The Longest Road

INTRODUCTION

In June 2008, five friends and I set out from Prudhoe Bay, Alaska, to cycle to Ushuaia, Argentina. The average age of the cyclists was twenty-two. In Ireland, the expedition generated national interest. It was the first time that a cycling challenge of this length and duration had been attempted by Irish people. This is the story of this compelling adventure.

The Pan-American Highway is believed to be the longest continuous land route in the world. It measures 25,000 km and passes through fourteen different countries and two continents. The Pan-American Highway begins in the northernmost point of Alaska, in a town called Deadhorse, the home of Alaskan oil, and finishes in Ushuaia in Argentina, the world’s most southerly city. The road runs through the vast expanses of Alaska and northern Canada and the densely populated cities of Los Angeles and Lima. It moves from hot to cold, from forest to desert, English to Spanish and everything in between.

At the post office in Deadhorse, Alaska, those who started the journey in southern Argentina and completed the route in this barren northern finishing point have pinned to the wall signed Polaroid pictures of themselves along with details of where they’re from and how long their journey took. They come from all parts of the world. The times taken to complete the Pan-American Highway vary between the world-record time of four months to the more leisurely pace of two years. On completion, regardless of time, it seems they had all entered into the unofficial fraternity of the Pan-American Highway.

Our aim was to complete the distance in slightly under nine months. This is my story of cycling down the longest road in the world.

Ben Cunningham

County Kildare

PARTICIPANTS IN THE IRISH PAN-AMERICAN

CYCLING ADVENTURE

Alan Gray:

Deadhorse (Alaska) to Ushuaia (Argentina)

Kevin Hillier:

Deadhorse (Alaska) to Ushuaia (Argentina)

Brian McDermott:

Deadhorse (Alaska) to Ushuaia (Argentina)

Ben Cunningham:

Deadhorse (Alaska) to Ushuaia (Argentina)

Cillian O’Shea:

Deadhorse (Alaska) to Ushuaia (Argentina)

John Garry:

Deadhorse (Alaska) to Ushuaia (Argentina)

Pat Anglim:

Fairbanks (Alaska) to San Francisco (USA)

Eric Flanagan:

Vancouver (Canada) to San Francisco (USA)

Mike Stewart:

Vancouver (Canada) to San Francisco (USA)

Anthony Quinn:

Vancouver (Canada) to Ensenada (Mexico)

Tom Greaves:

Vancouver (Canada) to Ensenada (Mexico)

Killian Stafford:

Everett (USA) to San Francisco (USA)

Bryan Johnston:

Everett (USA) to San Francisco (USA)

Rob Greene:

San Diego (USA) to Ushuaia (Argentina)

Timi Oyewo:

Puerto Escondido (Mexico) to Panama City (Panama)

Ben Leonard Kane:

Arequipa (Peru) to Ushuaia (Argentina)

Chris Wallace:

Las Grutas (Argentina) to Ushuaia (Argentina)

Paddy O’Connor:

Playa Bonita (Peru) to Los Andes (Chile)

Conor Shaw:

Playa Bonita (Peru) to Los Andes (Chile)

Jim Lyons:

Tacna (Peru) to Ushuaia (Argentina)

Paul Drysdale:

Tacna (Peru) to Ushuaia (Argentina)

Mark Gray:

Mendoza (Argentina) to Las Grutas (Argentina)

Support Cycle Mix

Neil ‘Stilo’ McDermott:

Deadhorse (Alaska) to Ushuaia (Argentina)

Richard Boyd:

San Jose, California (USA) to Oxaca (Mexico)

Paul Cahill:

Insurgantes, Baja (Mexico) to Oxaca (Mexico)

Andrew Wade:

Insurgantes, Baja (Mexico) to Oxaca (Mexico)

Jenny Doran:

Insurgantes, Baja (Mexico) to Oxaca (Mexico)

Shauna Lenfesty:

Barranca (Peru) to Mendoza (Argentina) and

Las Grutas (Argentina) to Ushuaia (Argentina)

PROLOGUE

21 February 2009

Number of kilometres completed: 19,687

The others are in the sitting room of the rented apartment, chatting. I look at my watch: 6 p.m. and it’s getting dark outside.

Suddenly there are three loud bangs on the door downstairs. More loud bangs. I run down and open the door. Two pump-action shotguns are pointing at my chest. Four policemen start screaming at me. I can just about make out what they’re saying. One of them shouts, ‘You have ten minutes to come up with 4,000 pesos.’

I run back up the stairs, the police behind me. I sense their guns. I’m stuttering and panicking.

‘Everyone go to the bank and withdraw your maximum daily amount!’ I shout.

The police are yelling at everyone as we run around, gathering all the gear and bussing it downstairs to the street. There’s so much stuff to move, so many bikes and parts. Eventually we clear the apartment and get all our belongings outside.

The owner of the building emerges. He’s got slicked back greasy hair and he’s wearing a shirt opened down to his naval. He’s laughing and joking with the men.

We get it all together. Four thousand pesos is a lot of money here. I count it out to the owner in English while he repeats the numbers back to me in Spanish. The police are looking on and laughing. One of them checks the breach of his gun. Suddenly it’s over. The police get back into their car and disappear. The owner goes back inside. We remain standing outside, looking at each other, wondering what we’ve done to deserve this. I look at our gear and bikes scattered around on the side of the road, and then I look up at the stars.

For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

ALASKA

20 June 2008

Number of kilometres completed: 2

I love Alaska already. Thick green Alpine forest rolls across the hills of the horizon as if forever and deep blue skies give everything a crisp definition. Alaska is referred to as the last frontier because of its rugged landscape, its harsh climate and its distance from the rest of the United States. One immediately feels Alaska’s intimidating size. It’s by far the biggest state in America; an area more than twice that of Texas. If it were a country it would be the nineteenth biggest in the world, a whopping 1,518,800 square kilometres, a vast, almost endless, area of mountains and trees.

We arrive into Deadhorse on the day we’re scheduled to start cycling. We’ve reached the home of Alaskan oil. Commercial oil exploration started here in the 1960s and the main field was discovered on 12 March 1968 by Atlantic Richfield Company or ARCO. In order to service this new oil field, a rough gravel-surfaced road was ploughed straight up through the mountains from Fairbanks to Deadhorse. Consisting of shifting gravel and severe inclines that have become part of travelling lore, the road is known as the Dalton Highway. The oil field itself measures about 24 km by 32. It’s the biggest in North America and is operated by British Petroleum. Prudhoe Bay and the auxiliary oil fields that surround it produce one million barrels of oil a day.

Deadhorse is desolate and dreary, an expanse of prefabricated buildings and steel in the featureless tundra. Occasionally we see a caribou or an elk wandering around in the shadow of one of the enormous steel oil structures that dominate the town’s periphery.

We’re keen to get going as quickly as possible. We nip to the post office to send a few postcards home. I keep a spare one with me that I want to take to the end of the road and post from there. I pin up a photo of our group with today’s date alongside the photos of all the other expeditions that have either started or ended here. There are photos of Americans, Spaniards and Japanese, all dated and signed. Most of the groups cycled the distance, some actually walked and there’s even a guy who made it here, from where it’s not quite clear, on a unicycle.

We drive up to the gate of the oil fields where we’re stopped by a security guard. The roads within the oil field area, which lead to the Arctic Ocean, are sealed off and can be accessed only on expensive organised trips. An enormous black man sitting in a small hut beside the gate drawls, ‘Y’all can’t go any further.’

We unload the trailer and begin to put our bikes together. Frames, wheels, tyres, spare parts and all our camping equipment are carefully laid out on the ground. I haven’t a clue how to assemble a bicycle and rely on the other lads for assistance. This is my first bike. I’ve never cycled more than 100 km before.

There are six of us: Alan, Kevin, Brian, myself, Cillian and John. Neil is our support jeep driver and we stayed with him and his girlfriend Cassandra when we flew into Boston eleven days ago. Neil is Brian’s brother: he works in Boston as a chef but has put his job on hold to do this trip. A tall, friendly character, he has a laid-back attitude to life and never gets flustered about anything. He is the perfect man to organise the non-cycling aspect of the trip.

It won’t matter what time of the day we leave because the sun never goes down here in June – it just moves around the horizon. North of the Arctic Circle the sun can be above or below the horizon for twenty-four continuous hours at least once a year, occurring at the June and December solstices respectively. Tomorrow is the June solstice.

We’ve been thinking about the starting point for months. We’re all quite nervous and the nervousness turns into continuous laughter. Being here and the thought of what’s in store is both terrifying and hilarious. John covers himself in Irish tricolours and runs around in a circle. Passing truckers honk their horns.

Just as we finish putting the bikes together, Neil gets a phone call and hears some bad news from Boston: Cassandra has been diagnosed with breast cancer. The laughing stops and easy smiles are replaced with looks of concern. The trip doesn’t seem so important now. The only question on our minds is how Neil is going to get back to Boston to be with Cassandra. There’s no public transport from Deadhorse to Fairbanks. Flights are expensive and irregular. I begin to feel very isolated. We couldn’t be any farther away from anywhere.

Alan and Brian come up to me and suggest that Neil should drive back to Fairbanks alone, leave the jeep at the airport and get the first flight to Boston. We’ll make our own way down the Dalton Highway to Fairbanks, with our gear and provisions in panniers. This is a tough decision because, if ever we needed Neil and the support vehicle it’s going to be up here during our first days on the Dalton Highway. The mood changes as everyone ponders the development of the past hour and Alan senses this.

‘This isn’t insurmountable, lads,’ he says. ‘This is the type of problem we’re prepared for.’

Alan came up with the idea for this trip in the first place. He’s been a friend of mine since we were small kids growing up in County Kildare. He has put an enormous amount of energy and organisation into planning this expedition so a problem like this won’t stop him from starting on time. This isn’t a problem; it’s an opportunity to place ourselves even further outside our comfort zone. It’s a fantastic act of leadership and the intensity and commitment is suddenly electric. Everyone wants to be here. There’s not a word of doubt or dissent from anyone. We’ll be taking on the Dalton Highway alone without Neil.

Neil rings home to let his family know what’s going on. Word of what’s happened spreads quickly. Within ten minutes my mother rings Neil’s phone. She asks what’s happening. I say everything’s fine but that Neil’s girlfriend has breast cancer and so he’s going ahead of us and leaving us on our own for a while. We’ll be out of contact in the middle of northern Alaska for the next week, I say. I can hear a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line.

We have only one mobile phone between us, Neil’s, and now he’s going back to Boston. Because it’s so late, we decide to cycle away from Deadhorse and set up camp a mile farther down the road. Officially, we have begun: one mile, one-point-six kilometres on our first day.

It’s 3 a.m. I lie in the tent, which is completely illuminated by the sun. I can’t sleep. I wonder how the six of us are going to make it down this road.

21 June 2008

Number of kilometres completed: 132

Today is the summer solstice. In no other place on earth is today as long; it feels special to be here. Perhaps it’s fitting that we start out on the longest road in the world on the longest day of the year.

I think about what I’m doing here and if I’ll ever see the end of this road. The challenge seems tougher and more ambitious now than ever before but the mood in the group is upbeat.

‘Do you ever think you’ll find yourself in Deadhorse again?’ I ask Cillian as we clear the town limits. I met Cillian for the first time only a few days ago when we collected himself and John at the airport in Fairbanks. At twenty-four, he’s the oldest member of the group; John, who’s twenty-one, is the youngest. The two lads are on summer holidays and plan to be with the group until the end of August. Nothing’s taken too seriously with them around; exactly the attitude we need at the moment.

‘Not a hope in hell I’ll be here again,’ Cillian says.

Neil set out in the jeep this morning and we don’t know when we’ll see him again. On his way back down the road he dropped off water at 128-km intervals. We’ve packed three smaller back-up tents, six sleeping bags, a camping cooker, camping fuel, two pots, bowls, mosquito head nets, our own spare cycling clothes, a spare tyre, a camera and all the food we need for the three days until we get to Coldfoot, 400 km south. These provisions are packed into panniers and attached to our bikes on either side of the rear wheels.

We’re cycling in the North Slope, an area of tundra. The Dalton Highway is often referred to as the North Slope Haul Road. It’s flat for the first 160 km and entirely covered in permafrost, a condition where the first 2 feet of the soil’s surface remains in a permanently frozen state. The permafrost, combined with the flatness of the land, results in an abundance of small lakes and ponds since melted snow water cannot permeate the hard, frozen ground. The road is flat, varying between poor and bad surfaces. We aim to do 130 km a day. If we do this, we’ll get 800 km a week done, including a rest day. This target was set down months ago.

Just off the road, at Mile Post 80 (while in America all signpost distances are in miles, though we think of distances in kilometres), we come upon a wide, open, flat space with a number of prefabricated containers. There is no fence or barrier surrounding the containers. Behind the settlement a stream winds its way back towards the north. It’s the first sign of habitation we’ve seen all day.

I cycle in and have a wander around but there doesn’t seem to be anyone here. Behind the main prefab I find a large water tank and fill my water bottle. The group follows me in. The flat cleared ground is ideal for pitching tents and there’s water for washing, cooking and drinking. It’s the perfect place to stop for the night.

As we start to unload our gear, a woman comes out from one of the containers. She doesn’t say anything but looks amazed as she walks towards us, as though she hasn’t seen anyone in years. She peers at me through narrowed eyes.

‘Sorry for taking your water. I wasn’t sure if anyone lived here or not,’ I say. ‘We’re on our way to Argentina.’

‘You’re a long way from home,’ she says, smiling.

She invites us in for dinner and then suggests that, rather than camp out, we can stay in one of her containers. The place we’ve stumbled upon is a geographical survey base. Geographers, scientists and geologists use this location as their base to access even more remote parts of the state by helicopter. We park our bikes, change out of our cycling gear and have a shower in a container that’s been converted into a shower room.

Our hostess is called Luanne and her husband’s name is Ed. He tells us he is a native of an even more remote Alaskan settlement called Kaktovik, in the extreme north of the state. Kaktovik was an early-warning centre, used during the Cold War, and is accessible only by plane.

I keep forgetting we’re so close to Russia. Much farther to the west, the two countries are divided by the Bering Sea and are only 90 km apart at the sea’s narrowest point. The United States purchased Alaska from the Russian Empire for five cents a hectare in 1869, a total of $7.2 million that was viewed by many at the time as being outrageously expensive.

Day 3  We line up for a photo with Ed at Mile Post 80 on the Dalton Highway, Alaska, (l–r): Ed, Ben, Brian McDermott, Alan Gray, Kevin Hillier, Cillian O’Shea and John Garry.

When we arrive for dinner, both Ed and Luanne are quite drunk. Over a meal of beef stroganoff, as he sips a large Scotch, Ed tells us about this region. The area we’re in is called Happy Valley because it’s where a brothel was situated during the construction of the Dalton Highway. We ask Ed about the huge pipeline that we can see from the road most of the time. He says that since the Arctic Ocean in Prudhoe Bay is ice-free for