Wild at Heart
by John Stuart Clark

Picture it. Either side, maybe five miles off, blue-grey granite mountains, no higher from base level than a Scottish ben, but peaking at 10,000 feet above sea level. Base level is the high desert, a cracked white playa, smooth as ice and the shape of a cigar, running a hundred miles due west to a shimmering horizon that merges with an unblemished cobalt sky. A perfect yellow burner heats the air to 115 degrees and a constant south westerly ups it by another ten. There is no shelter, shade or water, and nothing grows. The only thing tangible moving through the vacuum is you and your bicycle.

Nobody had cycled the length of Nevada's Black Rock Desert before. In breaking the land speed record, Richard Noble had rocketed down eight miles of it, but everybody I consulted was gob-smacked by my intention. Crunching across the fractured playa, riding high on splendid isolation, it was difficult to understand their misgivings. The pedalling was easy, the landscape sublime, the experience unforgettable. Only my mind suffered, but I carried an FM radio. Some wildernesses demand unusual pieces of equipment to survive their crossing.

In 519 pages of Simon Glen's excellent Sahara Handbook, less than a page is devoted to cycling through the great wasteland. Basically it says 'Don't!'. In Simon's judgment, undertaking such a 'formidable journey' requires 'considerable endurance and stubborn courage'. He concludes that those who attempt any sort of bicycling in the mother of all deserts must be 'quite crazy if not demented'. Rather tellingly, the remaining 518 pages deal with the million and one things that can go wrong when readers enter the wilderness in his recommended mode of 4X4 motorised transport.

Ironically, less is more in travelling through a wilderness, regardless of its size. Being dependent on complex machinery can put you in life-threatening situations when the technology goes pear-shaped. More than that, it detracts from an appreciation of the wilds and buffers you from the environment, placing travellers one removed from the world about them. Short of Shank's pony and certain quadrupeds, the humble bicycle is actually the most reliable vehicle to enter remote places with, even if you find yourself pushing at times.

Of course, this does not mean any Janet and Joe Egg can sling a few togs into a pannier and set off across the Gobi Desert with full confidence of reaching the far side. It takes knowledge and understanding, physical and mental fitness, and an awful lot of research. In these respects, more is less. The more you read about those who have gone before - about the flora and fauna, the climate and landscape - the less you will fret about nature springing surprises. If leafing through books, journals and maps seems so much drudgery, expect anticipation to rise as each piece of the jigsaw is put in place. By the time you enter the twilight zone, excitement will have peaked, allowing the natural world to carry you to new levels of self-awareness, understanding and fulfilment.

If that sounds way too philosophical for a cycling mag, consider why folk go ride-about in the depths of the British countryside, even if just for a weekend. For some it is therapy - an escape from the stresses and strains of the working week. For others it's an opportunity to pit themselves against forces more powerful and significant than those of our money-myopic society. Be it the wilds of Scotland or the tundra of Mongolia, we enter those parts of the world devoid of civilisation in an effort to be free of its distractions and destructions.

In shedding the shackles, we are released to be who we are. For some, that can be frightening. The deeper you ride into the back of beyond, the deeper you travel into yourself, gradually experiencing the change of consciousness that ultimately reveals things spiritual. Why else did prophets, hermits and the leaders of the world's great religions enter the wilderness? Ironically, in modern times we enter to escape the inescapable -- ourselves. Yep, it's a zen trip.

True, getting away from the trappings of civilisation is becoming increasingly difficult. Many wildernesses are a product of the avaricious tendencies of our species - the very thing we are trying to flee. The wilds of the North Pennines, for example, would feel a tad less exposed were it not for our forefathers stripping away the ancient forest cover to build homes, fires and an invincible fleet. By the same token, there isn't a desolate region on earth that hasn't been thoroughly poked and prodded by profit-seeking multinationals.

In most, they have left oil rigs and mine heads, scientific research stations and quarries. In some, it is only because these industries are there that cyclists can survive their journey through the wasteland. In crossing the Black Rock Desert, I called in on a gold mine for water, and got coffee and cakes. After two days of seeing just vultures, desert foxes and a whole lot of alkali, I was delighted to have my reverie broken. 'The desert is the environment of revelation,' writes Paul Shepard in Man in the Landscape, 'genetically and physiologically alien, sensorily austere, esthetically abstract, historically inimical.' Some are also great for donuts.

Coming from the fourth most populated country on the planet, less isolating open spaces like the American prairies and Hungarian puszta have a similar impact on a cyclist's consciousness. Like nestling in a mother's arms, riding through mountains and landscapes where the horizon is hidden can be too reassuring. Under an unobstructed sky, heading for a horizon that reflects the earth's curvature, the world is reduced to primary elements. Your mind comes under attack from the limitless light and boundless space, your body whipped by winds that invariably charge effortlessly across such plains.

In these extraordinary, exhilarating landscapes, a person's needs are similarly pared down to the basic elements: food, water and rest. Provided each is well catered for, the wilderness cyclist requires only two further skills. It is essential to be able to read a compass where the world offers no distinguishing features. Understanding climate and how frontal systems work in parts of the planet where you can seen tomorrow's weather today is also very helpful.

But we can get glimpses of these wild sensations on our own small island, without having to spend a fortune on air travel. The windswept plateaus of the North York Moors or the Lincolnshire Wolds might not offer the mileage of exotic foreign locations, but wilderness is about quality, not quantity. Although a village lies under ten miles away, the desolate landscape and oppressive sky above Salisbury Plain can impinged heavily on a rider's sense of security. Albeit for less than an hour, it is that very thrill of human vulnerability that makes the wilds so appealing.

As a training ground for greater things, Britain contains short bursts of splendid isolation that are more varied and accessible than perhaps anywhere else in Europe. Try riding the Straith Vagastie from Tongue to Lairg or the twenty mile round trip to Cape Wrath and see if your mind doesn't start to wander. That each of these routes is on tarmac matters not. The main drag across the Sahara is the Hoggar piste, in places smoother than a motorway, and all but twenty-five miles of Death Valley can be cycled on a blacktop. It is the quality of the natural beauty we search out, not the roughest, toughest terrain to prove we have hairy chests.

Sure, it never hurts to become skilled at riding the rough fully laden. Desert tracks are particularly prone to washboarding, a dreadful hard-packed ripple created by motor vehicles. In temperate regions, cloying mud and slippery rocks demand riding techniques Brits are well placed to practice. The learning curve a cycle camper goes through just tackling the South Downs Way is invaluable. For a real nightmare circuit, however, try cycling from Teesdale, over Cross Fell along the Pennine Way, into the Vale of Eden, then back over High Cup Nick to Langdon Beck. Do that in a day with full panniers, and I reckon you have the strength of purpose to tackle a day most anywhere in the world!

Hand in glove with developing riding skills is the need to nurture the spirit of adventure, oddly enough something best achieved in a restrictive country like the UK. In this, how you go is as important as where you go. Discarding the tent in favour of a few nights under hedge rows in a bivvy bag liberates riders from that wasted hour in the saddle searching for somewhere legit to camp. This is really sleeping under the stars and an exciting way to build confidence in the wilds. So exposed, those freaked by nature will quickly come to appreciate its rhyme and reason. Danger comes when one begins to feel safer in the depths of the wilderness than under the depths of your duvet in the cozy suburbs.

Then there is the idea of undertaking a ride in a role, such as playing the pilgrim or merchant, adding a theme to your adventure. Silk traders and migrants crossed glittering wildernesses on the Silk Road and Oregon Trail, but more modest jewels lie in wait in Britain. The Celtic pilgrimage from Old Sarum (Salisbury) to Glastonbury carries one across smooth chalk escarpments, into dense forests and silent valleys, and can leisurely be achieved in a day and a half. Mapping and tracking the longest salt road in Britain, the Salter's Way, reveals areas of eastern England as isolated as parts of Spain's Extremadura. Tackled as if you were a mediaeval haulier, such thematic adventures can teach much about how ancient travellers used to tackle the wilds -- lessons still relevant.

And never discount the comfort of putting your gear through its paces in a country whose language and customs you understand. Confident I knew my kit inside out and could rely on the tools, I once took a different block extractor into Africa. Unfortunately it snapped the first time out. Riding in on a badly buckled wheel, I was delighted to find bike mechanics in the Libyan oasis of Nalut had Shimano parts. What they didn't have was the tools. Before I could get my Arabic together, a lump hammer and chisel had destroyed the back block and damaged the hub. Had it happened in Britain, I would have learnt my lesson without the expense of a whole new wheel.

Until recently, bicycles billed as World Tourers weren't. The idea that a machine like Raleigh's famous Randonneur was in any way suitable for the rugged outback a world tourist might wish to explore could only come from the drawing board of one who hadn't been there. Today we are blessed with a small selection of expedition bikes that, if their designers lacked first-hand experience, they certainly listened to those that have been out on a limb. Aside from matters of geometry, tubing and bearings, designers have introduced fundamental changes that give riders peace of mind when the nearest bike shop is a month away.

For example, the Achilles heel of the toughest mountain bike is the rear wheel and the 'dishing' required to accommodate the back block. Too often, those who travel into remote places on tourers and MTBs find gear-side spokes snapping under the weight of heavily stocked panniers; the Libyan scenario. Introducing as standard a 48 spoke tandem wheel and a frame geometry that allows for a wheel that isn't dished -- therefore equally tensioned -- are indicative of supply finally catching up with the demands of extremists.

Similarly there have been quantum leaps forward in pannier design and survival gear, but no author's list can short-cut the invaluable elimination process only experience provides. (This is particularly true of first aid kits.) In the course of becoming more adventurous, wilderness wallahs learn what equipment they can depend on. Beyond the tenets that less is more and the essential is everything, what finally travels with you is a highly personal choice. Vociferous arguments might rage over which is the better stove, the Trangia or MSR, but ultimately your selection is a matter of individual preference based on burnt fingers.

To encounter wilderness riders of different nationalities and discover we all use pretty much the same equipment is telling. To a fault we plump for the simple but sophisticated, much like our choice of vehicle. Any item which defies stripping down and rebuilding, possibly with jerry-rigged parts, is out. The idea that a mobile phone or a GPS is an essential piece of kit is so much sales talk, unless you happen to be an electronics engineer prepared to carry a workshop on board.

If you need to rely on a mobile as a last ditch escape from a predicament, you are in over your head and should never have ventured there. Digital technology has effectively swathed many who fancy themselves as adventurers in a false sense of security. It has by-passed the essential learning curve that reveals just how resourceful an individual can be when their back is against the wall. They might know how to use a phone, but they've discover naff-all about themselves.

The tokens of civilisation that accompany us into the wilds take on more than the sum of their function. Ideally every item should have more than one use, but each piece of equipment or clothing can come to mean much more. Pitching camp and settling down for a velvet black night in the middle of nowhere, it is possible to feel just too vulnerable. It is a disturbance brought on not by climate, landscape or predatory fauna, but by a mind wide open to feeling homesick. It is remarkable what a tonic familiar routines performed on familiar equipment can be to a lonesome soul. When the isolation becomes unbearable, it helps if loved ones have contributed to your pack.

After a desperate day riding through deluges that froze every digit, dodging fork lightening that grounded feet from my wheels, I had never felt lower. I wanted out of the vast wasteland that perfectly reflected my spirits -- to be home with the misses and three fingers of Scotch. With the tent buckling under a 75 mph gale, I laid out the gear to begin cooking. Slowly I realised how much of my kit came from family and friends. It was difficult to feel homesick with the spirits of so many crammed in my single-person tent.

Equally, it is revealing how many who pit themselves against nature make space for a feel-good luxury. Brazilian Luiz Simoes always travels with a small solar panel to recharge batteries, so he can have music and light in his tent. Spaniard Sol Calder—n carries lipstick and mascara for those dinners in the outback when she feels the need to be civilised. Dervla Murphy, the indefatigable Irish cyclist, journeys with a small library in her panniers and not a few bottles of booze. Morrocan Walid Ibili, an intrepid Sahara cyclist, has a tin fish the length of a cigarette clattering around his handlebars. He's a Berber, a Phoenician, and the fish is like a ship's figurehead, a bike-god. Then there's me with my FM radio.

Whatever it takes...

© John Stuart Clark
Cycling Plus, April 2000