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July 8 Saturday overcast Bicycle touring Ireland We bicycle the main road to Cork in order to give Sharon's back a rest. We are still of the belief that the main roads will make for flatter cycling. And less windy inland, too. The road proved to be smooth and we cycled along merrily with a slight tailwind. We made good time until we hit the coast. We met a young German bicycle touring couple who had leaned their loaded bicycles on a rock wall at the oceanside while eating a basket of ripe strawberries. They told us they had been planning on taking the train to Cork from Youghal, Ireland (pronounced something like Yawl), but the Youghal train station was closed, another victim of cutbacks. We left them to ponder their options and pedalled off down the road. In Cork, Ireland, we found a bike shop. Sharon was still complaining her back hurt because the gears she had replaced on her touring bicycle in Italy were too high for the steep hills we were cycling. Lo and behold, the bike shop had a thread-on cluster with a 32-tooth large sprocket (made in Italy, no less!) and they also a 24-tooth granny wheel. We bought both the rear cluster and front chainwheel, along with a new chain. Exiting the bike shop with our prize, we sat down on the sidewalk to install them. By the time we were finished our bicycle repairs, we were greasy, hungry, and tired. Not a good combination when bicycle touring. I just wanted to get to a camp spot as soon as possible and eat. As we cycled on our way out of Cork, Ireland, Sharon spotted a corner store. She pulled her touring bicycle to a halt and insisted that I go in and purchase something for her to eat right now. Not now. But right now. I'm not sure why, but by the time we cycled out of Cork, we were both in foul moods. And I was still hungry. The road we were bicycling to Kinsale, Ireland, was narrow, windy, and hilly. Sharon saw a patch of forest and called out that she was turning around to check it out. By the time I got my touring bike turned around, after letting a bunch of cars go past, I could just see Sharon's back going around a corner. She looked back. I yelled and pointed to a house, trying to indicate that I was going to go there and get water, which we would need for cooking. Five minutes later I was back on the road, cycling downhill to where I had last seen her. She wasn't on the road, so I thought she must be in the forest. I cycled along slowly, calling out, "Hello, Sharon!" No answer. I bicycled about a kilometre down the road and still hadn't seen or heard one sign of Sharon. I pulled my touring bicycle into a crossroads and waited. I didn't think it was possible that she had cycled farther. Somehow, I figured, I must have missed her in the forest. After waiting a while longer, I turned my touring bike around and cycled back up the hill, calling out, "Hello, Sharon!!" more vigorously. I arrived back at the top of the hill and had not one shred of evidence of where Sharon had gone went. There was a town a couple of kilometres back. I cycle back down ther hill, this time calling out in a more questioning tone, "Shaaar-on?" I pull my touring bike to a stop beside an old couple who are out walking. "Have you seen another cyclist?" No, they respond, they haven't seen anyone. At the town, another road goes to Bandon. I begin to question what she said. Did she say she was turning around to look at a camping spot, or did she say we made a wrong turn and was going to cycle to Bandon? Hoo boy. Some type of communication device certainly would come in handy when getting separated while bicycle touring. The road leading to Bandon, Ireland, goes over a bridge with a hump in the centre of it. I can't see anything on the other side of the bridge. It wouldn't be like Sharon to wait where I couldn't see her. Vicky, yes. I decide to cycle back up the narrow forest road once more. I bicycle along slowly, repeating my calling, while traffic whizzes past my elbow. Nothing. Not a peep. I am beginning to get really worried. I think of the rule when lost: If separated, go back to where you last saw the person and wait. I hope Sharon knows this rule. I cycle back and stop at the driveway for the house where I got water. I wait. A car comes out of the drive. I ask them if they see my wife on their travels, please tell her I am here. "Certainly," they say. I wait. I study car drivers' faces as they pass for some sign that they may have seen Sharon. Often, people will point in the direction they saw another cyclist. Nothing. Waiting. Waiting. I gaze at the roadside ditch and wonder if I'll be sleeping there tonight. I have the sleeping bag. Sharon has the tent. I have the poncho, too, so that will provide some sort of shelter. I decide that if I still haven't found Sharon by tomorrow, I'll phone her parents in Edmonton, Alberta and tell them that when Sharon calls, I am at such and such a place. I pray that I don't have to make that call. It's not good relations to lose someone's daughter. I consider making another cycle run down the hill, but ultimately decide no: They say if you are lost stay in one spot. Don't wander around. I stay. I wait some more. Man, this is such a hopeless feeling. A car, coming from the opposite direction, filled with elderly folks, stops. "Are you cycling with you wife?" they ask. When I respond yes, they say, "Well, she's waiting for you in the next town. You'd best go and collect her." "She's ahead in the next town?" I ask incredulously. "Yes." I profusely thank them and then they are gone in a little blue puff of exhaust. I bicycle up the remainder of the hill. I come to a small settlement and think Sharon must be here. I cycle slowly through the village, on the lookout for the wife I have come to collect. But no Sharon. I cycle the road out of town. In a few kilometres, I bicycle into another little settlement, Belgooly, Ireland. I see picnic tables, a service station, a church, and a pub. All good places for Sharon to wait for me. I check out each one. But, I still don't see her. At this point I castigate myself for not asking the car folks what the name of the town was or where she was waiting. I have cycled quite a ways. Is Sharon still ahead somewhere, or did I somehow miss her? I'm really confused. I ask a woman outside the pub if she's seen another cyclist. No, she hasn't. I ask if this is a town. "No," she says. "It's a village. The next town is Kinsale, 5 miles away." I get back on my touring bicycle and head on at a fast pace as we are quickly running out of daylight. I pedal onward, still not quite believing that can't believe Sharon has cycled so far from the last place we saw each other -- at least ten kilometres. As I cycle around a corner I see a small figure approaching on a bicycle. As Sharon nears, I ask her if she is missing something. Sharon tells me she thought I was ahead, so she had kept cycling. She didn't know I had gone in to get water at the house back there. She had gone into the forest to check for a free camp spot and when she came out of the forest and didn't see me, she thought I had just kept going. And I thought .... "What about the rule?" I ask. She says, "It didn't work before at Pico Veleta." That was true ... it was me who thought she was ahead that time. Straddling our bikes on the road edge we scream at each other for awhile. We're both frazzled. Our nerves are shot. We probably would have yelled at each other longer, but we have less than half an hour of light left, so, practical people that we are, we decide to look for a camp spot now and yell at one another later. Sharon thought she saw a spot in the woods, so we cycle back(!). But the forest spots we look at are either too thick or too steep to get into. One gate has a sign posted: No Hunting Land Poisoned. I go in to look. But all I find is squishy mud, rocky, and no flat spots. We bicycle back to Belgooly, where the church was. On a country road at the edge of the village, we see people outside. I ask them if there are any spots around where we can set a small tent for the night. They say to turn at the pub and ask a farmer for a pitch. We cycle off, following their directions and come across a soccer field. We decide it looks as good as anywhere, so we squeeze our fully loaded touring bicycles past the locked gate. We set up our Kelty tent next to a rock wall lining the roadway under a large tree. Sharon tells me she thought I must have kept going because I wanted to bicycle 100 kilometres today. She tells me she had asked a carload of guys if they had seen me. They said, "Yes, but he is in the ditch about 14 miles back." Then they said, "He's coming, but he might be awhile because he has Demi Moore on his handlebars." Sharon figured they were making everything up. She only believed they had actually seen me when they described my ugly spray-painted red panniers. See? That spray-paint job was good for something, after all. |
