Clive quit his job as an accountant to fulfil a dream of cycling through Mexico and Central America. Pedalling through impressive scenery he ran out of water, suffered eye injury and had to get the bike fixed after a breakdown.
In the heat of Mexico he frequently needed to stop for refreshment. This created ideal opportunities to chat to local people. He found the charm of Mexicans arresting, and their tales add spice to a colourful portrait of life in Mexico today. He chronicles the build up to a festival in San Cristóbal, where he spent nearly three weeks.
At times Clive had doubts about his ability to carry on. A strand of optimism runs through the narrative, which helps him see problems not as obstacles but as something waiting for a solution. From Mexico he continued cycling through Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica and Panama.
Civil wars made Central America a no-go area for tourists for twenty years. There is eye-arresting poverty seldom seen in Europe. Now it is changing. Clive’s story tells of warm and hospitable people who are happy to talk about their experiences and views of the world. Even the police buck the popular image, as he finally arrived on the banks of the Panama Canal with a police escort, concluding in style a 7,000 kilometre journey through a little known but fascinating part of the world.”
See clive's website www.cliveparker.co.uk
"It is a wonderful read, giving a vivid picture of life in Central American countries. The writing style is crisp and punchy.......the effect is one of great immediacy. Recommended reading for anyone visiting Central America." Anne Mustoe, best selling author of A Bike Ride and other books.
Clive's father's family were descended from Scottsh marauders - the McMavins - who came down to first Guisborough then Ripon. Clive's mother's side hail from Lowestoft, the most easterly town in England. He spent most of his younger years in Harrogate, Yorkshire. More than twenty years ago he moved to Glasgow in the west of Scotland, a city he now regards as home.
Clive has had a bike since he can remember. He also had a yearning for travel since his earliest childhood memory - when he was four he had a family holiday at Ardrossan in Ayrshire, and there was a railway level crossing at the end of the road where he would stand watching the trains roar by, wanting to be on them, wanting to know where they were going.
Clive has little technical knowledge about bikes or cycling, he simply sees a bike as a means to an end. You don't need fancy gear to have a good day out - all you need is the will to do it, and the right attitude.
See more about Clive and his travels on www.cliveparker.co.uk
Pedalling to Panama – Extract from Chapter Nine, an adventure in El Salvador.
The coastal plain of El Salvador is relatively flat. A ribbon of green palm trees and grass, perched between the volcanoes to my left, and the sea to my right. Cattle were grazing as if grass were a delicacy. I covered the first 25 miles in an hour and a half, which seemed to justify my decision to leave late. My target for the night was a dot on the map called Zunzal, about 45 miles away and I felt confident about getting there as I sped along the flat coastal plain.
Flat? Well, as all touring cyclists know, flat terrain never lasts for long. Some cliffs got in the way. Worse, the road makers decided to make a few short cuts by building some tunnels.
Tunnels and cyclists do not go well together. Tunnels are dark, they can be wet, and if there is a bend, you cannot see the other end so they can be a bit disorientating. Another problem is that you’re not always certain whether the tunnel wall is smooth and flat, or has jagged rocks protruding from it. The temptation is to cycle as close to the centre as you dare, to minimise the effect of disorientation and reduce the danger of striking anything.
To add to all this, I was travelling without any lights!
The first tunnel was straight, short, and downhill in my direction of travel. I waited at the entrance for there to be no traffic, then belted through as quickly as I could. I repeated this tactic for tunnels two and three. Then came Tunnel Four. According to the sign at the entrance it was 570 meters long, so I knew it would take several minutes to get through. The chances of there being no traffic in that time were slim. Even writing about it now is making me nervous, such is the fear cyclists have of tunnels.
I was half way through when a lorry entered the tunnel behind me. The roar of the engine and the glare of the main-beam headlights were terrifying. I quickly decided to press myself into the tunnel wall and wait for it to pass. In my haste to reach it I tripped and fell over, dropping the bike on the road. That could be disastrous in darkness as I had no idea if something had fallen off. I panicked as the lorry was bearing down on me. Would he see me? I got up and grabbed the bike, pulling it with me into the tunnel wall. Just in time, the lorry passed me and I was still alive.
The fifth and last tunnel was a breeze in comparison. After passing through, I looked over the bike and saw that one of the panniers was covered in mud. As far as I could see, nothing was missing. I had had a lucky escape and was thankful. Soon after, I collapsed into a cliff-top restaurant with breathtaking views of blue sea, blue sky, white waves, and green coffee plantations. I ordered a beer and a chicken sandwich. I needed some comfort food.