North to Alaska: The True Story of an Epic, 16,000-Mile Cycle Journey the Length of the Americas

276 Pages·2020·2.873 MB·English

by  Trevor Lund

For my Parents – dearly missed.
Their courage to let go allowed me to live.
The true story of an epic

16,000-mile cycle journey the length of the Americas

TREVOR LUND

TL Publications
Contents
1 The Great Outdoors
2 A Lust for Adventure
3 Ushuaia–Punta Arenas
4 Punta Arenas–Puerto Natáles
5 Puerto Natáles–Puerto Montt
6 Puerto Montt–Valparaíso
7 Valparaíso–San Pedro de Atacama
8 San Pedro de Atacama–La Paz
9 La Paz–Cuzco
10 Cuzco–Nazca
11 Nazca–Huaráz
12 Huaráz–Cuenca
13 Cuenca–Quito
14 Panama City–Guatemala City
15 Guatemala City–Tucson
16 Tucson–Death Valley
17 Death Valley–Chilliwack
18 Chilliwack–Vanderhoof
19 Vanderhoof–Fairbanks
20 Fairbanks–Deadhorse
21 Homeward Bound

Chapter 1
The Great Outdoors
S
now lay pure on the ground outside the window. The sky was grey but empty
and it seemed the best of the weather, as far as I was concerned, was now
over. The large convector heater on which I sat, clicked, and wearily rattled
back into life. It was a favourite sitting place for students and had buckled under
the weight of hundreds of sixth-former’s posteriors over the years. Wendy and I
chatted about very little, as we had done many times before.
I was attracted to Wendy, though I’m not sure just how much I was aware of
it back then. I was a bit of a coward when it came to girls all those years ago,
something I rue now for I hadn’t been short of admirers. Wendy had a lot of
what I looked for in a girl: she was pretty with thick, dark, shoulder-length hair.
She was fun, with a warm, infectious laugh, was into sport and seemed to enjoy
my company. She was also very tactile and I couldn’t help but notice how she
would touch my arm or my leg on occasions as she talked to me. Perhaps it was
Wendy that spurred me into action that lunch break.
Pool balls chinked on the pool table in front of us. There was something very
soothing about that sound. Had it been miserable outside, I could quite happily
have sat there for the whole break. But on this day, the snow beckoned. It stood,
bright and thick on the branches of trees, which hung, mournfully, just feet away
from me. It was crying out to be picked up and moulded, and soon I could resist
no more.
‘Anyone fancy a snowball fight?’
Silence. All preferred to stay in, even those who – in the summer – were only
too happy to start cowpat fights on our walks home from school through the
fields. Some looked at me as though I was mad, while others laughed at me
because they knew what I was like. Alone, I left the warmth for the great
outdoors.
Leaving my coat where it was, I put on my gloves and headed out into the
cold. Here the snow had barely been touched and it made a pleasing squeaking
sound as it compressed beneath my footsteps. I picked up a handful, moulded it
into a ball and threw it, low and hard, at a wall, where its journey ended with a
satisfying ‘splat’. I climbed the steps onto the school playground, which was
empty at this end, the end that looked down onto the sixth-form common room. I
aimed snowballs at the posts that held up the net fencing and lobbed a few at
the common-room window in the vain hope that others would be tempted to join
me, but in a matter of minutes, still alone, I was bored.
At the far end of the playground, some forty or fifty metres away, a large
gang of lads from the fourth and fifth year, two and three years younger than
me, stood chatting. I don’t know what it was like in other schools in the mid-
1980s but here sixth-formers were positively hated by those in the lower years,
particularly by those disinterested in school; sixth-formers were viewed as
poncey, soft, upper class and intelligent. Soft I may have been, but poncey,
intelligent and upper class? No way! My family were undoubtedly working class,
and I would have been deeply insulted at that stage in my life had anyone dared
to label me ‘intelligent’. Later that year I left the sixth form having failed all my A
levels. I was far too busy messing about to concentrate on my studies and had
no real ambition and no foresight.
The gang stood, huddled, hands in pockets, chatting to one another. I felt
mischievous and wanted to provoke somebody into having a snowball fight with
me. If I could achieve the distance, they were an easy target.
I picked up another handful of snow and pressed it into a hard, heavy ball as
I eyed my quarry. None of the group was looking my way as I took a number of
steps towards them and launched my snowball high into the air. I watched it
expectantly as it soared, seemingly halted, and then began to fall to earth, bang
on target. It landed in an explosion of white on the ground in the centre of the
huddle, somehow missing every one of the group. Those around it took a sharp
step back, startled, and began to look around for the person who had dared to
throw it. I was the only one in the centre of the playground and didn’t mind
advertising the fact that I was the one stupid enough to have disturbed their
lunchtime chatter. I stood with my arms out wide as further provocation, smiling
pathetically as heads quickly turned my way. As twenty fifteen- and sixteen-
year-olds stooped to each pick up a snowball, muttering to one another, I quickly
did the same. A number flew towards me, breaking into thousands of pieces as
they hit the ground and scattering, harmlessly enough, over the compacted
snow around me. One of the gang then broke away from his group and began to
run at me, snowball in hand. Others followed suit and my bit of lunchtime fun
was suddenly looking a little more serious. I turned to run, quickly picking up
speed once my shoes had gained traction. As I passed the sixth-form common
room, angry mob in hot pursuit, I noticed Wendy peering through the steamed-
up window and I felt pleased she now had some proper entertainment.
I neared the gate at the top of the steps which led back to the school building
and I believed safety was within reach, only for the gate to be slammed shut by
a breakaway group who had raced down the path adjacent to the playground to
cut off my escape. All exits blocked, I slammed into the fencing, shockwaves
reverberating along its length.
Snowballs rained in at me from close quarters as the gang closed in around
me. I offered them a nervous smile as if to say it was just a bit of fun but they
didn’t quite seem to view it that way. I felt claustrophobic as kids known for their
fighting rather than academic abilities jostled through the crowd. One put his
foot behind my heel and hands on my shoulders, pushing me hard. I lost my
footing, waved my arms in mid-air and crashed onto the ground with a thud. The
gang laughed and twenty pairs of feet kicked snow at me until the colours in my
clothes were barely visible. Freezing snow crystals found their way down my
jumper and up my trouser legs as I clutched at my clothing to try and seal the
points of entry, wrapping my arms over my face. My assailants had soon had
enough and I struggled to my feet, still closely surrounded. I attempted to push
my way through the bodies but each time they regrouped in front of me. They
were only taunting me, teaching me a lesson, but one of them wanted to take
things a little further.
I knew Phil from the village where I lived and we’d always got on well. We
had been in the Scouts together and we’d each had similar routes on our paper
rounds, often bumping into each other and pausing to chat. Phil was a pretty
tough kid and, strangely, he thought I was too, telling me so on many occasions.
He stepped forward, purposefully and very coolly.
‘You wanna fight me?’ he asked. ‘Come on, you and me.’ The others
laughed and goaded us to fight and I felt intimidated. I couldn’t believe he was
doing this to me and must have looked puzzled.
‘What are you doing, Phil?’ I wondered. ‘Come on, it’s me. What do you want
to fight me for?’
Others began to join in, pushing at me, jostling me.
‘No, leave him. Just me and him,’ he instructed, holding out an arm to keep
them back. He spoke as if he didn’t know me, looking into my eyes with
menace. He was calm and extremely confident but he had reason to be with so
many of his friends around him. Even if I did fight and even if I won, there’d be a
whole queue of others who’d want to challenge me. I shook my head and turned
to walk away, half expecting a punch to the side of my head but no punch
arrived, only taunts and jeers, which I did my best to ignore. Out of sight I shook
myself off, ridding my clothes of any remnants of snow. I composed myself and
headed back to the common room to tell my tale.
It was the briefest of events in my life but my actions that lunchtime pretty
much sum me up, even today: I love having a story to tell, I enjoy the thrill of
taking risks and I thrive in the outdoors. Throw an attractive girl into the mix and
there’s no telling what I might do.
This is my story of a time in my life when I took a risk by leaving all things
familiar behind, to head into the unknown in search of an adventure. It is a time I
now look back upon with a great sense of pride. I still have many evocative
memories of that journey, some of which catch me very much by surprise,
returning to me in the strangest of places and with no warning, and others that
come to me with great regularity. All these memories I feel extremely grateful
and fortunate to have. They are a part of my patchwork quilt of life. I never want
to stop adding to that patchwork.