Time this article was written – 11 am (back in St Lucia on holiday, not even doing what I call work); Units of alcohol this week – 18, well, this is effectively ‘reading week’ in a small all-inclusive hotel; Kilos (with apologies to Bridget Jones) – 88, that’s plus 2 (via three square meals and tea…); Cigarettes – 0, (but then I don’t smoke, not even in the Caribbean); Number of close shaves on the steed – none, blissfully, though there was a wobbly moment on the ancient exercise bike in the hotel gym, a near unintentional dismount; Physical injuries – tingling toes at night, irritated shoulder, rather a lot of clunking in the chronic ankle
There’s a delicious nervousness before any adventure, that mix of apprehension, excitement and the raw expectancy in the body as it strains to get moving; a feeling that is heightened when you have to travel to the start of an event. And so as I guided my massive cardboard bike-box through Gatwick airport I was tingling with expectation, in awe of the sheer busyness of travel and the vast echoing airport building. (A note – it’s not just wheeled bike-boxes make for amusement as they trundle - thunkety-thunk – along tiled airport floors, and if you change course they sound a bit like a mad train crossing some points - thunk-thunkety-tickety-tickety-thunk…). Cardboard bike-boxes can bring pleasure too.
It slid beautifully over the shiny floor; kept moving with a deft shove here and a redirection there, as I steered it through the crowds, by-passing completely that orderly tangle of ‘tensabelts’ (the maze-like, back and forth walk of modern stupidity) and bore down on the man at pre-check in; who looked up, momentarily startled, recovered his composure, stood to attention and waved me through, as if directing a juggernaut, straight to the Outsize Luggage corner. Where I hefted the bike box onto the handsomely large scanner belt.
I was travelling now with only the clothes and equipment that I would cycle in (though I did permit myself one t-shirt to leave in Krakow). It meant I was wearing shorts a black ‘puffa’ jacket, in June. And my cycling shoes, clumpy, with red laces and cleats. Evidently they would go into the box at the scanner - even there they may cause some confusion, as though I was some sort of deviant, with metal clips on my shoes. The thing that wasn’t allowed back into my bag after the security scanner was my chamois cream… Oh, b*ll*cks (so to speak). Should have put it into the bike box.
And then there was the Gatwick airbridge, probably my favourite piece of architecture in any British airport… (well, all right, there isn’t that much to compete with, even if things are improving with the new terminals at Heathrow).
I have always liked Krakow. I wandered across the Vistula to Kazimiersz for breakfast: eggs and type of fried bread, under a parasol, shifting my chair as the sun chased me - I was reading the last of a couple of magazines before throwing them away too. And then I went on the hunt for chamois cream. Not a tube was to be found in any of the four bicycle shops near the city centre. I made a couple of friends though, when they heard what I was about to do. Spain?! How far?! In recognition one bike mechanic cranked up the heavy metal sound-track and went into an air-guitar routine... Not quite my choice in music, but hey, it was a heartfelt gesture. Eventually I tracked down a chemist: Sudocreme would have to do.
That afternoon the organiser of 45 South-West held a briefing, in the courtyard of a café on the south side of the river. There were just 20 of us in all, wheeling our purposeful-looking bicycles. We chatted in that meandering way that competitors-to-be will; for me it was impossible to tell who were the racing snakes and who the more leisurely riders.
Eventually Andy Buch declared himself (was it only me that didn’t know who he was?) He is nonchalant in appearance as well as manner, but he told us what he hoped for the race. Oh, and he mentioned that it was about 75 kilometres longer than he had said, but what’s 75 kilometres to quibble about in an incredibly beautiful and satisfying 3000… ? And he upped the climbing from 47,000 metres… to perhaps… 50,000…? Or was it more…? He couldn’t be sure. It might even be 55,000 metres…
We were expected to know and stick to the rules of the bike-packing game, and he had just one thing to add. Badly maintained brakes were the only reason for disqualification. Not even that, actually; we would be held until we had them repaired. Finally we signed our names on a 45 South-West poster, we were each given a tracker, a cycle cap and bag and some stickers and we went on our way, until 4am the next morning.
As I left, my sense of nervous anticipation ratcheted up yet another level – after months of preparation and training, it was finally happening. That hollow feeling passed through my chest. A shiver. And something near my saliva glands went a bit strange, like on first taste of a sharp vinaigrette. On which, a final meal… That might salve the agitation…
Polish pierogi dumplings, out of focus
I headed for Krakow’s main square. It’s a bit of a tourist trap, obviously, but pleasant enough. I sat and shovelled down some pierogi (they’re Polish dumplings, so some last minute carbo-loading). With the trepidation came brooding contemplation. As a regular traveller, I find that some trips engender a small sense of foreboding, a vague concern that it will all go wrong and I might never return. There is no logic to this (except possibly a little too much time churning), but in the case of 45 South-West perhaps there really was a higher likelihood of it coming true… If exhaustion didn’t cause me to veer across the road and head-butt a lorry, then there was a reasonable chance I would bust my heart while ascending one of the cols.
A ping on my phone cast this this itch of doom into sharper focus: messages from two people, well meant but spookily resonant with these lugubrious feelings. They arrived in the words:
“Good luck. See you on the other side...”
Fine for the youth, for whom the expression has some everyday currency, but in the mind of an agitated old person plagued by feelings of impending mortality, this idea of the ‘other side’ swelled in magnitude until it hovered threateningly above me, like some transcendent border. From beyond which there could be no return…