I was able to live vicariously through the lives of other cycle tourists. I could read their websites, eye up their equipment lists and prepare my own, and it quickly became clear that neither of the two bicycles I owned would be coming with me to America. One was so old and weather-beaten it barely made it to the local pub, and the other, the beloved racer that had carried me through France, was too lightweight and flimsy to cope with heavy panniers and the rough terrain of the Americas.
It wasn’t cheap, but eventually I settled on a chunky, British racing-green touring bicycle, with a very smart and traditional leather saddle. I was promised that if I looked after the bike, it would look after me, and for a completely inexperienced wannabe cycle tourist, this was all I wanted: to ride my bicycle and not have to worry about broken spokes, loose bottom brackets, a bent derailleur and other such dilemmas. After Christmas I set a departure date, handed in my notice at work, explained to my girlfriend that this was a journey I had to make, and woke every morning to be greeted by the violent pink Post-it note that clung to my bathroom door.
14 MAY—LEAVING
Front and rear panniers, rainproof map holder, cycling shoes, a camping stove, lightweight knives and forks, a torch you can wrap around your head like a Davey lamp, waterproof jacket, windproof trousers, camping soap, inflatable mattress, multi-season sleeping bag, a tent. The list of equipment I apparently needed was endless, but as my departure date shrunk from months to weeks to days away, I gradually accumulated all the gear. Buying a one-way ticket to New York, arranging travel insurance, selling my car, cancelling my mobile phone contract, vaccines, injections, visas and maps, were all on a lengthy ‘to do’ list, along with getting into some kind of physical shape. Loading my panniers with heavy cookbooks, to mimic my load when away, I set off on half-hearted weekend cycling trips into the English countryside. It got dark early, it was cold, it rained, it snowed and it was miserable, but naively I assumed that in America, the land of the free and the home of the brave, everything would be fine.
The first step towards getting somewhere is to decide that you are not going to stay where you are.
John Pierpont Morgan
All the Gear and No Idea LEAVING NEW YORK AND GOING THE WRONG WAY
I have always struggled to achieve excellence. One thing that cycling has taught me is that if you can achieve something without a struggle, it’s not going to be satisfying.
Greg Lemond
‘Yo, bike boy, why you so hungry?’
The deep and demanding New York accent rose above the aggressive throb of hip-hop beat that shook the otherwise peaceful Nyack Forest, some twenty kilometres north of Manhattan.
Just keep cycling, Tom—try not to attract any attention, I told myself, forgetting that I was sitting atop an overloaded touring bicycle, flying a Union Jack, with an audacious, fluorescent-yellow sign hanging from my rear, announcing that I was:
Eating my way from NYC to Rio.
www.thehungrycyclist.com
‘Yeah, you! I don’t see no other brothers riding a bike, get over here!’ came another growl. Glancing over my shoulder through the leaves and branches, I was able to make out a gang of menacing Hispanics hidden in a clearing between the trees.
‘Me? Really? Yes,’ I muttered nervously, before dismounting my bicycle and pushing it awkwardly down the forest track towards this daunting group of bare-chested men.
In baggy trousers and with bulging muscles covered in the kind of tattoos that seemed to be inspired by particularly gruesome nightmares, this group of eight hoodlums stood before me, their silver chains, diamond-stud earrings, long knives and skewers glistening in the afternoon sunshine. My heart pounded and cold beads of sweat dribbled down my back.
I’m going to get gang-banged, I thought, and I haven’t even made it out of New Jersey.
‘So you gonna tell me about da Hungry Cyclist?’ said the largest and most fearsome of the giants through his thick goatee beard, which more than compensated for the lack of hair on his shaven head.
‘Yeah, well…Um, I’m going to ride my bicycle from New York City to Rio de Janeiro, in search of the perfect meal.’
And it had all seemed like such a good idea back at home. A grand tour, an escape, a well-overdue adventure. But standing here now, on day one of my ‘trip of a lifetime’, in front of this line-up of professional wrestlers, hit men and gangsters, I began to wonder what the hell I was doing.
‘Well, if yo’ one of those TV chef people,’ the leader scowled, ‘you ain’t leaving till you tasted my mama’s Puerto Rican rice.’
‘No, no, no…’ Before I could explain that I was anything but one of those TV chef people, and that in fact I was little more than an overexcited, underprepared, ex-advertising executive who liked food and riding his bike, the leading giant had uncrossed his thigh-sized arms, draped one of them over my shoulders and was leading me towards a little old lady sitting peacefully at a wooden picnic table, chopping away at a small pile of lipstick-red chillies.
The hulk of a man squatted before his mother and after exchanging a few quiet words, in what I assumed was Spanish, planted a tender kiss on her forehead and I was ordered to take a seat. A paper picnic plate was placed in front of me, I was armed with a plastic knife and fork (no good at all if I was going to have to fight my way out of this unnerving situation) and a piece of tinfoil covering a large dish was removed, revealing a mountain of spicy-looking rice that released a cloud of sweet-smelling steam into the afternoon.
‘Ahh…Puerto Rican rice, my favourite.’ Whatever that is, I pondered, while one of the men shovelled a large portion on to my plate with the grace of a bulldozer. I loaded my fork and nervously, under the watchful eyes of all present, passed it to my mouth. Everything fell silent. I could no longer hear the menacing thud of hip-hop music or the wind playing in the leaves of the trees overhead. I was only aware of the jury standing before me, waiting for my culinary verdict. These were the kind of dudes who shot you just for looking at them funny. Imagine what they were going to do to an inexperienced Englishman stupid enough to ‘diss’ their beloved mother’s cooking.
Please like this, Tom, and if you don’t, make sure you look like you do, I told myself firmly.
But there was no need.
‘This is good!’ I mumbled through my first mouthful. And it was good, really good. Soft rice full of flavour, cooked in a rich chicken stock, mingled with fresh cilantro, hearty pigeon peas, chunks of salty pork and all impeccably spiced with those finely chopped chillies.
‘Damn right it is! And now you gotta try my cousin Emilio’s ribs.’
One thing the films do get right. Gangsters sure know how to eat. I soon found myself perched on the side of the small wooden picnic table, sandwiched between two enormous, sweaty men efficiently shovelling food into their mouths. In front of me, plates heaped with Puerto Rican rice; Emilio’s perfectly marinated, sticky pork ribs; grilled New York strip steaks, rosy pink in the middle
