I have however come to realise what I so love about cycling over say, cars, trains, buses or motorbikes. Its the total experiance that you get from traversing the landscape. The effort of going up hill all day is not a thing you can forget. The top of the hill is something you have dreamed about and strived both mentaly and physicaly for. The ufforia of reaching the summit and apreciating its views is so amplified a car journey can not reward in the same way.
Cycling provides you with a physical feeling of a landscape, not just a visual one. Its more like running your hands over a mountain with your eyes closed. The landscape has a firm grip on your emotions and plays you like a puppet. Therefor you are emotionaly tied to a place and you remember it thus.
People are offten scornful of the cyclist. They assume you would rather be on a bus but for some reason, money or mear stupidity you are on a bike. These people I assume can not see beyond holiday snaps and ticking off destinations. I care for neither. I want only to travel and feel the world beneath me. I only wish I were braver.
Saturday 12 June 2010
Not a blog
This is not a travelers blog.
I will write retrospectivly about my journeys at a later date, maybe tomorrow maybe in a week. When I have managed to sort out the incidents of my time away and arranged them in a meaningful order.
At present all I have is a rather narrow and predictable tourist traveler experiances, a fish out of water, foriegner struggling with a language, an alien wondering around someone elses country occasionaly bumping into things. Taking photos, being bemused, bewildered and delighted by the difference. Wishing folk at home could be a little more calm, less angry and generally more mediteranian. Missing friends but in no way wanting to wake up from my soft and murky traveling dream where I drift from place to place without a care. Aware that a million people have been here before me. I break no seel, I have done nothing terriably extrodinary. The only thing that stands out as unusual is that I, me, Sarah have not been here before. Its rather like an arangement of lottery numbers. Each time the same numbers appear but its the first time my specific set have come up. To the outside observer its just another set of 6 numbers in a line.
I will write retrospectivly about my journeys at a later date, maybe tomorrow maybe in a week. When I have managed to sort out the incidents of my time away and arranged them in a meaningful order.
At present all I have is a rather narrow and predictable tourist traveler experiances, a fish out of water, foriegner struggling with a language, an alien wondering around someone elses country occasionaly bumping into things. Taking photos, being bemused, bewildered and delighted by the difference. Wishing folk at home could be a little more calm, less angry and generally more mediteranian. Missing friends but in no way wanting to wake up from my soft and murky traveling dream where I drift from place to place without a care. Aware that a million people have been here before me. I break no seel, I have done nothing terriably extrodinary. The only thing that stands out as unusual is that I, me, Sarah have not been here before. Its rather like an arangement of lottery numbers. Each time the same numbers appear but its the first time my specific set have come up. To the outside observer its just another set of 6 numbers in a line.
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