Loretta Henderson Bio: What started as going from Alaska to England to buy a bicycle has gotten out of hand for Loretta Henderson. 5 dozen countries and 5 continents later, Loretta is a solo female storyteller with a penchant for finding the hilarity in the mundane. Loretta will knock you senseless with her wisdom and wit as she perches high on Pandemic The Magic Bicycle’s seat and pedals around the world. The WOW (women on wheels) Wall is a collection of photos, books and blogs celebrating solo female bicycle touring at skalatitude.com. She continues to lead the women’s adventure travel industry with her budget tips and magic tricks; hopes to seduce Elmer Fudd and publish her next book and share her stories on a podcast. Get in touch through solofemalecyclist@linkedin, solofemalecylist@instagram, skalatitude@gmail.com
Book Excerpt:————————————————
Chapter 1
“Crazy Wolf Eat Lady Face”, a nomad, a retired tourist horse guide says. The man has trotted his horse to my bike near the dusty village store whose scarce supply shelves I have emptied. He introduces himself as Tschon. The first thing I notice isn’t Tschon’s beautiful long red traditional jacket or his prize worthy black horse. What I notice is… that actually, he is kind of hot, a sexy stallion of sorts—thick black hair, tall, smiling, muscular, outdoorsy. I am trying not to flirt, but I can’t help it. I smile at him as I pack a half dozen instant noodle packages neatly into the basement corners of my bags. The bags are firmly latched to my bicycles (WHAT, the bicycles what?). Snickers chocolate bars dangle from my pockets. Tethered water bottles topple off the back rack. I am planning on heading through the grove of trees onto the horse road, a thin black line on my map that will take me east to Lake Baigel, an enormous spring fed blue circular pool that crosses from Russian into Mongolia, and occupies the entire center of my map.
“Crazy wolf eat lady face…there,” Tschon says. The guide motions towards the shaded pine and larch forest corridor where I am headed. Mongolian nomads are unbelievably charming. Inventors of camping, and equestrian lifestyle experts; they wear their culture’s hospitality like a smile.
Salty bowls of yack butter tea, best enjoyed when thought of as soup, are offered altruistically. Sleeping in my tent when tired next to any yurt home one passes makes for easy camping. Everything on the nomad’s person is their home, and like the offer of simple cup of yak tea, best enjoyed when thought of as soup, this supportive man be- gifts me by offering me his furry sheep skin vest. Cold temperatures threaten to freeze my wheels, and I have been hoping for days that the season’s first snow is delayed.
Even so, I cannot take the jacket off his warm sub-arctic back. I am, however, curious about the wolf.
“Did someone have a problem with wolves here”? I ask, wondering if there is a real concern over a rabid wolf, or if this is a subtle joke of sorts.
“Crazy wolf eat lady face.” I must still look confused and way too amused, because he indicates that I should wait, then walks in the store and returns with the shop keeper to further explain. I read somewhere that in 1200AD Mongolia, prior to Ghingas Khan’s rule of the region and the Turk tribes, Mongolian inhabitants believed that they were children of the wolf mother. They believe themselves to be direct descendants of a boy who was left for dead, and later raised by a wolf mother, and who still later mated with her. Could this joke be part of some incestuous cultural folklore? I smirk to myself and wait. The shopkeeper, also a tall Mongolian man, but at least ten years older and almost as cute comes out. He looks at me, trying to be serious.
“Crazy wolf eat lady face,” he says. I look up at him, grinning. He does not look amused. A few seconds later, the five words finally sink in. I understand completely, without further explanation that perhaps
there is a slight risk I will be left alone and possibly without a face very soon. I nod at the shopkeeper. Silently, I pray. Dear Universe, Please take care of my face. Me and my man hands wish to not meet any wolves. Thank you, Universe.
Late autumn leaves of the forest canopy open to reveal a dried riverbed of shale mud and rock ice. I follow the trail, that should cross back west to Lake Baigel, a route that is scarcely inhabited by humans. Pandemic, my Magic bicycle, bounces along the trail. She is spry. I too am excited about trail riding. After weeks of sand and dirt, the heavily forested Khovsgol aimags region is a welcome surprise. I am pedaling along listening to Arlo Guthrie blue grass music on my mp3 player. A man on an auburn brown and cream spotted horse—a tall beast of ample proportions, built for forested trail riding—trots up next to me. I look up.
“Sain baina uu,” I say. Then, my eyes focus. I immediately look away, blush and start to giggle.
Did I just see that? I think to myself. I glance back up. Sure enough, there is a masturbating nomad on a horse trotting along beside me, acting as if masturbating on a horse is completely normal behavior. Laughter busts out of me. In plain English, I say. “No thanks man, I am all set. Please put that thing away.” I skedaddle like a mosquito in the wind and pedal off fiercely, gripping the handle bars with my tiny, never manicured, rarely scrubbed, often scratched, always strong hands. I pedal away grateful to still have my now blushing face. Seriously, has this particular courting technique ever actually worked for this hard up horseman this far North in the forested area of Mongolia?
Has it ever happened in the history of tourism that a woman on a bicycle has dropped her drawers and got busy right there on the side of the trail with a masturbating nomad? Adventure tourism is big these days but that’s pushing it just a little, I think to myself, as profanities reverberate through my thoroughly disenchanted mind. I vow to steer clear of rogue masturbating nomadic horseman and/or crazy face eating wolves as I make my way down the horse road. Into the woods, I venture on the trail that should lead to the giant lake near the Russian/Mongolian border after two days of travel
“ North. West. South. East, Protects all sides. Cast a circle of light around my space,” I mutter into the night sky. Yeah that might work, I think to myself. The wolves continue to howl like a canine choir practicing for a big show. I cannot see their bodies or musical throats. It is too dark. Still, I can feel their faceless presences pitter-pattering in the forested shadows of the nearby hills. Their calls get closer.
“North, West. South. East. Protects all Sides. Cast a circle of light around my space,” I recite again. Yeah, yeah, yeah, good idea. Those yoga and meditation workshops I took back in Alaska did say that ought ‘a work, I think to myself. When all else fails cast a circle. Who the hell am I, the wicked witch all of a sudden.
Focus, focus, focus, manifest, manifest, manifest. As far as spirituality goes, I have always considered myself a spiritual casserole, a delightful mixed salad of many beliefs. I do believe in a higher power, and I trust in that higher power to guide me in my journey and I see it and feel it in nature. It is the power that we all can tap into through our instincts as human beings, whether it is coming from my guides, my mom and grandma who have passed, the universe….in general is irrelevant…but I do not question that it is what keeps me safe. The wolves continue to howl. F**k it, this ain’t working, Ah, f**ckity shi*t sh*t I think to myself. “Fire, that’s right, wolves hate fire,” I say out loud to myself, as I scurry around inside my tent. The darkness of the crescent moon night outside the frosted walls complicates things considerably. I fumble around in the cold, searching for my flashlight. Eventually, I find it and my warm camel fur headband and crawl out the tent door to go find something flammable. Old lightning storms have shattered some nearby larch and pine trees. Huge dried branches lie on the upper river bank. With my flash light in hand, I walk the short path up the stone banks. I begin dragging entire logs back down to the dried river bed. From my pocket, I take out my lighter and small knife. Unable to cut the logs into small burnable pieces, I ignite the leaves of their long dangling branches.
Crazy wolf eat lady face. The 5 words sting. The intensity of the barking chorus echoes through the surrounding hills. My clothes absorb the thick cloud of smoke. My eyes redden and begin to water. Suddenly, I am extra wide awake and feeling very industrious. I build a four story skyscraper fire, as the wolves keep up their hollering.
With the high rise of all fire construction firmly blazing outside, I crawl back through the near melting door flap into my tent. I drift off to sleep inside my sleeping bag somewhere between the Russian/Mongolian border and Lake Baigel; awaiting the rising sun and the possibilities of being cold, lost and alone for another day.
The frayed wool flap door of the yurt swings open into the fierce winds north of Moron, Mongolia (pronounced Muron but saying Moron works as well). A woman named Baigel nods at me. Her beautifully sculpted sun tanned face beams. Her thick long black hair is pulled back into a pony tail and secured with a neon pink hair tie. I am glad I found company and pitched my tent next to her families ger, (yurt), after she invited me and Pandemic to stay at her compound. I beam up at her. Pandemic and I are extremely grateful for the hospitality intrinsic to these nomad’s way of life, a country wide generosity which offers everyone, without question, shelter from the cold. This allows for horse and magic bicycle travel over great distances without a lot of supplies.
“Sain baina uu (Hello in Mongolian),” I say, and then turn back to the wheel I am truing, which has been turned into a conical mess due to the labyrinth trail known as central Mongolia’s main road. Pandemic and I are relieved Baigel is staring towards my bicycle wheel, but not really seeing it. I tighten the straps of my bicycle bag, amazed that the riveted terrain has not demolished my meager belongings.
“Mom sick, must see shaman,” Baigel says. I look at Baigel. She is wearing a flowing paisley patterned tergeg (traditional jacket) over modern jeans. She lobs an oversized cloth satchel over her shoulder. She paces the coarse sand in black faux leather slip on shoes. Baigel continues pacing the brown yard for her mother. I myself am a champion pacer. As a child my mom used to threaten to put bubble gum on my bum if I did not sit still. So Baigel’s quick steps capture my attention.
“Mom sick, must see shaman,” Baigel repeats. She glances at me, and then shuffles by. I later learn that Baigal is a natural herder, who loves to invite people to travel through the North to the Lake Baigel region to visit the Tengeric shaman. She assumes, correctly, that a strange nomadic sister of sorts, will understand and accept her invitation. She paces faster, and then stops. The sun had faded and I can see her tear stained cheeks, her puffy eyes. “Mom sick, must see shaman” Goose bumps rise on my arms, and I look into Baigel’s eyes and nod. I have been where she is. I lost my own mother to cancer when I was just 30 years old. I recognize her grief like a long lost friend.
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