Who Stole Our Bikes?

PROLOGUE

Beginning their twenty two month unique and adventurous journey from England, a young retiree couple challenged the unknown and became known on the road as 'The Oldies.'

Join Bill and Pam as they cycle through Belgium, Luxembourg and Germany before a high altitude rail trip took them from Basil to Milan.

Surrounded by insecurities, they detoured across to Venice then south to Ancona before catching the ferry and cycling Greece where they experienced significant culture changes.

Who were these people that warned them about cycling east through Iran, Iraq and India? Were they prepared for the dangers that were about to confront them? And how did they handle it?

This autobiography at times delves deep into their own personal lives and others they encountered along the way.

You may even know someone whom they met....

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Dedicated to our sons

David and Michael and

in Memory of Wayne

Special thanks to my son David and father Ross

who helped with the initial editing, the

Mutton Family who helped with the initial proof reading and

to our many friends and relatives for their input and

encouragement to write this story

- - - - - - - - - - - -Denotes countries cycled

Chapter 1: THE IDEA

Two things happened that day. We were on a Jumbo Jet to London and I gave up smoking. Bill had said, ‘You can’t carry an ashtray on a push-bike.’ And cycling through strange faraway lands was what we’d planned to do. Not that there was anything startling about that, thousands of people do it every year. Age is where we differed. Hubby, Bill, was 55 and I was a younger 39. We kidded ourselves we were reasonably fit and if not were soon going to be. We still had two arms, two legs and a lot of courage. In Bill’s younger days he used to participate in bicycle racing, which was an advantage, and I used to try to race my friends to school, which was no advantage.

Our inspiration for this mad gambol began seventeen months prior when on a no exercise, food-inclusive bus tour of New Zealand. I had been sitting in the bus nursing an over-full stomach, which was squeezed into my nearly bursting jeans, when I noticed a group of people enjoying a picnic alongside a clear, swift, refreshing stream. They looked so happy, healthy and content that I envied them. Then I saw their transport, a bunch of heavily laden touring bikes. I imagined myself pushing pedals, merging exercise with nature and meeting people on similar planes. I liked the idea and wanted it to become a reality. So after an hour of throwing up pros and cons in my mind, I mentioned it to Bill, although I had to be convincing if I was to suggest we both quit our well paid jobs, servants and highfalutin’ lifestyles for a completely different one. I must have been, or perhaps a secret dream of his had suddenly realised, because within five minutes of my proposal we began making plans.

We resigned from our jobs in Papua New Guinea and flew down to Brisbane. We sold one investment house and put another on the market. Then, with some sadness in our hearts, through a city auction, we sold 99 per cent of furniture and belongings that we’d had stored during our seven years in Port Moresby.

We bought a Ford Transit motor home. It was our temporary bed, storage outfit and wheels, and comfortable enough to take us to Adelaide in South Australia for the final family farewells. We drove the Ford to one of Brisbane’s major cycling shops and told the male attendant what we wanted, and why. He had one touring bike in stock that suited our criteria. Coloured charcoal and gold, it was a man’s 22 inch French-made Gitane, but too small for Bill. When I straddled it, I passed the test. My feet touched the ground, so at least I was set. Bill’s bike was ordered, a 24 inch, also charcoal, which we would pick up in Adelaide along with our panniers.

Excited, we rummaged through the shop. Bill selected genuine leather seats, water bottles, pumps, mirrors, racks and kickstands. I sorted through the cycling clothes, tight fitting black lycra shorts with leather stitched inside the crutch. ‘I’m not going to wear these,’ I objected.

‘You don’t have to wear them,’ Bill answered, ‘but you could get a sore backside if you don’t, especially with the amount of riding we’ll be doing.’ Then he pointed to the leather. ‘See how smooth it is, and the chamois also absorbs the perspiration.’ I had to admit that sounded logical, so I selected a second outfit, a red and white top joined to black shorts, making it a one-piece. With both pairs fitting comfortably I picked out my gloves, but totally rejected the idea of wearing a helmet. Bill simply said, ‘Are you sick of living?’

‘Point taken,’ I answered, so I chose a white with blue star Italian model and put it on the heap along with Bill’s red and white helmet and black lycra shorts, his only pair.

A month later, in Adelaide, we picked up ten ultra-light, bright red Karrimor panniers, and Bill’s bike. We now had two charcoal and gold, strong but light, high carbon manganese-molybdenum framed Gitane touring bikes with eighteen-speed Shimano gears and Shimano brakes.

We bought what else was needed and practiced fitting and packing the panniers. Two of the four large back panniers carried our clothes.

Bill’s consisted of: a white cotton fleecy-lined jumper and royal-blue corduroy trousers with matching long-sleeve shirt for smarter wear, two T-shirts, to double as nightwear, a navy-blue track suit, a warm, light jacket, three pairs of socks, three pairs of underpants, plus cycling regalia.

Mine consisted of: a white cotton fleecy-lined jumper, maroon corduroy trousers with matching polyester long-sleeve shirt for smarter wear, two T-shirts, to double as nightwear, a black track suit, a warm, light jacket, three pairs of socks, three pairs of knickers, three pairs of bras, plus cycling regalia.

Our other two panniers held our Dacron filled sleeping bags. Bill’s bike-rack housed the three-man Companion tent, while mine carried one highly recommended thermal mattress, and as an experiment, Bill’s two cheaper thermal mattresses. The four smaller front panniers stocked a basic first aid and sewing kit, eating utensils and plastic dinner set. Our toiletries included a special detergent, which was supposed to double for shampooing hair and washing dishes. Our tools included: puncture kit, two pumps, two spare tubes, one spare tyre, one pair of pliers, two screwdrivers, shifting spanner, cone spanner and Vicks, which would be our grease, and to quote Bill: ‘Also good enough for coughs, colds and pimples on the dickie!’ Our pannier-cum-shoulder bags fitted to our handlebars and held our sunglasses, passports, money, address book and other daily essentials.

The month was May, the year 1985. Our other investment house had sold and what monies we had we invested, giving Power of Attorney to my mother and stepfather. Our Aussie Bank Manager was instructed to transfer A$1,000 a month into England’s Barclay Bank from interest earned, and as happened, we were rarely short of funds. What cost more in some countries such as England, Germany and Italy was soon saved in Greece, Turkey and Egypt. Also, in the back of our minds, we knew there was more if needed.

We had been given the all clear from the medics. We had joined American Express and taken out insurance on ourselves, and the bikes were insured for a maximum A$500 each. Although cycling the world had been our initial ambition, we had no maps or specific routes planned, preferring the freedom to choose when and where we went. We packed our compact, automatic Kodak camera and would send the negatives and matching descriptions home to my mother for developing. Our families and friends were to be notified of future mail drops as the decisions were made, and we intended trusting the world’s mail service for sending home our letters and my written journal, which I hoped to update daily. Later, as we found out, the only mail that did not find its way back was sent from Israel.

On 31st May, we were as ready as we were ever going to be, despite our lack of touring practice. Reactions and comments from our family and friends were mixed. A few said they would love to do what we were doing. Others said they would also love to do what we were doing but lacked the courage! Our son’s comments were frank and to the point.

‘You should be playing bowls,’ Wayne, the eldest, said.

‘You must be crazy!’ Michael, the youngest, admitted.

And that’s how it all began.

Chapter 2: LONDON AND OUTER LONDON

Our luggage was an embarrassment. While other passengers weighed in their Hermes and Cartier suitcases, our bright red Karrimor panniers, large sausage bag and dismantled crate-wrapped bicycles invited more than just a look. Credit had to go to the efficient South Australian booking clerk, who treated them as normal and allowed our extra bulky twenty kilograms to pass through, gratis. We had been told that sometimes sporting bicycles went through free and sometimes they did not. I guess that day we were lucky.

Finally it was time to board and we said farewell to our family and friends. The parting was emotional. Only then did we wonder if we were doing the right thing. However it was too late to turn back, and with mixed feelings we boarded our Qantas flight. After delays at Adelaide and Singapore, and twenty three hours of restriction, we touched down at London’s Heathrow Airport. Stiffly, we walked through customs without inspection. Some people noticed our luggage and the large, flat, three-ply crate. A few were curious; others were too busy with their own thoughts, luggage and destinations. Bill’s blue eyes looked about and saw vastness. My hazel ones saw the same. Where do we start? That was our first problem.

We began at the terminal and looked at the list of hotels, but their prices caught our breath. Outside, traditional, highly polished black taxis were parked one behind the other, their owners looking more like chauffeurs than drivers. The scene was daunting. We couldn’t imagine our conglomeration of luggage inside one of them. We looked at the passenger bus. But where would it take us? Anyhow, our luggage was still a problem. What the heck, we thought, and finding an inconspicuous spot down the far end of the terminal, and outside but under cover, we lay down our load. Bill unravelled the crate’s binding and dived into the sausage bag. He brought out parcel after parcel, ripping them open until finally the crate and packaging was just rubbish. Now, with the parts neatly arranged in front of him, he began to reassemble our bikes.

Meanwhile, I searched for an information centre. Finding nothing suitable in the terminal, I walked the nearby streets. The morning air was enjoyably warm, and before long I had found a place, an Automobile Association office, yet its actual position struck me as peculiar. Unlike most AA Offices, which were permanent, this one was obviously temporary; it was situated on the footpath. Anyway, I entered the small and brochure-packed structure and mentioned our dilemma to the petite young lady on duty. After much sorting through of books and paper work, she mentioned camping at nearby Windsor Park. ‘It’s not far from here,’ she offered. ‘You’ll have no trouble finding it.’ I thanked her, and by the time I returned to Bill, our bikes were ready and waiting. At last! We could face the English traffic with confidence. We had a destination, Windsor Great Park!

Earlier I had dressed for cycling. Now, Bill whipped off his trousers and slipped into his cycling shorts. His size ten shoes went on next, his only pair. I had two pairs; my second were for socialising. We checked our map, fastened our helmets, threw a leg over the bar, slipped a foot into the toe clip, and with the other foot firmly in place silently joined the traffic. We rode deliberately, conscious of the heavy A4 traffic passing within inches of us. It was hair-raising, so when a cycling path appeared we took it, a few reckless kids on dragsters being all that marred our rhythm. A few kilometres later it ceased and we had to ride the A4 again. Concentrating totally on the traffic, we were unprepared for the lone pedestrian who stepped directly into Bill’s path. Waving handfuls of red, green and yellow flowers under Bill’s nose, he asked us to buy. When we refused, instead of persisting, the flower vendor asked where were we going.

‘To Windsor Park,’ Bill replied.

‘But why do you want to go there? It’ll be closed ‘afore long.’

‘To sleep,’ Bill replied. ‘We want to pitch our tent there.’ The man’s expression changed suddenly, and looking at us as though we were demented, he replied, ‘Well, I don’t think that’s where you want to go you know.’

‘It was your own Automobile Club that recommended it.’

‘Maybe,’ he questioned, ‘but they wouldn’t be happy if you pitched your tent there.’

‘Why not?’ Bill asked.

‘Because,’ he stated seriously, ‘it belongs to the Queen! And they lock the gates at five. I suggest you try down by the river. There’s a few spots there to choose from.’

Our first camping ground on English soil was at Laleham, across the road from the River Thames. We found it easily enough despite the busy, narrow, shoulder-less road that led us there. We arrived, we believed, more by luck than skill. And being so full of anticipation, bewilderment and anxiety, we couldn’t credit ourselves with anything else. In numbed relief we selected a level site and unpacked our bikes. First the A-shaped breathable cotton lining had to be positioned and pegged into place. Then crawling through the opening I searched and found the eyelet. As I inserted the extension pole, the tent took shape. The waterproof nylon roof was next, then more pegs and thick rubber bands. Helping each other, we zipped our two single sleeping bags together to make a double bed, and for pillows we stuffed our sleeping bag covers with soft clothes. Finally we stood back in admiration wondering how all that was before us had rolled into such a neat, light bundle, a bundle we now called home.

We showered and realised that to enjoy another one the following morning would mean getting up very early. The camping ground was full and there was only one small amenity block: Men one end. Ladies the other and only two showers in each.

We slept in, although Bill, who was first to waken, offered to suss out the showers anyway. ‘I don’t like our chances,’ he said on leaving. But worry was unnecessary, as he soon found out. The shower cubicles were vacant but, to his amazement, naked and almost naked men stood before each of the six hand-wash basins washing themselves. Some stood with towels wrapped around their belly. Some stood with towels dropped between their knees. The rest were queued up waiting for basins, not showers like us Aussies. Likewise, I experienced similar in the ladies, although my hand basin-washing women were far more modest.

Saturday passed with so many exciting things to do and see, and on the Sunday we rode to Windsor Park, the place the flower vendor had said belonged to the Queen. Easily finding our way, we manipulated our bikes around the bumper-to-bumper cars parked outside. Riding between anxious groups of people, we passed through Windsor’s Great Gates. Peace and tranquillity filled the air, and as we peddled under towering shady oak and birch trees we listened intently as their leaves rustled sweetly in the breeze. Our minds wandered, and throughout this vast stretch of wilderness, we spotted many happy families enjoying the bliss just as we were. We were still musing when rapturous applause filled the air. Our trance was broken. Now curious, we rode towards the noise, stopping at the fence of a neighbouring field. We jumped off our bikes and watched the action. Men on horseback were darting about the field, brandishing sticks in their outstretched arms. We presumed they were playing polo. But it wasn’t your ordinary polo game. Nor was it your ordinary polo crowd. Most of the spectators were driving Rovers, Rolls Royce’s or Jaguars and were being formally checked in by guards at the grandstand gate. We guessed royalty was involved, and were right. Amongst the field-riders was bonny Prince Charlie who was waving his mallet with exuberance and doing his team proud.

England’s unexpected surprises continued through to the following morning. Bill was first to wake up, again, and the moment he stepped outside the tent he realised something was wrong. A strange silence had filled the air, and the eeriness of the lull made his bones shudder.

He looked around and listened. Sure enough, his inner thoughts were confirmed, the place was deserted.

‘What can you hear?’ he called out to me.

‘Nothing,’ I replied.

‘Don’t you think that’s strange?’

‘I’m not sure. It’s still too early for noises.’

‘This time yesterday morning the place was alive with activity,’ he continued. ‘And now, although the tents and caravans are still here, I can’t see or hear one man, woman or child.’

We checked out the bathrooms, and just pools of water from yesterday’s basin washers were all that remained. The situation called for a hasty retreat, the feeling of being the last man and woman left was creepy. Leaving, Bill spotted the camp warden at the gate and knew his curiosity had to be satisfied. He called out, ‘Hey, what goes on around here? Where have all the people gone?’

‘Aye they’ve not gone,’ the warden called back. ‘They’ll be back next weekend, you’ll see. Got no land to move about on where they live, so they spend their spare time here on the green.’

‘So that’s it,’ Bill said to me, ‘but we don’t need frights like that everyday.’

By that sunny mid-afternoon we were comfortably settled in amongst the age-old shady trees of Outer London’s Chertsey Caravan Park, also on the banks of the winding River Thames. It was ideal for readjusting to our new life and handy to the town’s Barclay Bank where we organised our finances for the coming ventures. Initially, opening an account was difficult, us not being British, but the letter from our Aussie bank manager helped in our acceptance. ‘It’s going to take a few weeks to process,’ the bank clerk said.

‘That won’t bother us,’ Bill replied. ‘It’ll give us a chance to ride and familiarise ourselves with the local area.’

Nearby, King Henry VIII’s stonewalled Hampton Court was first on our list. Completed in 1536 as a palace, its nine-inch thick entrance gates and the massive clock displaying everything from time down to tide times really impressed us. So did the dark and cold kitchens and cellars, the Staterooms and the chapel’s ceiling, which was fan-vault-built from the Windsor Forest.

With our appetites whetted we set out next day for the family-fun-filled Thorpe Park. While enjoying the sunshine that tingled our bodies as we rode. We were amazed at the amount of rubbish people had discarded or lost along the roadside. There were spanners; nuts, bolts, clothes, and I stopped when my eye caught the brilliant flash of maroon material lying on top of some grass. I picked it up. It was a polyester scarf,