This was taken from ridetheroad.com

Its kinda long, but really nice to read, and may be usefull to other lady cyclists. Read on ..

abg acid

original link : http://www.ridetheroad.com/web/trip.aspx?tripID=102


This is my story

Sulawesi Indonesia, 2000, is a crab shaped island that was colonized by the Dutch and known as one of the Spice Islands because of the many coffee, vanilla, and coco trees. We learned, in 1999, that there was a newly constructed 1200-mile highway that runs the length of the island from Manado to Maccassar so we flew into Manado to begin this journey.

We found a booklet at our hotel written in Dutch by two cyclists that described the route in great detail. We do not read Dutch but because Indonesia is a popular destination for them; we didn’t have difficulty finding Dutch tourist to translate as we went along. We had the book for about two weeks, and yesterday, after we had ridden over thirty miles we discovered that Peter left “the book”, at the breakfast table after a very strong cup of “Celebes” coffee.

This island is mostly Christian, with pockets of Muslims. I don’t like to ride where there is a large population of Muslims because they assume a female on a bicycle wearing shorts is a risqué woman. I have been harassed by men groping me in Muslim countries. So far our encounters here with Muslims were a man who gave us a gift of rice in banana leaf saying, “I want to be friendly.” And a family that invited us into their home to eat because all stores and restaurants were closed due to a holiday. People here speak a little English, and most none, so most of our communication is tone of voice and body language; which I learned long ago is 84% of communication anyway. We are practiced in exaggerated facial expressions and hand gestures.

I wake with a quite Tap, Tap, Tap before first light. I hear the clink of the teacups as the young houseboy places our breakfast tray outside our room. Peter pops out of bed and I bury my head under the covers. Today, we remember from “the book,” we have two mountain passes to climb. Peter loves to climb; he’s strong and stands on his pedals most of the way. I like the flats and am a snail in the mountains.

Peter is animated enjoying his tea and eating quickly. I slouch across from him. He starts nagging “ we won’t make it if you don’t get moving”. I hate him, and I hate myself for not being strong enough to keep up in the mountains.

We are almost half way to Maccasar, and we know this is our last and biggest climb. We have to complete both climbs to get to the next town with hotels. We are prepared physically, and we changed $300 US at an ATM, which left us with two million Indonesian dollars. I carry all the money. Our theory is that the world is full of macho men who wouldn’t dream that the women have the money.

We leave our cool air-conditioned room with first light and enter the sauna like morning that the night tried to cool. We climb zigzagging slowly up the first mountain, watching the coast pop in and out of view. At mid morning we have a long decent into a valley and start to climb again. This time we climb through a fog and come out above the clouds. I’m working hard and Peter slows, so we ride together. I’m feeling a little better about myself and therefore about Peter. It’s two o’clock and no sign of the top so we stop for lunch in a small village that is hugging the mountainside. The restaurant has a panoramic view of mountain peaks above the clouds. There is a counter along the porch railing, where we sit, and eat looking at the view. We order our favorite vegetable soup. No one else is in the restaurant. There is a group of 6, dark haired, brown eyed, slender young men watching us from the door. This does not concern us because we are used to being a novelty in this part of the world.

After lunch the route is very steep. My morning effort is taking its toll. I’m getting slower and slower. I’m working hard but Peter is slowing more than he likes, and we have several false turns when we think we will see the top. We remember that our lost “book” explained that a radio tower marks the top. We finally see the tower. Peter figures it is about two miles. He says, “I’m going for it. See you at the top” and he stands up on his pedals, quickly he disappears around a bend. This is my opportunity to slow down to my usual snail’s pace and enjoy the vista. We are so high there are no trees and I see the blue ocean in the distance through big puffy clouds. This new road is carved out of a rock wall hugging the mountainside.

I hear my first vehicle, put, put putting very slowly behind me. It sounds like there is a problem. My mirror shows two teenage boys on a small yellow motorcycle. They slowly pass me and disappear around a bend. This is the first vehicle, beside the 10 AM bus, on this road all day. As I round the bend the motorcycle is stopped and turned facing downhill. I think they are going to try a jump-start. I am on the inside of the mountain, next to a shear rock wall and they are stopped on the outside of the mountain, next to a steep rocky drop. I nod to them and stand up on my pedals to get some speed, and I keep my bike as far away from them as possible.

I pass them and see the smaller boy on the back of the motorbike slip off. I think he looks nice, khaki pants, zipped blue jacket, dark hair slicked back. I see him head toward me in my mirror and feel him pull at my back pannier; which is securely attached to my bike. I throw my weight up hill away from him and fall on the ground. He loses his grip and fells downhill on his butt, legs spread out. I scramble to get up, and stand over my fallen bike with a foot on each side of the crossbar. I see the motorcycle driver head turned back, watching. Khaki gets up and lunges toward me and grabs the map holder attached to the front pack on my handlebars, he demands, “Give me the money.” The Velcro on the map holder releases, the front pack falls to the ground, and Kaki plops down on his butt again, holding my map case. I keep one leg in the crossbar and move my free leg to the side of the fallen pack and crouch in a Karate stance, elbows bent and hands stiff. I yell, “Mister has all the money!!”
Motorcycle says something. Khaki shakes his head, eyes fixed on my sunglasses, and stands slowly. He makes a grab for my front pack and I threaten with an aggressive karate chop. He ducks back a step. I scream at the top of my lungs, I know Peter is out of earshot, maybe they don’t. I stand frozen, screaming, and my hidden eyes search for something, a rock, a stick, there is nothing in this barren place. I can see far down the road, no traffic. Khaki haughtily raises his chin and slowly starts unbuttoning the neck of his blue jacket, eyes never leaving me. I see the blond wooden handle of a machete. I’m desperate. I grab my water bottle. I hold it in both hands, pointing it, like a machine gun, fanning it from Khaki to Motorcycle, as if to spray bullets. I crouch slightly helmet tight on my head and muster my most authoritative low voice, growling, “Special, Special!” Khaki’s eyes get wide, he runs and jumps on the back of the motorbike and they fly down the mountain.

I kept growling watching them disappear. I stop and start shaking. My ears ring with silence. I pick-up my bike, and put my front pack in place. I shakily get on and start up the mountain. “I’m O.K., they’re gone,” I say to the mountain.

I see Peter standing at the top, cheering me on, his water bottle thrust in the air as a reward. I break down, and tell him the story and we both notice the cuts on my hands and legs. I put the muzzle of my machine gun in my mouth and drink.