Words and Photos by Rylie and Tristan, @rollingtides.rt
This is the third post documenting the surfpacking / bikepacking / backpacking adventure of Rylie and Tristan starting in different parts of the world, rejoining in the US, and ending together until the end of the road in South America. Read about their ambitious journey in Part 1 HERE and Part 2 HERE. Tune in each month to see how it's going.
RYLIE - (Additional photos shot by @josefinaantunezg )
A pale reef beneath me, I’m floating on a bright red board as the sun sinks into choppy waters. Just a few hours ago I cycled into the small bay where I would spend a week at a surf camp. The camp, run by a gaggle of South African surf nerds and Indonesian locals, was an instantly inviting environment. I was here, in brief, to surf my little heart out but, more specifically, I was seeking guidance with bigger waves, navigating reef breaks and feeling comfortable flowing with a smaller board, because when you’re planning to tow surfboards thousands of miles, you best hope you're a die-hard shortboarder.
From a young age I’ve had my sights set on surfing. I'm not sure where the obsession came from, I grew up land locked, in a desert really. I like to joke with people that where I grew up, Kamloops, BC, has great waves, dry humour at its finest. I sold all my wetsuits back in Tofino, my beloved orange longboard, and trusted that releasing that part of my life would allow space for the growth that I yearned for.
Now, immediately after showing up to this surf camp we were thrown into the swell. I was giddy, smiling ear to ear and paddling into every wave I could. I’m still learning to pace myself with these things.
The week progressed in beautiful and challenging ways, we surfed twice a day, every session revealing a strength or a fear of mine. I paddled deeper, breathed steadier and sat closer to the breaking part of the wave.
The coaches ranged in ages from 16 to 30 but they all laughed like little boys sitting at the back of the class. The laughter was contagious and you had to be ready to be made fun of when you took a proper tumble. The instruction was loose; there was a language barrier and much of the communication in the water consisted of “GOO GOO NOW PADDLE!”
In between tumbles, while bobbing in the warm water, I contemplated the feasibility of continuing to bikepack Indonesia. The heat was sickening, the traffic flat out scary, and I was alone with my motivation or lack thereof. I had even called Tristan after a hectic day of riding, “It’s just not bikeable, it’s just not” I remember saying.
In the blink of an eye the surf camp ended, and my decision was made. I wasn't ready to give up the vision. I was going to cycle to Sumbawa.
As the days went on, I began to acclimatize to the heat, my strategy of only riding in the morning and evening quickly went out the window as I pushed for miles or caught a surf in the AM. The noise of the streets was a variable that always threw me for a loop. Here, the culture around sound was free range. I biked by lines of shops all with competing beats from large sub woofers. Motors and horns were a constant, and the mosques filled towns with the sound of prayer every few hours, starting at 4am.
The beautiful double edged sword of bikepacking is that you are exposed. Every breath of hot air, every spec of sand flying up from the motor bike in front of you, every smell, both sweet and rotten and every wave of sound will find you. It’s both exhilarating and exhausting.
I picked my way up the East Coast of Lombok, the dry, sun-scoured coast slowly grew more lush, coconut palms began lining the roads and giving me some solace in the form of shade. At this point, Bedrock sandal shaped tanlines were already firmly etched on my feet.
I struggled to find suitable camping, often ending up a sweaty mess on a sliver of a beach. One evening as a heavy storm fell over the coast, I pushed my bike through villages, not sure exactly what I was looking for but timidly hoping for a miracle. I greeted children playing in the flooded streets, women huddled in shops and men standing under porches, arms crossed. Eventually I found a shack made of palms and approached a nearby house to ask who it belonged to. My Bahasa Indonesian was shaky as water poured over the brim of my helmet. Three men emerged from the house laughing and pointing at me. After sufficient laughter where I had no choice but to join in, they agreed it was fine for me to pitch my tent there. I was fairly happy with the palm shack but was hit with a shivering longing for human warmth. I felt silly, soaked and alone at this point.
A small child came up behind me and nearly scared the tent poles out of my hands. The kids asked that I follow them back to the village, so I packed up and wheeled my bike out, a trail of ten or so kiddos in tow. A short tour, and a stint of helping some ladies with an operation of bagging rocks was how I ended up being welcomed to set up on a tile porch. The hospitality felt like a warm hug. The woman who welcomed me to stay at her home laid beside the tent on a thin mat. I felt frail in my mesh mosquito net guard, she seemed unbothered by the heat of the night in layers of clothes.
The noise and chaos of the village kept me up, unsettled. The moon was high in the sky and, still ringing, were motors, and endless chatter from those scrolling on phones (yes even in the most remote corners of Indonesia). I decided it was best I head back to the palm shelter, I felt like a fish out of water in the village. I tried to explain as I packed up my tent but the woman who welcomed me pleaded “There are bad people out there”.
I remember her grabbing my then partially deflated sleeping mat and blowing into it. She placed it back in the tent and assured me it will be quiet soon. I crawl back onto my sweaty sleeping mat and just as I go to close my eyes I hear Katy Perry’s ‘Wide Awake’ blasting from the woman's phone speaker. I nearly burst out laughing, or in tears, I wasn't sure at this point, but I sure was Wide Awake.
The next day I pedaled over gradually rolling hills and behind horse drawn carriages then boarded the ferry over to Sumbawa. I exhaled a deep sigh and plopped myself down on the metal deck in the shade. The man beside me had an Adele album on repeat from his phone speaker, I giggled to myself, popped in my earbuds and shut my tired eyes.
Sumbawa's coastline welcomed me with wide dirt roads, farmland as far as the eye could see and waves lapping at white sand beaches. The odd scooter and masses of goats were my only company on the roads. I had a good feeling about this new chapter.
TRISTAN- (Additional photos from @nomadmartin )
The sun beats down on our glistening skin, darkening our already stark tanlines. My body is sticky from sweat from the past days of hard riding- the wet wipe showers only go so far. My socks are like cardboard when I peel them off my feet. Not wanting to dismount, I balance my bike precariously as I slide my toes back into my sandals. I am taking a beating on these uphills, pushing hard against my 100 pound bike to keep up with Martin, even though he’s 20 years my senior and carrying more luxury items than I could ever justify.
Because we’re gaining so much elevation each day, we’ve been keeping the mileage short, between 60 to 80 km on dirt roads per day. Daylight dwindles with the change of season, and we chase the sun as it swings over the horizon. We scan the roadside for cozy camp spots.
After crashing the drone, cracking the screen of Martin's action cam, and running out of water, we hit the pavement towards the National Monument Visitor Center. Although our bikes are built for bumpy dirt roads, we woop and cheer as we glide on the smooth tarmac, not a car in sight. We’re pooped from the last days of riding but reinvigorated by a smooth road and buzzing about the glorious cliffside descent we just jostled our way down. We roll into the parking lot to the water fountain and proclaim victory. Unlimited water, wifi and a small roof!? Such luxuries.
Since meeting up with Martin a week prior, I had learned to roof hunt. Looking for the comfort of partial shelter in every town we passed through. Here, the roof was quite small and wouldn’t protect us from any rain if the skies opened up. Thanks to the wifi, we scan weather models for an updated forecast. Rain, and lots of it. Being surrounded by red clay, a night out camping in this storm would leave every piece of gear caked and potentially wash our tents away (with us still in them). We ponder sleeping options while walking around and around the building, closed due to the US Government shutdown.
Luckily, the bathrooms are still open, and we seize our opportunity. At sundown, we hide our bikes behind the building, pull in our sleeping bags and slide an opportune orange cone in front of the door. We lock ourselves in as the fluorescent light and accompanying fan welcome us into our fancy hotel room for the night. The light is motion activated, and the button to turn it off only works sometimes, and for about 20 minutes. After that, the harsh light comes on with a scream every time one of us rolls over a little too flamboyantly in our sleep. We laugh at how ridiculous this feels–squeezed in a bathroom in the desert, thunder claps echoing, with a fanlight that's determined to keep us awake. Martin and I met a week ago, and we’re already sharing romantic evenings snuggled up on tiled floors.
In Canada, we have the privilege of being surrounded by lakes and rivers. I feel safe in that ecosystem. Out here, I feel the hostility of the desert. Water doesn’t exist other than the mucky trickle of the Colorado river. I’ve been listening to the Cadillac Desert audiobook, a classic about the history of water in the Southwest. It's a fitting listen as I ride across the Colorado, Lake Mead, and Route 66. I learn that water is a luxury, both in theory and practice. The sun bakes it off my skin, and the air greedily sucks it out of me with every breath. Sometimes I feel like I’m one of those little pieces of fruit in a big, big dehydrator. At least I’m becoming lighter?
I’ve been carrying a Hyperlite Elevate 22 backpack, and besides being awesome for walking around towns, it’s been crucial for my water carrying capacity. I fill up collapsible bladders, put them in the pack and use Myfixplus ski straps to cinch it down tightly to my rear rack. With this system I can carry 13 litres of water, and food for a week. If I need more (which I hope I never do, it’s quite a heavy load) I can always ride with the backpack on. The pack goes wayyy beyond its 22l stated capacity if needed because of its roll top. It’s not the lightest or most compact of the Hyperlite lineup, but it has a nice, padded back, which Ry and I both agree has been worth it.
Be weary of shortcuts. It seems I have to relearn this lesson every few days. Maybe it’s my laziness trying to shave miles, or maybe it’s an underlying desire for misadventure. Either way, I end up bumping along a road that’s not a road or stuck in the sand looking at cars zoom on a distant highway.
On this particular day, our shortcut turned our beautiful cruisy morning into a bit of an epic. It was day five in the desert, and we’d been lucky to resupply on water again since leaving our bathroom hotel. Let me preface by saying that Martin’s tires limped along, bald and punctured everywhere. They weren’t sealing properly due to his rim tape and sealant mixture (something we learned much later), and since starting this desert stint he had to stop and pump them up about ten times daily. For myself, I neglected to swap my chain, and the sounds my drivetrain made told me it was long overdue.
That’s when we hit the shortcut, a dry rocky dirt road lining down onto the next plateau. A beautiful declining straightaway laid out before us. Martin shouts at me, “You know you’re a lot faster than me on the downhill!” I take it as permission to let fly - he’s faster going up after all, and the downs are what I live for. My young brain switches off much too easily as I settle into a flow state only found when adrenaline starts firing. I’m dialled into my line. A quote flashes through the flow: “He who brakes later stays fast longer.” I love momentum, and I hate losing it, so I keep jostling down as fast as I can. I’m flying, definitely too fast now. I make a mental note to slow down just before…BANG! Uh oh. My front tire immediately deflates and becomes little more than a wet sock. I clench my worn rear brakes and come to a halt, praying my tire hasn’t exploded. Looking at my wheel, I see it’s worse. The lip of my rim is fully bent inwards, like the page of a book. Sealant sputters out halfheartedly.
One broken Leatherman later, we have it bent back into rideable shape. It won’t hold the proper seal a tubeless setup requires anymore so I fish out a backup inner tube from the depths of my frame bag. After pulling out 20 thorns from the tire, I’m nervous about riding with a tube. I usually feel invincible with my tubeless system, as the sealant automatically plugs little holes here and there. If I had been rolling with tubes on this journey, I’d be weeks behind my current schedule. Thorns and prickles litter the sand and pavement, making punctures a sure thing.
Martin and I start rolling again, and I feel blessed. The road we’re on is remote and doesn’t see any traffic - we could be in a mighty tough spot. As they say, the downhill is where journeys can end, and I just barely squeak away this time. I’m kicking myself in the head (metaphorically, I’m not that flexible) because a new wheel is a month of food on my budget. But remind myself this is how we learn, and I have a lot of learning to do.
At this point, I think we’ve gotten through relatively unscathed. My wheel is holding up and we’re cruising. For about five minutes.
Even though it’s been a few days of hot sun since the rainstorm, we encounter a bikepackers worst nightmare—peanut butter mud. It’s what happens to the clay around here when water gets involved: a gloopy, heavy, sticky mess. It clings to your tires until you’re more mud than bike and can’t roll.
Martin and I are in deep, sinking, pushing, carrying our bikes with everything we have. My sandals become mud cakes as I sink deeper. We laugh, because if we don’t, we might cry. There’s something to be said about being in shitty situations with an adventure partner. If I’m alone, it would be a lot less funny.
Luckily the mud comes in sections, so we’re able to roll for 100 metres at a time before the next round of clinging and cleaning commences. If it were any more difficult, I would be making my bed where I stand, letting the mud mold around me like a weighted blanket.
After hours of punishing our bikes, we make it through. We push on as the sun sets and find ourselves a lovely little bathroom roof to hunker down for the night. Pure luxury.
