Did my last 60k ride. Apart from the loss of sleep..... I quite like the stealthy sneaking out in the dead of night. Typically my alarm goes off at 3.30 am: it's the loudest alarm clock in the world - I bought it especially for the task. This causes an instant jolt of YOUCAN'TMAKEME IWON'TGO! But I do. Dogs plop down to the floor from under bedsheets and I shuffle into the kitchen.
Most times I put fresh coffee on and while it brews I make my breakfast of barley flakes, low fat milk and a chopped banana. Power food. However, it's so not what I want to eat at 3.30. Sometimes I just skip it and go for the coffee. I tried a tin of baked beans as a substitute once. Wasn't bad.
It takes me over half an hour to really wake up. I sit in front of BBC news with a pile of clothes and put them on while I catch up with the world. Then I fill my Camelbak with water and stuff an Isostar down the inner pocket. Mobile, keys, small money, a banana if I'm doing a long ride and then I put on my fluorescent workman's jacket. This has the effect of making me instantly visible to truck drivers, but something of a target for them, as, from behind I look like a podgy workman in hard hat cycling to work. My life is worth far less in this state, to the truck drivers and buses. On balance, I'd rather be worthless, but visible.
Two bandanas on, one under my helmet and I fold another one around my brow - hate sweat going into my eyes, and I will surely sweat. Then hat on, tuck trousers into socks - more modest than cycling shorts in this part of the world and I attract enough attention as it is - and I'm out the gate with my bike. Squeeze each tire to check for air and switch on red Camelbak light, and flashing front and rear lights. Then I'm off down the hill, usually as the first call to prayer cranks up in the little mosque round the corner. It's humid and close, like the houses and occupants are breathing on me as I pass. No lights on, just the feeble light from ancient street lights, where they work.
It's like a ghost town but occasionally I'll see a neighbour trundling off to the mosque or a couple of lads lurking. So I'm spotted. The old Brettania woman living in their midst is not just wierd, but even wierder. Word will get around. She cycles round the village in her silly hat even in the dead of night. At first call to prayer I saw her. Perhaps Ingraizzies don't sleep. Do they all do this? We would have seen it on Orbit Showtime surely?
Bottom of the road, turn left to the little roundabout that marks the edge of the village, and across it, taking the "scenic route" (as opposed to the industrial route) to the coast road. The little road winds around small, stark mountains (my mountains) and the humidity is broken up by occasional, unexpected pockets of trapped cold air. It's hot though, even at this time. I've never measured it but I guess it would be high 30s and 70% humidity, perhaps. The trick is to get as far as possible before the sun rises.
Onto the main coast road to Khor Fakkan. 4 km. I join the sparse industrial traffic, cement mixers and those articulated container trucks that are truly scary as they brush past me, not conceding an inch. Size counts on this road and pedal power is the lowest form of life. But it's mostly a good, well lit dual carriageway with a wide hard shoulder for much of it, so I stick to that and keep out of their way. There's not too much traffic about at this time.
Past the University of Sharjah's palace-like campus and up the first slow wide hill. No stress, just down a couple of gears, over the brow as I crank into top gear for the descent down to the first roundabout. 7.5 km.
Through Khor Fakkan town, rows of parked cars in front of tatty, low-rise apartment blocks. I have to keep an eye open though, scanning the cars for glowing lights, a sure sign they are about to pull out without having seen me. The fried chicken takeaway is just closing up (who eats fried chicken at 4.30 in the morning?). The staff are usually sitting on the roadside sipping a cup of tea from a polystyrene cup, waiting for their lift home. They look up as I go past but they're too tired to take much interest. Couple of junctions with thoughtfully constructed bicycle ways over the pavement (remember to look right, look left in the correct order) and to the next roundabout with the old police station. 9.2 km. I pass by my favourite cafe. Sometimes I stop for a Mirinda and a masala dhosa, a feast for Dhs.5, great flapping, thin pancake of fermented chick pea flour and a filling of spicy potato curry. Coconut chutney to dip it into. Heaven on a tin tray. But I'm only fantasizing. This is a pit stop for the return journey, and mostly it's too hot to afford the time. 15 minutes' delay tucking Khor Fakkan's best cuisine and I will pay, in terms of the rapidly rising heat on the last leg home.
There used to be a sign here saying "Give a blood and save a life." Still makes me smile. Veer right down the short, sharp hill to the next roundabout (9.7 km) and I hit the corniche and the bay.
If I've left home in good time, the sea is still inky black. If it's turned to mercury I know I'm late. I hop onto the pavement to cycle (naughty but it avoids the many speed humps along the corniche road) and speed along the tree-lined sea shore. The bright lights of the never-sleeping port always lend the night bay a kind of festive air somehow. Past the municipal exercise machines (strange contraptions but great idea). Sometimes there's a bloke using one of them already, or the odd speed walker. If I'm really late, I'll pass the local football team taking advantage of the coolth and the soft grass that lines the corniche park, to go through their training routine. Nice location, lads.
I used to stop at the end of the corniche for a break (12 km) but now I don't bother. It's too soon, no need for a break. I have a suck on my Camelbak, and head on up the steep hill that marks the boundary of Khor Fakkan. Little tougher this hill, but no sweat, just slow and steady. I know I'm getting fitter. I used to puff and pant up this one, but not now.
About this time the birds are yawning and starting to twitter in the trees. There's a little park of bushes and lawn on the way up and the other morning I spotted some kind of a commotion in a bush. Cycling closer I could see a minah bird swooping round a bush and angrily twittering at something. As I passed it, I saw a cat sitting on the grass. NO, a FOX! Skinny, cream-coloured with the most enormous ears and a scraggy tail that ended in a bushy tip. So small and so thin. It slunk away when it saw me, and I was sorry to have disturbed what would have been a successful hunt for a meal, to be honest. It looked that hungry.
Then there's a slow hill up through Luluehah to Zubara that doesn't really seem like a hill very much, but when I get to the roundabout at the top (16 km) looking back I realise it was actually quite a long way up, so I mentally count this one as half-a-hill. Boring flat bit now as the road loops inland a bit, with car and truck workshops on one side and the now distant coastal date groves on the other. The central reservation usually has a gang of workmen digging it up. They down shovels and gawp as I approach, but I shout a cheery "good morning" and grin, which unnerves them momentarily, then they all break into smiles and wave furiously as I pass. That in turn makes me smile. Across to Bidiyah (18.8 km), which has the oldest mosque in the country - 16th century, sand-washed, Portuguese-style with 4 nipples on top of 4 cute little domes. 4 people inside would be a crowd. That leaves the imam and 3 worshippers. Before the mosque, a conurbation of little cafes, hardware shops and half a dozen fish stalls. The names amuse me. East Coast Fish. Abdulla Fresh Fish. Bidiya Fresh Fish. Hamid Fish. Very, Very, Fresh Fish. Ok I made the last one up.
Bidiyah attracts coachloads of Russian tourists who peer into the mosque. The ladies are given a full length abayah to wear if they want to go in. I was once cycling with my friend, Jason, and he wanted to stop and have a look inside. He had, at the time, very long, very blond hair and a full beard. He looked like a viking actually. He was also in head-to-toe cycling lycra. The attendant insisted he put on an abayah before he could enter, and we were never sure whether it was the hair or the (for this coast) shocking attire that did it. Jason, being Jason, was tickled. I named him the Bearded Lady of Bidiyah. He caused quite a stir that day, especially among the local men folk. At least one was dewy-eyed with love at the sight of him and followed us car, sometimes drawing level with him and shouting endearments. Or at least I think that's what they were.
When not entertaining tourists and cyclists, Bidiyah is basically a truck stop. Farmers come to buy fodder or to trade goats and chickens to the butcher's shop. Fishermen bring their catch to the shopsfish mongers'. Builders come to buy their cement and shovels, and everyone stops here for a cup of tea. I sometimes join them in one of the cafes, which causes a bit of a stir. Imagine if an alien with 3 heads walked into your local Starbucks. You'd stare too, wouldn't you? That's about the effect I have. 17 pairs of wide eyes, caught in the headlights. Chai, sweet, strong, thick. Hits the spot. It's also just getting light, which is a good time to be hitting the next stretch as it's horrible. Single lane, no hard shoulder and mad, chai-fueled commercial drivers all trying to run me off the road. Sometimes they succeed.
It's here I notice the little date plantations, which used to look so pretty lining the road, are near dead and abandoned, fallen victim to the awful date palm weavel that no one seems to have found a solution to. STOP BUILDING GOLF COURSES AND HOTELS AND PUT YOUR MONEY INTO THIS!!! Before it's too late. The whole coast is littered with the problem. I can spot it well now, a seemingly healthy plantation, and you'll just see one or two palms looking kind of thirsty. A bit droopy like they haven't been watered in a while. Eventually they're just stumps. It's a tragedy for local industry. Dates are perhaps the most important source of income (and food) here.
Just before the BEEG EEL, the road thankfully develops a hard shoulder of some sort, because this shortish but sharp and I use all my gears usually, to get up it. So do the trucks and buses. The rough, pitted hard shoulder is a safer bet as I get a bit wobbly when I'm down to the bottom gears. Quick gear change up at the top, and this one's a real necessity, because I can't afford to freewheel down the hill, I need pedal power now. Lurking halfway down are 5 or 6 stray dogs that chase me, howling down the hill into Al Sharm, the little fishing village at the bottom. I arrive, flying over a speed hump, fluorescent jacket flapping wildly, mad pack dogs snapping at my heels, little legs pedalling as fast as shit, in a flurry, into the middle of the village. The dogs lose interest. The pick-up drivers grin, a few market stall holders, who are just opening shop, yell god knows what at me. There's usually a row of old blokes sitting outside the mosque, laughing their heads off. In fact I suspect they wait there for days, anticipating the next round of dog v. cyclist. I slow down and try and regain some dignity as I cycle through this little one-goat-and-mad-cyclist town. 23.2 km.
We're right back on the sea shore again now, and the road winds round a couple of mountains and over a hill or two, past Sandy Beach Motel, scene of many happy weekends barbecueing, snorkelling, fishing, loving. I cycle past its warming memories, sucking a bit in to carry with me. Then past the much newer Miramar, Rotana, Meridien (who let them spoil the beautiful wild location?) and with no warning, I get to the Emarat Petrol Station, my destination. 30.6 km. I know. Not much here. Miserable packet of crisps and passable coffee from a machine and not a single chair anywhere, or rock or anything to sit on, so I plonk myself on the ground and ponder the journey home.
It's getting a bit warm by now and I have a short window to get as close to home as I can quickly. Must pass my friend Martina's without stopping for tea, though I once just abandoned my bike there and asked her for a lift home (it was late and too hot). Try not to get side-tracked by the dhosa cafe but probably will. By the time I'm going back up the "scenic route" to my house again, it's hotter than hell, I'm wringing wet and those 4 km are terrible. I'm headachy and no amount of liquid will fix it. I try and get to the ladies park, 2 km up the road, where there is a spot of shade and a chair. Then round the bend, down through the wadi bed, up to the little roundabout and back up my street. 61.2 km. However long I take to do this trip, the last half hour, in that disgusting heat, wipes me out. I park my bike inside the gate, peel off layers and dump them as I walk through the door. Into the bedroom, spread towel on bed and flop down, spread eagle. Dogs leap on top of me and make a fuss. Another one done and dusted, and now for the day's work.
Most times I put fresh coffee on and while it brews I make my breakfast of barley flakes, low fat milk and a chopped banana. Power food. However, it's so not what I want to eat at 3.30. Sometimes I just skip it and go for the coffee. I tried a tin of baked beans as a substitute once. Wasn't bad.
It takes me over half an hour to really wake up. I sit in front of BBC news with a pile of clothes and put them on while I catch up with the world. Then I fill my Camelbak with water and stuff an Isostar down the inner pocket. Mobile, keys, small money, a banana if I'm doing a long ride and then I put on my fluorescent workman's jacket. This has the effect of making me instantly visible to truck drivers, but something of a target for them, as, from behind I look like a podgy workman in hard hat cycling to work. My life is worth far less in this state, to the truck drivers and buses. On balance, I'd rather be worthless, but visible.
Two bandanas on, one under my helmet and I fold another one around my brow - hate sweat going into my eyes, and I will surely sweat. Then hat on, tuck trousers into socks - more modest than cycling shorts in this part of the world and I attract enough attention as it is - and I'm out the gate with my bike. Squeeze each tire to check for air and switch on red Camelbak light, and flashing front and rear lights. Then I'm off down the hill, usually as the first call to prayer cranks up in the little mosque round the corner. It's humid and close, like the houses and occupants are breathing on me as I pass. No lights on, just the feeble light from ancient street lights, where they work.
It's like a ghost town but occasionally I'll see a neighbour trundling off to the mosque or a couple of lads lurking. So I'm spotted. The old Brettania woman living in their midst is not just wierd, but even wierder. Word will get around. She cycles round the village in her silly hat even in the dead of night. At first call to prayer I saw her. Perhaps Ingraizzies don't sleep. Do they all do this? We would have seen it on Orbit Showtime surely?
Bottom of the road, turn left to the little roundabout that marks the edge of the village, and across it, taking the "scenic route" (as opposed to the industrial route) to the coast road. The little road winds around small, stark mountains (my mountains) and the humidity is broken up by occasional, unexpected pockets of trapped cold air. It's hot though, even at this time. I've never measured it but I guess it would be high 30s and 70% humidity, perhaps. The trick is to get as far as possible before the sun rises.
Onto the main coast road to Khor Fakkan. 4 km. I join the sparse industrial traffic, cement mixers and those articulated container trucks that are truly scary as they brush past me, not conceding an inch. Size counts on this road and pedal power is the lowest form of life. But it's mostly a good, well lit dual carriageway with a wide hard shoulder for much of it, so I stick to that and keep out of their way. There's not too much traffic about at this time.
Past the University of Sharjah's palace-like campus and up the first slow wide hill. No stress, just down a couple of gears, over the brow as I crank into top gear for the descent down to the first roundabout. 7.5 km.
Through Khor Fakkan town, rows of parked cars in front of tatty, low-rise apartment blocks. I have to keep an eye open though, scanning the cars for glowing lights, a sure sign they are about to pull out without having seen me. The fried chicken takeaway is just closing up (who eats fried chicken at 4.30 in the morning?). The staff are usually sitting on the roadside sipping a cup of tea from a polystyrene cup, waiting for their lift home. They look up as I go past but they're too tired to take much interest. Couple of junctions with thoughtfully constructed bicycle ways over the pavement (remember to look right, look left in the correct order) and to the next roundabout with the old police station. 9.2 km. I pass by my favourite cafe. Sometimes I stop for a Mirinda and a masala dhosa, a feast for Dhs.5, great flapping, thin pancake of fermented chick pea flour and a filling of spicy potato curry. Coconut chutney to dip it into. Heaven on a tin tray. But I'm only fantasizing. This is a pit stop for the return journey, and mostly it's too hot to afford the time. 15 minutes' delay tucking Khor Fakkan's best cuisine and I will pay, in terms of the rapidly rising heat on the last leg home.
There used to be a sign here saying "Give a blood and save a life." Still makes me smile. Veer right down the short, sharp hill to the next roundabout (9.7 km) and I hit the corniche and the bay.
If I've left home in good time, the sea is still inky black. If it's turned to mercury I know I'm late. I hop onto the pavement to cycle (naughty but it avoids the many speed humps along the corniche road) and speed along the tree-lined sea shore. The bright lights of the never-sleeping port always lend the night bay a kind of festive air somehow. Past the municipal exercise machines (strange contraptions but great idea). Sometimes there's a bloke using one of them already, or the odd speed walker. If I'm really late, I'll pass the local football team taking advantage of the coolth and the soft grass that lines the corniche park, to go through their training routine. Nice location, lads.
I used to stop at the end of the corniche for a break (12 km) but now I don't bother. It's too soon, no need for a break. I have a suck on my Camelbak, and head on up the steep hill that marks the boundary of Khor Fakkan. Little tougher this hill, but no sweat, just slow and steady. I know I'm getting fitter. I used to puff and pant up this one, but not now.
About this time the birds are yawning and starting to twitter in the trees. There's a little park of bushes and lawn on the way up and the other morning I spotted some kind of a commotion in a bush. Cycling closer I could see a minah bird swooping round a bush and angrily twittering at something. As I passed it, I saw a cat sitting on the grass. NO, a FOX! Skinny, cream-coloured with the most enormous ears and a scraggy tail that ended in a bushy tip. So small and so thin. It slunk away when it saw me, and I was sorry to have disturbed what would have been a successful hunt for a meal, to be honest. It looked that hungry.
Then there's a slow hill up through Luluehah to Zubara that doesn't really seem like a hill very much, but when I get to the roundabout at the top (16 km) looking back I realise it was actually quite a long way up, so I mentally count this one as half-a-hill. Boring flat bit now as the road loops inland a bit, with car and truck workshops on one side and the now distant coastal date groves on the other. The central reservation usually has a gang of workmen digging it up. They down shovels and gawp as I approach, but I shout a cheery "good morning" and grin, which unnerves them momentarily, then they all break into smiles and wave furiously as I pass. That in turn makes me smile. Across to Bidiyah (18.8 km), which has the oldest mosque in the country - 16th century, sand-washed, Portuguese-style with 4 nipples on top of 4 cute little domes. 4 people inside would be a crowd. That leaves the imam and 3 worshippers. Before the mosque, a conurbation of little cafes, hardware shops and half a dozen fish stalls. The names amuse me. East Coast Fish. Abdulla Fresh Fish. Bidiya Fresh Fish. Hamid Fish. Very, Very, Fresh Fish. Ok I made the last one up.
Bidiyah attracts coachloads of Russian tourists who peer into the mosque. The ladies are given a full length abayah to wear if they want to go in. I was once cycling with my friend, Jason, and he wanted to stop and have a look inside. He had, at the time, very long, very blond hair and a full beard. He looked like a viking actually. He was also in head-to-toe cycling lycra. The attendant insisted he put on an abayah before he could enter, and we were never sure whether it was the hair or the (for this coast) shocking attire that did it. Jason, being Jason, was tickled. I named him the Bearded Lady of Bidiyah. He caused quite a stir that day, especially among the local men folk. At least one was dewy-eyed with love at the sight of him and followed us car, sometimes drawing level with him and shouting endearments. Or at least I think that's what they were.
When not entertaining tourists and cyclists, Bidiyah is basically a truck stop. Farmers come to buy fodder or to trade goats and chickens to the butcher's shop. Fishermen bring their catch to the shopsfish mongers'. Builders come to buy their cement and shovels, and everyone stops here for a cup of tea. I sometimes join them in one of the cafes, which causes a bit of a stir. Imagine if an alien with 3 heads walked into your local Starbucks. You'd stare too, wouldn't you? That's about the effect I have. 17 pairs of wide eyes, caught in the headlights. Chai, sweet, strong, thick. Hits the spot. It's also just getting light, which is a good time to be hitting the next stretch as it's horrible. Single lane, no hard shoulder and mad, chai-fueled commercial drivers all trying to run me off the road. Sometimes they succeed.
It's here I notice the little date plantations, which used to look so pretty lining the road, are near dead and abandoned, fallen victim to the awful date palm weavel that no one seems to have found a solution to. STOP BUILDING GOLF COURSES AND HOTELS AND PUT YOUR MONEY INTO THIS!!! Before it's too late. The whole coast is littered with the problem. I can spot it well now, a seemingly healthy plantation, and you'll just see one or two palms looking kind of thirsty. A bit droopy like they haven't been watered in a while. Eventually they're just stumps. It's a tragedy for local industry. Dates are perhaps the most important source of income (and food) here.
Just before the BEEG EEL, the road thankfully develops a hard shoulder of some sort, because this shortish but sharp and I use all my gears usually, to get up it. So do the trucks and buses. The rough, pitted hard shoulder is a safer bet as I get a bit wobbly when I'm down to the bottom gears. Quick gear change up at the top, and this one's a real necessity, because I can't afford to freewheel down the hill, I need pedal power now. Lurking halfway down are 5 or 6 stray dogs that chase me, howling down the hill into Al Sharm, the little fishing village at the bottom. I arrive, flying over a speed hump, fluorescent jacket flapping wildly, mad pack dogs snapping at my heels, little legs pedalling as fast as shit, in a flurry, into the middle of the village. The dogs lose interest. The pick-up drivers grin, a few market stall holders, who are just opening shop, yell god knows what at me. There's usually a row of old blokes sitting outside the mosque, laughing their heads off. In fact I suspect they wait there for days, anticipating the next round of dog v. cyclist. I slow down and try and regain some dignity as I cycle through this little one-goat-and-mad-cyclist town. 23.2 km.
We're right back on the sea shore again now, and the road winds round a couple of mountains and over a hill or two, past Sandy Beach Motel, scene of many happy weekends barbecueing, snorkelling, fishing, loving. I cycle past its warming memories, sucking a bit in to carry with me. Then past the much newer Miramar, Rotana, Meridien (who let them spoil the beautiful wild location?) and with no warning, I get to the Emarat Petrol Station, my destination. 30.6 km. I know. Not much here. Miserable packet of crisps and passable coffee from a machine and not a single chair anywhere, or rock or anything to sit on, so I plonk myself on the ground and ponder the journey home.
It's getting a bit warm by now and I have a short window to get as close to home as I can quickly. Must pass my friend Martina's without stopping for tea, though I once just abandoned my bike there and asked her for a lift home (it was late and too hot). Try not to get side-tracked by the dhosa cafe but probably will. By the time I'm going back up the "scenic route" to my house again, it's hotter than hell, I'm wringing wet and those 4 km are terrible. I'm headachy and no amount of liquid will fix it. I try and get to the ladies park, 2 km up the road, where there is a spot of shade and a chair. Then round the bend, down through the wadi bed, up to the little roundabout and back up my street. 61.2 km. However long I take to do this trip, the last half hour, in that disgusting heat, wipes me out. I park my bike inside the gate, peel off layers and dump them as I walk through the door. Into the bedroom, spread towel on bed and flop down, spread eagle. Dogs leap on top of me and make a fuss. Another one done and dusted, and now for the day's work.
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