Cycling to Kenya. Part 3. A Motorway Barrier in Belguim.

Under cold skies an early light crept through still forests and frozen fields; I unzipped the tent and popped my head out to see the day, white breath poured from a yawn. Silvery mist lay on rolling frozen hills and down in the frost I crouched over a coffee. I chewed on jam and stiff bread and packed camp up clumsily, and then pedaled on. Rabbits disappeared into holes, deer's hopped into the fog and pheasants burst from hedge rows as I rolled by.

My first ever week on the road passed through the Ardennes and in the long days on the bike moments and moods could swing like a pendulum. From howling down silent hills on fresh mornings and loving the unplanned life of the road, to an ambush of spiraling sulks conjured by solo and tiresome travel.

Mornings moved under peaceful woods, a lifting sun stabbed between trunks to the road and I flicked  in and out of blinding-warm yellow slants. The sharp air thawed any drowsiness and widened my eye lids alive on the long down hills and at last I felt the intense freedom of the long road.

In a free life of travel I escaped the swamp of structure and the money chase of home, but with it shed the warm layers of home comforts I was used to and at first it was harsh to adjust.
Moody worries would creep in as the day wore on and my les grew weak: where will I sleep tonight? What's for dinner? Another pile of noodles obviously, and then back in the tiny tent for another chilly night.
The positives in this self-posed life were hard to see and sometimes seemingly non existent, and the mountain of miles and strange sleeps ahead of me was beginning to feel horribly real.
And something else grew unavoidably clear; I didn't like cycling very much.

*

I began in a nice boring Belgium and Bastogne was on road signs, a little town on the verge of Luxembourg. I pedaled proud of the little progress I had made: first country successfully crossed and ticked off, a pen line wiggled an inch across the map of Europe.

On this tired-dopey afternoon however, I took a double look up from the handle bars to see the road had gained in lanes and in a blink Allen's wheels were juddering down the hard shoulder of a highway. Cars ripped past with a long beep that neared and burst by like a massive bee and after a while of manic cycling and swearing in search of a turning back into the fields, the hard shoulder disappeared into the grass banks and I pulled Allen over the motorway barrier to escape.

Swampy grass was getting me annoyed and flushed, pushing Allen through bushes like huge knotted nests and stepping through ankle deep mud that plucked the shoes off my feet. A motorway sign above read 'Bastogne 20km' and I sat on the road barrier mud streaked and red-cheeked looking a sorry sight.

Cars soared behind me at dispiriting pace. I turned to Allen looking forlorn all muddy and clogged with sticks and in that sad little moment sat there, I really asked: What. Am. I. Doing? Dragging a bike down the side of a Belgium motorway was far from the heroic adventure I had dreamed of during the late shifts. Kenya was thousands of miles away and hope for the whole dusty idea was settling and shaping into ridiculousness.

I arrived in Bastogne quite depressed, my shoes squelched to a wicker chair outside a Frenchie type bar, people stared at me like I'd just climbed out of the drain. I took a beer and had a quiet little chat with myself. All that blabbing to friends in the pub about crossing continents on a bicycle - I'd barely made it across Belgium and I was broken.

*

On a pink clouded evening I wheeled through the gate of a public park on the outskirts of Munich. Freak energy had dared me to make a dash for the city and a bed, but I aborted the plan on better judgment and now rolled the dimming suburbs stuck for a sleep. So I chose my bush and pitched the tent within; just a stray corner of canvas poked out. Risky. But feeling lucky and lazy, I chained Allen to a tent leg and flopped to the grass.

The pot boiled and I pulled out the maps. My sloppy easterly trail wiggled up and down from Belgium to France, across Luxembourg and into Germany, from the coast to the page edge. I flicked it over: Germany, Austria, Slovakia, spread across the shiny map. Fantasy roads I had yet only dared to glance at and it scarred the map with proof that all those unbelieving little pedals was actually working.

Every night at camp I drew another tiny half-inch of progress on the map and it was depressing to watch. Days in the saddle stretched like they had extra hours squeezed into them and they ended only when I found a safe camp and fell into the mending bliss of well earned sleep. And how many more long days like that to come? Endless, it seemed.

But, I knew I wasn't going to give up and every morning, every night, every meal, every mile, my head simmered with a strange soup of worries for the long road I knew I would chase until something stopped me. And after many long sulking days, I learnt, that if I was to ever going to reach the end, I had to stop thinking about the end.

I folded out the big map: Istanbul and the edge of the Europe still looked far in miles and months, but the River Danube, that wound its way across the continent to the Black Sea, lay not too far away.
So I chose to find it and follow it, and as I rode in search of the Danube and nothing more, the sea of choppy waves in my gut seemed to calm.

*

Rain poured on fern topped hills for days on end. Cycle paths were lush green and puddle potted and I took the excuse to spend a Euro in cozy little cafes rather than shivering under a tree for an hour.
When night came I looked to river banks or followed faint tracks out of town, choosing camping spots with more nerve. In the tent wet socks were peeled off wrinkly feet and replaced with a precious woolly pair, a favorite daily ritual, and with an arm sticking through the door of the tent I stirred the noodles and lay on an elbow like a Roman and ate dinner.

Wild yellow flames spewed from the stove and coated the pot and everything with a black pasty soot and gradually after weeks without washing I managed to smear it all over my face, yet only noticed when I caught my reflection in a supermarket fridge-mirror.
Looking like a hobo chimney sweep was part of life, but the problem with the unruly stove was the fumy flavor in gave to the cooking water, making the final climb of the day a mountain of diesel tainted noodles. Then I dropped to sleep with a snap, a little more content, I'd made it another day.

Another calm morning began; lovely woolly socks replaced with yesterdays wet stinkers.
I climbed out on wrecked legs huffing lots of old-man noises and fought back into damp pants already ripped at the ankle. Frosty tent rolled and packed quickly with shy finger tips and everything in life was strapped back to Allen with practice. I breathed in the crisp clear air and pushed back to the road with a backwards look to that little corner I slept for a night, spots unknown and insignificant to anyone but me.

Late in a grey afternoon I zipped along wet roads and onto a metal bridge. A sign read 'DONAU', marking the wide flat water below. I had found my river.
I stood up in the saddle and whooped in hope for the road, pedaling until my thighs burnt and blowing life into an ember that had smoldered unsurely since leaving home. And as I chased the grey snaking water into Austria, for the first time, I was sure this life on a bike was worth living.


Too often men trip by being in a rush. If one were properly to perform a difficult and subtle act, he should first inspect the end to be achieved and then, once he had accepted the end as desirable, he should forget it completely and concentrate solely on the means. By this method he would not be moved to false action by anxiety or hurry or fear.

John Steinbeck.



The first month or so cycle in West Europe was the hardest thing I've ever done - A bigger challenge to me than crossing the Sahara.
The dread of how far I had to go was almost nauseating and that alone made me want to give up before I had even started.
But, I very slowly learned to rely on time passing and to use it well rather than spending it worrying about the future.
Sleeping in a storm in a collapsing tent was a long night. But, the morning came, of course, and with a sweet golden sunrise. And I dried off and warmed up and I knew that something good would come soon. The bad times are just a moment that will pass. As are the good times, so enjoy them.