In describing this trip, I’ve used words like “trek” and “journey”. But these are total misnomers: Four days does not a journey make.
Since arriving in Africa we’ve traded examples of true treks: my son Mack’s friend who rode from Germany to Ghana; a woman who rode from Sweden to South Africa. What made our endeavor the slightest bit novel was that we would ride locally-sourced bikes, the kinds that Ugandans might actually ride.
What’s made it memorable, however, has been the people. This travel truism — that while we set out to seek beauty, or experiences, it’s building relationships that most fulfills us — was abundantly evident in our third day of riding.
Karen and I once envisioned a group of 25 friends and family members joining us, but we ended with a core group of eight: me and Karen; Mack, his girlfriend Jesse, and our daughter Catie; our friends Travis and Heather; and remarkably, my mom Angela, who is here on her tenth trip to Uganda, and who next year will celebrate her 80th birthday.
When I arrived in the hotel lobby for breakfast at 6:00 this morning, my seven travel mates were already there, game and ready to power out some kilometers in the cool morning air. Soroti Town buzzed and occasionally buffeted us, but by now our less experienced cyclists (which is to say, most of us) had gained confidence and a bit of skill in maneuvering our Hero bikes.
Through the course of the day, to a person, our group was respectful and deferential, generous and slow to frustrate. They offered help — and asked for it openly. Mack took the brunt of the kilometers after we switched to relay-style riding; Catie and Heather lifted bikes onto the roof of our van as we started to swap out. (Catie had also taken the lead in taking bikes down before a full-blown African-style storm struck the night before.) Travis, a development economist and a richly seasoned traveler, helped us understand the shifts in the crops we traversed as the topography changed, now punctuated by butte-like formations that rose on the horizon, offering a focal objective. And everyone was kind to our support team.
Our support team! Someone should write a book about these guys: Sandy, the mechanic mercifully sent by 88bikes virtually never spoke, but he would always have worked had we left the bikes available to him: constantly tweaking, turning a wrench, whacking a brake pad, smiling all the while. We realized quickly that rather than heft bikes off and onto the roof to facilitate a handoff, Sandy could quickly just adjust a saddle, and our pace increased dramatically.
Arnold is one of our drivers, but serves nearly as helpfully as our chief cheerleader. After a couple days together, we asked him, “Arnold, are you always cheerful?” and he responded — living in this land of lack and difficulty — “Indeed I am.” At 6:00 a.m. he had greeted us with high-fives; at every break he offered water and asked, “You are not tired? You do not need to take a breath?” He is warm, and jovial, and very much not only a driver, but a teammate and a friend whom we’ll always seek to spend time with when we return to Uganda.
Our other driver is Kaaya, of whom I’ve written at length. Having spent two trips with Kaaya, this time we hired him not just to shepherd, inform and support us, but to set up the trip. To select hotels he scouted them in person, taking buses to each of our stopover towns — twice, because in Uganda, quality of service can deteriorate quickly (his words). Kaaya has phoned ahead for every meal, spoken with locals to explain our project, whispered to me when there’s a change in prices or rates (typically a change of a few dollars) — and has smiled, and joked, and dived in when asked, and without being asked.
Even with such support and after several relay changeovers though, with 20 kilometers to go, we were flagging. Chalk it up to accumulated miles on bikes not made for accumulated miles, lack of sleep, unfamiliar food; for my part, fighting a wicked saddle sore, I rode perched on the nose of my seat, placing as much weight as I could on the swept-back handlebars and on my feet, riding with my heels on the pedals.
We were all extremely ready to be finished when we received an emotional boost that we felt immediately in our legs: riding in the other direction I spotted three “real” cyclists, clad in lycra and pedaling skinny-tire bikes. I knew whom they must be: I’d connected through a Lira-based friend with the local cycling group, and invited them to ride our route in reverse until they saw us. Here they were: three cyclists aboard the veto-equivalent of the thousands of cars we’d seen since departing Jinja: rusted, cobbled together, but functional.
The three riders — Derrick, Sarah and Patrick —were welcoming, smiling, even jovial. We rode together a few kilometers, chatting about our trip, and learning about the Lira-Lango Cycling Club, thirty members strong, and led emphatically by Chairperson Derrick, a hulk of a cyclist whose beefy shoulders and quads brought Nelson Vails to mind.
Realizing we were nearing Lira, we decided that everyone should ride into town, so we ended the relay by stopping and pulling the bikes off of the van roofs. Karen pulled out our speaker, and Karen, Jesse and our new Ugandan friends began to dance. It helped that no one was wearing cycling shoes! Just an impromptu, kit-clad dance party by the side of the Soroti-Lira Road.
As we waited — and danced — I took longer looks at our new friends’ setups: pure whatever-works Frankenbikes, parts swapped in and out; kits evidently donated, and far over-worn: two of the three sported long sleeves and tights in the African sunshine. Their faces glistened, but no one stopped smiling, let alone complained.
We would see Derrick and Sara again, when they and two other team members (Paul and Bob-Mike, so deemed by the kids because he when asked at different times, he gave them two different names) joined us a couple of days later on our ride from Lira to the clinic in Awake Village; Derrick also joined for dinner, and both showed up to see us off when we departed Lira. We learned that they have an active race team, including a youth division, and that when they can afford it, they travel to races. They have sent members to regional championships in Rwanda and Kenya, but have also had to turn down invitations for lack of bikes.
We rolled into Lira eleven strong — including Kaaya, with my mom driving the van behind me (on the left side of the road, through the town’s aggressive traffic). Catie continued playing music, the speaker in her basket; Sara kept dancing, even though the urban din mostly drowned out our tunes. We pedaled carefully, so I was able to look around: this was the first city on this trip that I’ve visited several times before. I recalled our kids’ walking through Lira market in 2016, our youngest Declan just ten years old, all three struck by the new sights — and especially the new odors — but no one feeling unsafe. Same with Karen, my mom, Declan and his high school friends in 2023, getting caught while walking in a drenching downpour; Kaaya and I went searching for them in the van, concerned, and found them in a “wine bar” — the kids drinking Smirnoff Ices, well cared for by the proprietor. (It’s OK — if there’s a legal drinking age here, it’s 18 max.)
A cynic would tell you that Derrick, Sara and Patrick rode with us and returned to see us because they’re looking for handouts, but I’ve decided that they simply love cycling; love meeting muzungus who ride — an utter rarity in Northern Uganda — and hope just to broaden their perspectives, experiences, and friendships. Writ large, of course those of us who stand out so starkly here represent opportunity — but we’ve never felt like targets.
The Ugandans we’ve met use the term “team” frequently, including when we might use “group” or “crew.” I believe it’s purposeful, that they value collective purpose and pursuit. This place can be maddening with its ambiguities and inefficiencies, but I’ve ended every day grateful for the connections we’ve made — both the reconnections among our core team, and among the new teams we’ve formed and joined.
Turns out Derrick cuts hair to earn a few shillings. Travis, Mack and I all took him up on his offer.
What a great day!
what a meaningful experience -- you've given so much both to Uganda and Ugandans and so much to ME. Thank you!!!