Aside from the novelty of such an experience, there was another reason for my hope consuming man’s best friend: revenge.

One day I was parked at a secluded place beside the road and had just taken I bite from my bread with butter and jam when I felt something brush forcefully against the side of my head. I looked down at my hand, still in the bread-holding position, and the slice had disappeared!

I felt as though I was spending more time in well-lit tunnels (still rather frightening), some of them over 4 kilometers long, than I was in the open air.

This had been a record fifteen days of traveling without a proper shower, a fast that I would have readily and gladly broken had the opportunity for a cleansing presented itself.

…I stay inside with them, not able to comprehend that my tent and sleeping bag were more than adequately warm and comfortable. For fear of being mistaken as ungrateful, I conceded each time, but honestly would have slept better outside.

…one will pass through villages and towns of mud houses and pass through lands where nomads spend their days in sheep-skin yurts.

My plan was this: wait until nightfall when the air is comfortable for cycling, then clobber the entire 200km (125mi) in one go. I had a strong maté at the café and at 9pm hit the road.