The flash of a bright yellow-orange bird in flight.

Two dogs, glimpsed out of the corner of my eye, wrestling with what appears to be a skinned cow’s head in a ditch.

Groups of men in bright orange Pemex overall brandishing machetes in the fields and roadside verges.

A man standing waiting on the road, beside his truck in the afternoon light, with a handful of tiny bottles of icy cold Corona ready to present to me, efficiently opened with a spanner.

A hawk screaming above me in the sky.

Cows calmly chewing their cud in a bucolic landscape with incongruous industrial outcrops.

Cows in the oil fields.

Sun rising, sun setting, road rolling under the wheels. Sun high above, fierce, raw heat, a force to struggle against.

Cars and trucks pass, honking and whistling.

My eyes are constantly on the lookout for roadside vendors selling fresh fruit, juice, ice concoctions, green coconuts.

In the morning, early, a group of school girls scattered across the road, knee high white socks, pink skirts, white short sleeve blouses, hair pulled back, looking improbably fresh and clean, having emerged from rough huts of tin and wood set in packed dirt yards, in all probability with packed dirt floors. Signs in most remote villages proclaiming the government’s intention to eradicate dirt floors are a sure indication of their existence.

A lovingly detailed cattle race.

Vultures wheeling and flapping through clouds of fetid smoke rising from piles of burning rubbish by the side of the road.

Smoking rubbish dump.

So I wonder why I only wish to record the pleasing and the beautiful here – days spent slogging through 40 degree heat on unappealing blacktop don’t, generally, make the blog.

This stretch of road provokes something of an existential crisis in me.

Or the bug bite episode – which resulted in hundreds of inflamed red engorged welts, swollen legs and puffy ankles – the phenomenon entertained me for three solid days, or at least had my pretty much undivided attention.

The aftermath of a vicious insect attack.

Or the cheapest hotel room in the cheapest hotel in Coatzacoalcas, a windowless concrete box, not wholly unattractive by undeniably sordid, cockroaches the size of mice manically circling the floor. The bathroom spotty with mildew, toilet lacking a seat and backing up threateningly.

However, on the plus side, a high ceiling and a fan that works sufficiently well to circulate air. The bed is large, appears clean (although I choose to sleep on my silk sleeping bag liner) and the mattress passably comfortable. Wide double doors allow me to bring my bike inside the room.

The place in full of Mexican men hanging about in the hallways and the foyer, flaccid bellies displayed under grubby white singlets. A man at the drinking water supply literally jumps when I walk past, emerging from the dark damp courtyard.

The better rooms are, no doubt, all upstairs but I am glad I don’t have to ascend them to run whatever kind of gauntlet of stares might greet me up there. I don’t think Coatzacoatcas, an unattractive oil refinery town, sees a lot of foreign tourists and those that do somehow make their way here probably don’t end up staying at this particular establishment.

I sit in the foyer with my computer, under a TV showing some strange game show that seems to contain elements of “This is Your Life!” “Wheel of Fortune” and a sad talent quest although it is possible the guy at reception is channel surfing and I am simply not paying enough attention to notice. However, we sit a while companionably – the man watching TV, while I waste time on the internet – both of us slapping at the odd opportunistic mosquito circling the foyer, before I return to the dark damp room under the stairs.

On the road, I have stopped greeting men. I still smile and wave at women and children but I ride past men, especially groups of them, as though they weren’t even there. And if a car pulls up alongside and the occupants try to initiate a conversation in English – “Lady, where are you going?” – I look at them blankly and apologise. I explain, in Spanish, that since I am Polish I have no idea of what they are trying to communicate. Few seem to the have the desire to persist with the conversation in broken Spanish.

As soon as I stop, insects start, instantly, to feast on my bare legs. It is hard to concentrate but the questions are not challenging – they are the same ones that I am asked every day: How far? How long? Why? Where from? Where to? There is nothing new here. I answer as best I can while slapping at my legs. The three men also flap at the blood suckers but they have far less exposed skin.

It is rapidly getting darker and I try to escape but the men are reluctant to let me go. I write the interviewer’s notes for him in his notebook while the guy with the camera circles my bike uncertainly in the gathering gloom. The interview ends with a brief comparative analysis of violence in Mexico and Brazil based on nothing other than my personal impressions. They question my about my age but I unrelenting on this matter and leave them guessing.

Once this impromptu interview is terminated, I continue to ride in the damp grey evening. Stealth camping opportunities are thin in this area and I stop to ask a group of woman sitting at tables in a thatched shelter set in an expansive lawn if I could use a patch of it for my tent. One woman wanders towards me, resolves exactly what my intentions are, and then goes seek higher approval. Approval is not, however, forthcoming and I find myself on the road again – hopes for any extra comforts for the night dashed – but I haven’t ridden far before I spy a track leading to the left past a stand of trees that promises a little shelter and so I turn into the gloomy forest.

The blood suckers are waiting for me here, too, and attack again while I struggle to put up my tent as quickly as I can. The zip of my tent, which have been unreliable for some time, chooses this moment to fail completely and I spend at least 15 minutes trying to get the structure sealed.

A looming rig on the narrow, shoulderless, road.

We contemplate the map, fruitlessly searching for an alternative route.

A potential contest between bike and truck is hopelessly unequal.

We spy a roadside cafe in the distance and retreat indoors to gather courage.

Trucks rule here, too.

The chicken pen is dwarfed by another giant rig.

Even indoors the respite is only partial. Trucks feature here, too.

Fortified by burritos, we venture outside again to take on the behemoths. We ride only a short way down the road before Oscar, our friend from the border appears. He has passed by the immigration office in Janos on his way home, only to be reminded that tomorrow is a fiesta, followed by the weekend. This means that we would spend three days illegally in Mexico, since our entrance still hasn’t been officially registered, and so he offers to drive us back to the border, with our bikes, to process our papers and then drop us back on the highway. Eventually it is agreed that Jeff and Cass will accompany Oscar back to the border post with our passports while Jason and I wait on the highway minding the bikes, chatting and admiring the sky.

After an hour or so Jeff and Cass return with our passports in order with a generous allowance of 180 days to spend in Mexico. We ride on and as dusk falls we spot a gate that we can wiggle under with our bikes and head into the scrub to make camp and watch our first Mexican sunset.

Mexican sunset...

... over the mountains.

Jeff in his mosquito net cocoon at dawn.

Californian coast; sunshine and pampas grass.

However, my relentless advance doesn’t stop me having a number of adventures.

I am rescued from the streets of Arcata at dusk by a cyclist who invites me to spend the night at his house, after I query him about camping options in the area.  A range of treats – a hot shower, clean clothes, laundry facilities, pasta, red wine, rhubarb and strawberry pie, and, most of all, congenial company and intriguing conversation -  almost tempt me to stay another night in Arcata. Two book shops further slow my escape and it is two o’clock in the afternoon on the following day before I get back on the highway.

Next, I get lost; first of all in Ferndale, a town which is, itself, lost somewhere in time.

Ferndale feels a bit like a movie set- The Truman Show, perhaps? - but apparently all the people are real.

Or maybe Edward Scissorhands...?

In Ferndale, again, I find myself treated to unexpected hospitality for a night before getting lost on the ‘lost coast’ of northern California – a section of coastal road that the sensible avoid because of its brutal gradients.

Bill, and his wife, invite me for dinner and give me a bed for the night.

Bill, a keen cyclist himself, does his best to dissuade me from attempting to cycle the 'lost coast.'

Bill and Cheryle's house in Ferndale.

Luckily, travelling south, I descend, rather than ascend, The Wall – a one mile hill with gradients of 18 – 22 %. However, there are certainly also climbs in the opposite direction. I find myself topping the final hill on dusk, descending it in the dark with a malfunctioning headlight, completely missing the Sate park campsite in the redwoods and finally finding a place to bed down under a freeway bridge at 9.30pm.

Lost highway.

Horses...

...donkeys...

...and dummies.

The last three days of cycling into San Francisco are a blur of cute coastal towns, separated by stretches of steep, winding road carved into rocky cliffs high above the ocean.

I hear persistent barking ahead. I look up and see a black and white dog running apace with a car travelling towards me, lunging and snapping at the wheels. The driver appears nonplussed, driving slowly, to avoid hurting the animal, and somewhat erratically, stopping and starting unpredictably.

I continue, hoping that the dog is sufficiently engaged to ignore my existence. However, when I draw closer the dog’s attention shifts towards me and it pauses, clearly torn in its impulses. The dog’s momentary hesitation gives the car driver the opportunity she has been waiting for to speed away leaving the dog with a sole focus – me.

The dog starts forward but it is momentarily impeded by another passing car. When the coast clears, it rushes towards me again but, as I brace for a confrontation, like an angel descending from heaven, a Fed-Ex van materialises. The driver winds down the window, whistles to attract the dog’s attention, throws a dog biscuit from the vehicle and, as suddenly as he appeared, disappears.

I wave a hurried thanks in the direction of my vanished guardian angel and make good my escape.

Washington disappears under my wheels quickly, leaving me with only a series of flickering hazy images of impoverished hamlets – small groups of houses in various states of dilapidation, surrounded by pick up trucks and rusting car bodies. After 80 miles, late in the afternoon I come to a pleasant county campground where the park guy lets me camp for free on seeing my face fall when he tells me that the fee is $15. He makes me promise not to tell anyone so I’m not going tell you exactly where it is. I watch the sun set into the sea which is still a novelty for an east coast girl like me. The light reflected off the water paints everything a ruddy gold.

Golden light.

A peaceful campground in the evening light. Kids are back in school this week and so the place is almost deserted.

The next day I set off early, again with the sole aim of covering ground. The sun is still smiling on me but the wind picks up as I approach Astoria. I am battling around the bay, against a stiff offshore wind, when I see the Astoria Bridge which will take me across the state line to Oregon looming ahead. It seems endless.

The bridge is not, in fact, endless but it is over four miles long and it runs across the bay so that when I swing onto it the wind is now blowing from the side. Apparently, this bridge was built to withstand 150 mile-an-hour wind gusts. I have no idea how many miles-an-hours the gusts buffeting me backwards and forwards across the road are but the experience certainly amounts to the most terrifying that I have undergone on this trip. Trucks and cars whizz by me, sharing a single narrow lane, as I struggle to maintain control of my bike. By the time I reach the other side I am totally exhausted and I retire to a cafe to soothe myself with a dose of internet and a cool drink.

The Astoria-Megler Bridge is certainly a handsome one. For the technically inclined, it is, apparently, the longest continuous truss bridge in the US. Crossing it in a vicious cross-wind is absolutely terrifying.

An almost endless bridge.

When I have recovered it is almost 5.30 and I set off to find a somewhere for the night. Ambitiously, I decide to aim for a campground some 30 miles south of Astoria but, unsurprisingly, I find myself riding in the dark long before I get there.

It is immediately apparent that the character of the Oregon coast is totally different to that of the Washington coast. The road is lined with discreet, but obviously vastly expensive, architect designed timber houses weathered to tasteful silver-grey. They are set well off the highway behind high secure fences, nestled amongst the trees. The possibility of finding a quiet, unguarded, corner appears slim. However, the wisdom of continuing to ride in the dark in heavy traffic on Highway 101 is extremely doubtful.

Just when I am beginning to get desperate, I see a car park to the side of the road. I pull in and find a small park, with picnic tables and outhouses, overlooking the sea.  A path leads down the cliff to the beach. The evening is unseasonably hot and so the car park is still quite full and a large group of young people are on the beach, standing around a bonfire. I ponder the possibilities.

A west coast sunset is still a novelty for me.

After hanging around the picnic area for some time, snacking on various items from my pannier, the crowd thins out. Soon there is only one car left and I push my bike toward the beach access path. I scout around looking for a place where I am unlikely to be disturbed or bothered during the night and eventually decide that the beach is the best bet. I push the bike awkwardly down the steps of the access path and onto the large round pebbles that line the beach above the sand.

At the end of the beach I set up a bed on the sand, with my bear spray and flash-light to close to hand, and curl up in my nest. I wake periodically in the night and each time I am aware of the stars swinging across the heavens above me.