would run down my spine when the parting waves of supporters indicated that the cyclists’ efforts were reaching the final kilometres of the climb. I was fortunate to live this experience with Lifecycle in 2008 as we travelled from Lourdes to Casablanca. I won’t say that I didn’t suffer, especially on that first day when I tasted the pain a real mountain can inflict on someone inexperienced in tackling kilometre after kilometre of incline. However, the satisfaction of traversing the col and the exhilaration of not succumbing to the mountain was not only rewarding, but addictive. Every mountain stage became personal – who will dominate whom – and I had no intention of kowtowing to a mass of rock. This challenge has now carried on into running. The Madonie race was a necessary reminder of how relatively tame this island’s hills are in comparison and, as a consequence, how much harder I have to work if I want to achieve some respectable results in future.

Slow-twitch. School sports days weren’t particularly pleasant for me because the emphasis was on short athletic events, which is fair enough considering we were only kids. I dreaded the sprints though, as I did if the finish of a cycling race had to be decided in the final metres. My legs just couldn’t carry me fast enough. The learning curve of experience eventually led me to realise that what I lacked in basic speed was made up for in stamina. I need time to settle into a decent pace so basically, the longer the session, the more relaxed I feel. Of course I’m no Forrest Gump and there’s always a threshold where an element of physical discomfort and mental weakness start to set in.

The threshold. For some, it’s how fast. For me, it’s how far or how long. I’m curious to see what this body can do, I’m thrilled by what it has done. Until a few weeks before I actually succeeded, I had never imagined I could manage a 260km bike ride in one day. Until I passed under the finish gantry of the Madonie race, I had never spent so many hours on my feet to conclude an athletic event. Until now, I have no inkling of how much further I can go for but I’m endeavouring to find out. At the end of the day, we really ever cross the threshold of our abilities the moment we give up trying.

The author, Paul Kimmage, was a pro cyclist for a number of years in the 1980s, having raced in both the Tour de France and Giro D’Italia, besides other classics and championships. He admits to having succumbed to the temptations of illegal, performance-enhancing substances on a few occasions. However, upon realising that in order to survive (not necessarily triumph) in the peloton he would have to rely more and more on artificial chemical substances, he decided to hang up his wheels. This book is the product of his retirement from the sport and his disenchantment with the world he had so often dreamed of being a part of.

Interestingly, just as I reached the finishing line of Rough Ride, the 2010 winner of the Tour de France – Alberto Contador – is facing the possibility of a one-year ban from the sport and of being stripped of the victor’s jersey. Doping offence, of course.

The more things change, the more they remain the same!

Raw writing but still a 10/10.

Notwithstanding this, I was immediately treated like royalty, invited to have my morning meal served while relaxed on a sofa and given a whole list of food and drink options, with Loredana toing and froing for my requirements: pastries (trellicine, cornetti, …), yogurts, fresh strawberries, orange juice and cappuccino. Had I wanted, cereals and milk were also available.

By 10:00 I was on the saddle, my body’s energy stores adequately replenished and, thankfully, without the need of a weighty rucksack! In lieu of this, I had a waist bag to carry the essentials, listed here in no particular order:
=> video cam
=> head torch
=> wallet
=> spare batteries
=> security chain
=> tissues
=> wet wipes
=> fig rolls
=> extra water bottle (only one cage on the bike)
=> notebook
=> pencil

For this week of touring, I had decided that direction would take priority over destination. Of course, I consulted my map each evening to see roughly where I would head the following day but this was only to have a general idea in which area of the Monti Iblei region to head towards. Today, it was Ferla and the nearby archeological park of Pantalica but should I have spotted an interesting side road, then I’d have had no qualms in riding it.

As it turned out, I did arrive at the entrance to Pantalica, which I reached after exiting Ferla and heading down a deserted, 11-kilometre, winding road, with only 250ml of water left on a day when the temperature was already climbing up the 30s. According to my 10-year old guide book, there should have been a kiosk near the entrance. “Should”, unfortunately, does not always hold much water with reality; it certainly didn’t help in replenishing my meagre fluid supply. Now, the only way was up and back to Ferla, a Calvary where even vinegar would have been a welcome alternative to bone-dry bottles.

Resurrection was to be found on a plastic chair on the sloping sidewalk outside Al Ranch bar, with the adjacent seat occupied by a 1.5 litre bottle of refridgerated water, a cool can of Coca Cola and two choc-filled sponge cakes. Church bells ring but my GPS shows it’s 13:52. They also rang 15 minutes earlier so it appears that time was out of synch in this hilltop town. And if it weren’t for these bells, there’d be little evidence of it’s passage, as the gents silently staring from some of the other chairs seem to confirm.

Cloud cover eased the ride back to Feudo Bauly and I cycled through the gate at 17:00, after having gone up and down 80kms worth of hills.

Video clip here: Nature scene

(For the previous part of this travelogue, click Part 3)

Interestingly,  the Italian word for “finish” – FINE - was sprayed across the chequered line as the road started to level off, unlike the START, which was now a distant stream of sweat away. The real end, however, was some twenty minutes later as I pushed the bike over a pathway of rough paving stones in the grounds of Feudo Bauly, the charming complex of converted stables and other farm buildings that was to be my touring base. The history, photos and more information about the place can be found on their official site: http://www.feudobauly.com/englishfeudobauly/feudo_bauly_hotel.html. For a video clip of my room, click here: Room 214.

I’ll be frank. There were a couple of minutes after I’d been shown to my room that I stood there, staring through the insect screen of the window, feeling utterly depressed. It had nothing to do with the room, which was more than adequate for my needs; nothing to do with the place, which deep down I knew I was fortunate to be at; nothing to do with the day so far, which was essentially trouble-free. The root of it all was the lack of food. My last decent meal was now nearly 24-hours earlier. I had breakfasted on a pear and along the way I energised myself with a few fig rolls. These I had to give up on because they weren’t moist enough, thus acting like a glue locking my jaws together and drying my mouth even more. I was also stinking so much that if  could, I wouldn’t have stood so close to my own self. Geographically I might have been at altitude but morale-wise I certainly wasn’t.

Feeling sorry for myself wasn’t going to fill my stomach with anything substantial so I showered, washed my dirty kit and put on a clean one. Back on the bike for the 6km ride into Palazzolo Acreide for the following reward: couscous (with aubergines, zucchini, tomatoes and potatoes), a spinach focaccia, a frutta marturana(a traditional marzipan sweet, this being in the shape of a fig) and the full set of carbonated drinks: Coke, Fanta, Sprite and Chino. In the meantime, I got into the daily habit of reading La Gazzetta dello Sport and did some more note taking.

Back at Feudo Bauly, I identified my favourite spot. This was an elevated terrace overlooking a well-kept lawn which led down to the pool area. Across the rarely traversed country road lay a private wood belonging to the hotel owners. So from my chair, the 2 dominant colours were green and blue - ever so relaxing for the eyes. And for the ears, a soundtrack of buzzing bumble bees, chirping birds and mooing cows. As the sun began to set, it dawned on me that this was one of the reasons why I was here.

I was content.

Arched gateway

Stairway to my room

(For the next part of this travelogue, click Part 4)

(For the previous part of this travelogue, click Part 2)

Midweek, eight-thirty in the morning, and there already were a few people on the beach while I was cranking out the first of many revolutions that would take me from sea-level to 630 metres some 52 kilometres later. The route was worked out using a Garmin Oregon 550t GPS, with a bias for secondary, hence quieter, roads.

Route of Day 1

Along the way, I made sure to remind myself that this was not a race, neither a challenge but a tour. As such, I was entitled to stop as often as I wanted, pedal as slowly as I pleased and not feel an iota of guilt about it. To prove the point, I was soon stopping to take the first of many photos and video clips with my Sanyo Xacti digital movie camera (the waterproof version, for those just-in-case situations).

Space-age vegetation

A lonesome building

I knew I was in trouble when, after some upward twists and turns, I saw a chequered line painted across the one-lane country road with the word START (aha, it was in English) in bold red paint. This could mean only one thing – a hill-climb course. Though I normally relish climbs – that’s why I chose this part of Sicily for my tour – I wasn’t exactly ecstatic with the thought of what lay ahead, especially with the water in my bottles seemingly evaporating in the relentless heat and with shade in equally short supply. What choice did I have but to deceive myself into thinking that the FINISH lay round the next bend … or the one after that.  

If you listen carefully to my voice in this short commentary to the video clip 40kms on, you’ll realize I’m not kidding! As an aside, this is also where I took my first pee on Sicilian soil.

Valletta harbour at dawn

What is it like to begin the day with a series of mistakes waiting outside the door and, just for the heck of it, to add another one before hitting the road? It must be like the 17th June2010, when, with bum on the bike, I cycled the pre-sunrise streets from St Julians, where I had spent the night at my mum’s place, to the Valletta Waterfront, to catch the catamaran to Pozzallo, Sicily.

The idea behind this trip was simple: ride to Contrada Bauly, a country road lost in the hills of the Monti Iblei (about five kilometres from Palazzolo Acreide) and temporary home to my home away from home, and spend the next seven days exploring the area. No specific sightseeing for me, just the simple pleasure of being on unfamiliar roads and taking in a different scenery. Those of you who get on your bicycles regularly will know exactly what a joy it is to get away from the routine routes of Malta’s limited road network.

Simple, yet a path strewn with errors. Primarily, the lack of physical preparation. I was cycling three times-a-week at most, usually 17 kilometres to work and the equivalent, sometimes a bit more, back. In addition, a half-hour or so of jogging on the other days. Secondly, even though I knew I’d be tackling a few tough climbs in the Iblei mountains, I didn’t do any specific hill work. Thirdly, I wasn’t quite expecting the heat that hit me on the first three days. I became aware of this problem the moment I exited the air-conditioned deck of the catamaran. It was still 0815 on the Sicilian coast and I was already feeling smothered. Not the best of omens when I was going to be travelling inland and generally climbing for the next 50 kilometres. Fourthly (only in connection with my first and last days) was my inexperience of cycling with an eight kilogram pack on my back. The closest I got to was half that weight when I went to and from work and, then again, it was for less than an hour’s ride each way. The final boob was my lack of fuel for the outgoing leg of the journey; more of that in another post.

I acknowledge my mistakes. Hey, I was even aware of them before setting off. So why did I clip my shoes to the pedals? Simply because there’s always an excuse not to do something. This cycle tour had been bubbling away on the back-burner since Lifecycle 2008, nearly two years ago now. However, it was either that the time wasn’t right, the finances weren’t in order, the preparation could be better, I had a bit of a sniffle … bla bla bla. So 72 hours before departure, I threw caution to the wind and booked the seat and accommodation.

To be fair, there were some plusses to the 17th. The sea was pancake flat, giving my stomach an easy ninety minute crossing and the sun was shining at the other end. In spite of listing the heat as a problem, the warm weather is more of an asset to me than the wet, which dampens my confidence in bike control.

This video was taken on board the catamaran MV Maria Dolores and shows the harbour at dawn: Valletta harbour view

Click here: Tour ta’ Malta 2010

First part can be found here: TourMalta1

Second part can be found here: TourMalta2

Third part can be found here: TourMalta3

Giro d’Italia 2010

Click here: Tour ta’ Malta 2010

First part can be found here: TourMalta1

Second part can be found here: TourMalta2

Click here: TourMalta2

First part can be found here: TourMalta1