Mike’s African Mission: We Can Ride Heroes

We’d been in Africa for 48 hours before today, but this morning our trip kicked off in earnest. Our ride from Jinja to Pallisa served up much of what we love about this country — and much of what makes life so oppressive in a developing country like Uganda, so much so that — I’ll say it — it reinforced my appreciation for the United States.

Our friends at 88bikes delivered the shiny, Ugandan flag-colored Hero bikes late enough yesterday evening that we were able to squeeze in a nighttime shakeout ride of about 400 meters. But 88bikes also sent a mechanic, our new buddy Sandy, who adjusted our saddles, and made other requested tweaks; when we awoke this morning, our bikes were lined up in a row — just like a professional team’s rigs. (Except, of course, that these bikes from Hero, an Indian brand known throughout the developing world, have a single gear, rod brakes, heavy-duty kickstands, and cushy seat covers, and weigh about 50 pounds.)

 

 

The first half mile of riding from 30 Wilson, our hotel that features a palm-canopied pool, full bar, cabana-style suites, and yet another remarkably friendly staff, was peaceful enough that we could practice riding the unwieldy Heroes. Good thing, because for the next five miles the riding was, in a word, nutballs: a stew of traffic featuring every kind of vehicle, starting with massive lorries and ranging to…us: We were the smallest fish in this overstocked pond, where size indeed matters, where there is simply no waiting, no right-of-way. Roundabouts were a swirl of metal, rubber, and people, not to mention livestock and freight; to get around, we twice just climbed off of our bikes and sprinted from one curb to the next.

Once out of town, the highway remained busy with this diverse mix of vehicles: No longer congested, but now buzzing past us – two-stroke motorcycles moving barely faster than us, and freight trucks rushing past; we would ride on the packed-dirt shoulder, occasionally slipping onto the highway when a pedestrian pushing a cart approached from the other direction. We learned to ride, as my daughter put it, “cautiously assertively” thrusting an arm out to move onto the road from the shoulder, or pointing emphatically at a spot where we would turn. Still, the sight of an evidently recently overturned truck was a shock, and lent some urgency to moving to less congested roads.

Traffic did begin to thin, but our route became hillier, and now this challenge of pedaling the bikes that virtually any Ugandan would be delighted to ride, however heavy they might be (and how few gears they might include) became clear: Even a 5% incline was a quad-busting grind, and soon a couple of our riders were walking their bikes as trucks engulfed us in clouds of blue or black exhaust. (The next time you find yourself frustrated with our environmental regulations in the U.S. — maybe wondering why you need to smog your car — give me a call and let me regale you with descriptions of riding in a country with no emissions standards.)

Had you told me that our entire ride would be like this, with the traffic and exhaust and barely rideable hills, I’d have suggested reconsider our approach. But as we journeyed further from Jinja into smaller towns, and — importantly — turned off of the main road, the one that connects Jinja and, further inland, the capital Kampala to the eastern border with Kenya and its ports, the traffic abated; the vehicles shrank in number and size; and the hills even flattened.

The day warmed, but never unbearably, and soon we were remarking, “This Is what I hoped this would be like.” We rode through vast, lush, green landscapes, low wetlands where rice, papyrus, tomatoes and cassava grew, and small towns where the eye-roll reception we noticed in the larger cities evolved into smiles, waves and even cheers.

 

Riding the Heroes remained challenging, and the last 15 kilometers were a slog, but as some of our crew — most of them eager travelers, but not avid riders — opted to load their bikes onto our support van and climb inside, I found myself joined by my son and daughter, with whom I rode into our destination town, Pallisa; as we rode into the parking lot of our modest hotel, a small, curious crowd had gathered, and they clapped as we turned in. Pedaling bikes that are authentic to the land where we rode them with my kids will remain a treasured memory.

Daughter Catie, son Mack, and his girlfriend Jesse

I’m wrapping up this post from my hotel room, in the middle of the night; I started earlier, fell asleep, but awoke (along with Karen) when we heard what we assumed was a mouse: sure enough, a tiny one scurried from our bag of Clif Bars when we turned on the light. We hung the bag and our other food, but then a bug the size of my hand dive bombed me as I tried to fall back to sleep. I’m now typing, wondering if it will return, as mosquitoes whine around me: Our netting has holes. (Good thing we’re consistent with our Malarone.) The electricity went out, so the room is warming without AC.

All in all, it was a big, Africa day.

On the windowsill in our bathroom. Please message me if you’d like me to bring some back. Hot pink only.