What are the principle ideas that define the long-distance bike ride. For me, as suggested previously, this is as much an exploration of the experience as it is the transient features of the road. What is ‘being-on-a-bike’ as opposed to simply ‘riding a bike’? What does freedom signify? What are the moments of heaviest personal responsibility? How does long hours of solitude affect your perspective on fleeting connections with ‘others’?
The first question doesnt even involve the bike itself. Necessarily, the day commences with the dismantling of the tent. As I’ve said before, Im a reluctant camper. I like my creature comforts just as much as the next person. Of course, it gives you the freedom to move. However, it’s also a tiny space where you might spend as much as 12 hours a day and as a claustrophobic, both in terms of spaces and routines, my relationship with my tent is highly ambivalent.
And so to the thing itself. A one-man version is more like a coffin than a ‘home’, particularly in hot climates. So I bought the two-man, despite the load implications, and am very satisfied with the choice so far, all considered. Indeed, you need the additional space for clothes and valuables, if not a partner. Naturally, sleep is imperative, no matter what your circumstances. This is only emphasised when it concerns day-long pedalling and physical effort. First then, I have a mattress to insulate me from the cold floor. I inflate it manually, though this is becoming increasingly uncomfortable given the state of my dried, cracked and even stung lips. I go to bed, and my lower lip is literally throbbing with soreness and a petulant resentment. So much so that it will wake me up in the middle of the night to remind me of my neglect. Second is the sleeping bag. I started my journey in early autumn and it soon became clear that my summer variant wasnt up to the job, no matter the number of layers, and that could even include my fleece ie. I’d be wearing it 24 hours a day. Yuck!! However, the bag has to be retained given that Im travelling south. Indeed, according to Gemini AI, I only have to ride approximately 20km a day to keep up with the autumn suns ‘descent’ towards the equator. Nonetheless, I had to buy a second winter bag to see me through to warmer climes. This can make the bike appear somewhat overloaded, but the additional weight is minimal. According to the airport scales, Im carrying around 30kg. This is well-within the capabilities of the bike (up to 160kg+ including the ride) and doesn’t affect the handling in any way. Its not a F1 car afterall. I also carry a silk inner to protect the bag and provide a little extra insulation. Come Africa, it may be all I need. I also wear leggings and bed socks (courtesy of Turkish Airlines) for obvious reasons.
In the north, the autumn mornings are nothing less than an affront. Its damp, misty and invarably cold. Your sleep has been fitful at best, but finally, you’re comfortable just as the 07.15 alarm goes off. There is nothing stopping you turning over, not least, when your body cramps with fatigue. Do you have the ‘will’ to rise? Not right now tbh. But after 15-20 minutes, I sit up and acknowledge the feeling and my just irritation. I remain in the bag in quiet defiance and put on my fleece, assuming I actually took it off. Next, I reach for my bag of bags. I drag myself out of the inner lining and stuff it. Then, I slip out of the sleeping bag itself and put on my bike shorts. They’ll be cold. I feel the cold and acknowledge a stream of negative thoughts about the entire ‘escapade’. Why exactly am I putting myself through this? I stuff the sleeping bag and the inflatable pillow before peering out and leaving the tent. I balance my stuffed stuff sacks on the bike in a vain attempt to keep these items dry and clean before dismantling the tent for the umpteenth time. I uproot the tent pegs and scrape off the excess soil. I then remove the permanently damp outer sheet and stuff it. I unclip the inner net, dismantle the frame and stuff both. The inner stains easily and is becoming increasingly grubby. It will need to be cleaned sooner rather than later. Finally, the ground mat. Its filthy, but that its job. It can also get stuffed. Indeed, the entire day is topped and tailed by bag stuffing-unstuffing, made more awkward as a consequence of small bags and cold hands. These bags are themselves, stuffed into the panniers and strapped together on the frame. At the very least, Im awake and warmed up by the time Im ready to mount and depart.
My efforts are improving with routine, but the process still takes up to an hour to complete, and Im still not convinced by the load and its organisation. My bulky waterproof sacks, in particular, are under very close scrutiny now that the weather is markedly improving. As is the precise contents of my washbag. I also regret bringing my computer, which is all but redundant. There’s the excuse for making and editing videos, I guess.
Even here, the autumn sun is weak, most certainly in the morning and the wind chills to the bone. I put on my windcheater if I havent already done so, check the next waypoint on the digital map and seek out South on the compass. I do one final check of the space to ensure nothing is left behind and once my paranoid self is somewhat satisified, my conscientious self will push off with a final check of the framebag to ensure I have my phone + wallet at the very least. The paranoid has the last word and is still bitter about losing his favourite pair of woollen socks.
There’s no great thought or contemplation involved, no yoga, no morning mediation, nor gratitude pray. It’s all about action, getting from bag to saddle in the quickest way possible. From the bag to the very first turn of the crank, the legs resist with stiffness and fatigue. Their memory is acute, and they won’t suffer excessive abuse. Rather, they need to be eased into the day gently. Boredom and negative thinking are also part of the process. Like teaching however, the thing about being-on-a-bike is that it demands your immediate attention, at least on the road ahead if not your breathing, your movement, and your sympathy with the machine.
I will eat a couple of dried figs to line the stomach, but other than that, I like to get an hour of cycling in before breakfast, normally a slice of pizza and a coffee. I havent gone to all this trouble to immediately sit down in a café. As youd except, the evenings are more or less the reverse but for the lottery that is the next campsite . Yesterday (10.10) for example, I entered Valance early and decided to have a leisurely lunch in the sun and a coffee, confident in the knowledge of at least two campsites just south of town. Despite the good weather, however, both were closed for the season. I headed inland for the next convenient though remote location, arriving at around 4.30pm. The gates were open, but all the doors in the compound were locked. The place was furnished but windswept, like a plague had just passed through. It was also deserted bar a mother playing with her child. Both ignored me, like I didn’t even exist. The mother had a Shelley Long (‘The Shining’) look about her, while the only noises to be heard were the child’s yelps accompanied by the creaking of the swing. Put that to the right music, and your nightmare is complete. I wasn’t hanging here for another 3 hours waiting for the darkness, and I sure as hell wasn’t hanging around beyond that. The strange thing was that the escape route was all downhill, and I dont recall any significant climb. Perhaps the whole thing was a figment of an over-stimulated imagination.
No matter, I covered the 15km to the next site in a hurry. Only this time, I found a series of tired, now permanent mobile homes on the grounds of a farmhouse. Like redecorating a dead Xmas tree. Once again, there was no one of authority around, and besides, this location had a distinct ‘Hills have Eyes’ vibe about it. There were even ‘Interdit Camping Sauvage’ signs. But just as the anxiety began to rise in direct reciprocity to the sun, another sign. In my increasing haste to find a safe and non-creepy location to sleep, I had got to within 6km of Montelimar, and in keeping with a contrarian day, it’s not on a mountain. I recharged the phone enough to squeeze an Ibis reservation out of it and arrived at sunset. I must have covered nearly 100km wind-assisted.
And the final hurdle. There was no washing machine, but no worries to stain the evening either. I stood under the shower fully clothed, including the windcheater. With everything soaked, I disrobed and poured travel soap over the bundle and watched with satisfaction, as the dirt and sweat poured out with each dancing step. Once the brown water turns clean, you wring out them out and repeat inside a swinging towel ala. Beyonce (the Cowgirl album). Virtually dry by the morning. My clothes that is, not Beyonce.
In sum, I can’t explain the journey. The reasons for ‘doing’ aren’t always rational or clear cut. It’s more of a feeling or an instinct, like birds flying south. What I can do, though, is describe it to the best of my ability.
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