I have never been one to get homesick. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s a deep-rooted lack of enthusiasm for Scotland’s evergray skies and its winds that seem to chill me to the bone. Perhaps. I love Scotland, I am enthusiastically Scottish, but that doesn’t mean I have to like the weather, or feel homesick.

So I don’t know what it is about this video. Perhaps it’s because it shows a lot of the places I used to spend my time as a student. Perhaps. Perhaps it’s just been a while since I visited my home town (Edinburgh – my dear North American readers, sorry, but there’s no ‘g’ pronounced at the end there, aim more for ‘Edinbuhruh’, cheers, you’ve just won a lot of friends!).

Perhaps it’s just because I’m happy to see someone in my home town do something so cool*, so utterly amazing. Go on. Watch it. It’s totally worth it.

I think most of the rest of us are but mere ‘Sunday’ cyclists!

*Of course he’s not the only one, it’s just I’m so uncool that I don’t see many!

In the very centre of St Katherine’s Protectorate live these beautiful girls. So ecstatically happy in this picture, because they have just been given a colourful toy. With the cut of their mother’s knife, it will turn into something sweet and juicy to eat.

Up at the crack of dawn Day 2. This little fellow was nestled between some rocks near our camp.

After breakfast, cycling continued down here (of course, first they had to cycle up!). Luckily this was actually a track, unlike the terrain later on.

Later we stopped for a spot of tea.

Then after a particularly arduous (i.e. very lo-o-o-ong, steep and sandy) incline we stopped for lunch. See if you can spot the Jeep in this picture – spaces are just huge.

Lunch involved some of the most delicious bread in the world: Bedouin bread. Baked in embers and then beaten to remove the ash. All I was doing was sitting in the Jeep, so not exactly hunger-inducing, but boy, the cyclists had to fight me for it!

Our last sunset.

Evening campfire…must remember to bring marshmallows next time!

Because of the camel tussle, our ascent of St Katherine’s was held up while the bike wheel was being straightened. A nice spot of bedouin tea in a village was most welcome.

Lolling around in double-wire cages in the village were these guys. Really not pretty little beasts, but apparently hyrax are good after they’ve been in the pot. Luckily, we didn’t stay that long!

So, bike fixed, the gents went up St Katherine’s mountain with the camels and the bikes, while the fairer sex component of the group returned down to the jeep (due to rather annoying, niggly injuries that wouldn’t allow us to bike).

We met these guys on the way to the spot where we would lay our heads for the night. They were so clean – if you’ve seen goats in Cairo, you’ll understand my delight – as well as happy.

Sunset, the gents returned just in time to make last light.

We slept under a starry desert sky and a brilliant full moon, protected from the harsh desert winds by walls of one of the bedouins’ old desert gardens.

(Forgive the last pic’s camera shake – need to get a tripod)

We’re back. We all survived and as I don’t have time to write more just now, I’ll leave you with this picture of one of our group a little ahead on the way to..well, somewhere far beyond the boundaries of this photo. The weather was hot, the sun intense. The sand was more like gravel and in this picture it was on a track hard enough to make pedal pushing, rather than bike pushing, possible.

It was a brilliant, brilliant weekend.

More later, I promise!

Our big cycling weekend is coming up and due to the neck sauna issue I’m not allowed on a bike. Having made the decision to actually do this trip given my levels of unfitness (and it took a lot of courage), being told I’m not allowed to was a bit of a downer.

I will still be going though (to sit in the supply jeep) and with any luck I’ll both remember my camera and how to use it and will bring back some great pics. Fingers crossed.

In the meantime, I thought I’d update you on the King Swing I promised to do in Canada. We went to the park in Nanaimo where the King Swing is and watched some people bungy, hoping to see someone swing. We watched for about half an hour and nobody did King Swing. The rational Mr S had figured out all the physics of it and decided that it all looked pretty boring (i KNOW – how can that beeee!!) while I was fighting a major internal battle: if I don’t do it now, I’ll regret it – yeah, but I don’t have to do it and nobody will know…

Eventually, bored, Mr S said it was time to go. We turned to leave and blow me, I realised that I’d be desperately disappointed with myself if I sissied out.

I mentioned in the original post that I was scared of heights. I should point out that that was a bit of an understatement: I had a problem just walking up the stairs onto the bridge we would swing off. Up I went though, cursing the sadistic nut would design a bridge 45m high that had slats you could see through underfoot.

Before we swung I was already beginning to lose it a bit. I was hanging onto my sanity as tightly as I was to the straps around me. Needless to say that after swinging 45m d-o-w-n I was a bit of a hyperventilating, shaking wreck. Later, feeling a little hoarse, I apologised to Mr S for screaming in his ear, he looked at me like I was crazy and told me I hadn’t uttered a peep! Hmmm. Then there was the sore muscle near my heart for about an hour afterwards. Double hmmm: think I was petrified!

Anyway, I did it. And I might even do it again one day – but not for a while!

King Swing

Here’s a little video of what we did. For some reason it won’t embed, so you’ve got a link instead. It doesn’t have me in it,* as I wasn’t wearing my TG feathers that day, but if you just imagine the smiles you see to be a stony nervous face next to a nonchalant Mr S, you’ll have a pretty accurate picture of what went on!

*Or anyone I know

“‘Cause the road is long, it’s a long hard climb..” Bob Dylan

The surprise awaitng me upon my return from Canada came two days after our return. The boiler hadn’t leaked, the gas hadn’t been left on, the air conditioners hadn’t broken, we didn’t have a roach infestation, and I considered myself rather lucky. So much so, that I thought I’d escaped the ‘return’. When it hit, I found myself wondering if perhaps cockroaches weren’t that bad after all: in October I am going to be cycling from St Catherine to Dahab. It’s 125km. 3 days. Off road. Oh yes, and with a small group who are all hardcore cyclists – they don’t have a good outing unless they’ve pushed themselves to their (very far) limits – who insist that it’s ‘easy’.

And no, I’m NOT that fit (nor that good of a cyclist).

Dear reader, you may find yourself thinking I could perhaps decline. I can assure you tried. I really did. It just wasn’t accepted, and then, mid-millionth protestation, with only a toddler-tantrum stomp-of-foot left a part of me thought, “Hmmmm. Desert cycling: a challenge.”

We will have backup cars (I’m not cycling over sand and rocks AND carrying a tent, sleeping bag and 3 days’ food!), so there will be a nifty ‘get out clause’ if I’m a little, let me put this gently, fatigued.

The picture above is of part of the area we’ll be cycling through. Must say I’m trying not to focus on how long my quads will withstand riding through soft looking sand and over rather rocky mountains.

Poor old Beejo has been feeling pretty neglected. Stuck in the corner, tyres beginning to deflate and big soft handle bars looking expectantly at me with puppy dog eyes every time I enter the room. Unfortunately, due to a strange, persistent and painful knee problem (that only occurs when I’m cycling uphill), Beejo’s sorry state is somewhat justified.

Today, while chatting with friends, I got a call from my physio.
“Hello.” he said.
“Hello.” I replied.
“You have an appointment now.”
“No, my appointment is not for another hour.” I said confidently. Unfortunately too confidently, as I was wrong.
“If you can come over immediately, there will be enough time because my next client is always late.”
“I’m on my way.”

Cue a major rush, not least because if I didn’t find my shorts, I would have been treated in my underwear – not something I relished. Shorts located I rushed out, got in the elevator and headed down. All this in about 30 secs. It was at exactly that moment that I realised Beejo could be a saviour at this point, so I headed back up.

Purring along the streets, Beejo was happy to be out, enjoying one of the nicest days of the year so far.

It wasn’t until we passed the first policeman (of about twenty on the route) that I remembered that I wasn’t wearing the best ensemble for cycling. A female cycling is an uncommon-enough sight in Egypt, even the Hood, but blonde hair blowing in the wind kind of helps attract a little more attention. Then there was the matter of footwear: flip flops. The only people who wear them out in Egypt are people who can’t afford proper shoes: strange on a foreigner. Coincidentally the only people who cycle anywhere are delivery boys, and it was a pretty odd picture. Add to that a striking green t-shirt with a massive V-neck and I suddenly found myself sitting pretty erect, fingertips barely touching the handle bars and pedaling as fast as possible.

“Oo’a! Oo’a! Oo’a! El agnabeya!” (Watch out, watch out, there’s a foreigner coming behind you!) yelled one man walking down the street to another in front of me.

As luck would have it, part of the road en route is being dug up, so in addition to the policemen, there were about ten workmen, never mind the 15 bowabs sitting relaxing mid-afternoon.

Cries of “Ya mozza!” (hey chick) and “Eh el halewa di!” (what is this beauty – rather literal, can’t remember what people say in countries where workmen have been banned from making comments) were accompanied by a cacophony of wolf-whistles.

Had I not been in such a rush, I would have minded, however, it was kind of my fault anyway (well, I was ‘teasing’ them..*). Anyway, on the flip side, at least I brightened up some people’s day, even if it was only to give them something to laugh at!

*That cliched argument of ’she was dressed like a tart so she deserved it’ hasn’t been disputed here yet.

Last week I went on my first outing of 2008 with Beejo. Beejo is in great shape, but is suffering from a lack of expeditions due to his rider experiencing strange knee problems.

We set off with Mr S and within three minutes the argument-inducing complaints had begun: my knee hurts, the sun’s too hot, you go on ahead. Mr S was determined to ride the beginning with me. Ironically, it was the hardest part (due to knee not liking hills). Eventually, after the hills had finished, Mr S (read: Superfitcyclist) sped off in search of steeper gradients, while I looked for a bit of hill-circumnavigation.

The light was wonderful, the air was clean (well, clean-sih, kind of like central London in rush-hour, rather than Cairo’s norm) and I found a small valley that looked interesting. This had been the scene of a spectacular problem before, but I decided to be brave and venture in.

It’s a little difficult to fully imagine what the hills are like unless you’ve been on them, but basically they are compacted soft stones and sand. This means they are rather crumbly and with steep sides, one wrong foot placement can prove hazardous.

I spotted a path on the hillside and Beejo and I rode in. The narrow, rocky path proved too challenging (not for Beejo, he was doing rather well in fact) so I moved from mountain biking to mountain bike pushing to mountain bike carrying to pushing and back to carrying. All interspersed with a moderation of huffing and puffing.

Pushing and carrying continued with a bit of slipping and sliding for good measure. In the end, the steepness and crumbly sides won and Beejo had to be left waiting while I sprinted (well, it was at the beginning of January – resolutions and all that) to the summit.

This is the view from the summit of my dusty hill. The valley does flood when it rains – apparently, as there are clear traces of water in the sand – but I’ve never seen it. If you click on the picture you can just make out Moqattam (district of Cairo) in the background.

Click on the image to see details – it is large.

In a bid to keep up with Mr S, I’ve started spinning classes. They seem to have worked – to a certain extent. Either that or Mr S has realised I respond well to positive comments and has started telling me that I’m doing better, just to make me do better!

Friday morning (first day of our weekend here) saw us rise and shine a little later than planned and head off to the desert for a little trip with Beejo and Mr S’s sooperdooper-sooperlight-brought-over-from-France equivalent. Mr S was out to take it easy – that’s why he was cycling with me (or me with him) – after cycling to the Red Sea coast last weekend).

After an hour or so, we rounded a corner near the end of the wadi (valley/canyon) and saw a bike with no rider. A second later a woman popped up from the ground. Not seeming overly concerned, she called to us and we went over to her.

Now seeing a woman lying on the ground near a bike would be strange anywhere, but 8km into the desert was a little alarming. Emergency rescue options were circling in my head: immobilising her could prove difficult, our first aid kit was at home and we didn’t have much to offer her in the way of shade. On top of that, getting mobile phone coverage would require climbing out of the gorge, dangerous in itself. There were other cars in the canyon, but how far away they were and how long it would take to get to them over rocky ground I couldn’t quite figure out.

As we approached, she started walking back to her bike.

“Ok,” I thought, “Walking wounded, much easier to deal with here.”

“Hi!,” she said, “I’ve got a flat. Could you help? I stopped to take pictures and I think some kids let the air out.”

I hadn’t remembered seeing any Egyptian Hoodies running around the place, but then you never can tell. Mr S took the wheel off and inspected it. For about a nanosecond.

“Here. There are two large stones stuck in.” Tone of his voice: not impressed.

Now, here we are stuck at the end of a canyon with a woman who clearly didn’t bother checking her tyre properly before lying down and doing nothing and Mr S gets lumped with fixing it.

And Mr S is cycling. And cycling is sacred for Mr S (even if it’s slowly).

It wasn’t the best time to pretend to be a defenseless, helpless woman, stuck all alone in the dangerous desert (pout, pout, flutter eyelashes, cute smile).

It was even worse to then imply that what he (Supercyclist) was doing, wasn’t very good, and that she could do it better.

Not smart.

However, Supercyclist did fix her punctures.

I think I would have been tempted to not point out the second one….

Image is from near the end of the canyon after climbing up the sides.