Happy Accidents
Snowflakes start to fall as though they’re a thousand tiny kites catching a breeze.
I enjoyed the theme of this short story. It’s one of the few times I have been tempted to recreate the story in real life. Aside from the character details. The long journey to [fill in the blank] is a theme I might try again… Maybe in book form. If you missed parts one and two, you can read them below. I tried to write all three parts as standalone pieces. But the finale was a little tricky. If you have the time, I’d recommend going from start to finish.
Pedalling to Cologne (Part 1)
A long way to go (Part 2)
I’ve been on the road for a day and a half. My stomach rumbles again, but this time, it isn’t hungry. Why did you eat so much? It asks. That’s what happens when you forget to eat. Your next meal becomes indulgent. I’m uncomfortable on the bike, pedalling slowly. Now and then, a belch works its way up my throat - I feel lighter with every release. The sun isn't pinned to the top of the sky anymore. She’s on her descent, gliding towards the horizon.
I try to conjure up another memory, but nothing comes to mind. I’m locked in the present, watching the scene change from green to grey, then back again. But the further I go, the more grey everything becomes. One minute I’m in a town, and then I’m met with a brief corridor of fields. Before I can gulp fresh air, I’m surrounded by tower blocks and warehouses again. It’s boring. When the Rhein swings into view, I join its side. It’s colder and longer but unquestionably less boring. Two barges make their way along the silver surface, leaving a gentle wake behind them. They are waves that seem like a yawn in the afternoon. Another bike pedals past, heading in the opposite direction. Like every cyclist I’ve seen, this one's kitted out from head to toe. He gives me a tired smile, and I wonder how far he has travelled. How long has he got left? Perhaps he’s on his way back from Cologne, or maybe his route was more audacious than that. My stomach rumbles again, and I think I’m going to throw up. I ate one too many Berliners.
The trees along this stretch of the river are crooked, old and covered in warts. Of course, they aren’t warts. They’re more like scars - signs of a broken branch or two. Some of the trees look like monsters from a storybook. Others look as though they are giant contorted skeletons. The giants of the Rhein... In one swift step, they cross the river, bridging the gap between villages. Maybe they charge for the service - one gold piece per crossing. Or they would never cross; instead, they are its protectors, shielding it from lonesome barges and marching armies. In winter, their branches are as sharp spears, and in summer, they're impenetrable walls. Pick your poison.
“Ralf, Come back!” An elderly woman snatches me from my daydream. A dog is charging a flock of geese. The leash drags behind him, kicking up a trail of dust. The geese take off, and Ralf gives up and barks at the water's edge. Even a dog isn't willing to go in the icy water. I stop, swing my leg over the seat and step down the bank to fetch the excited cocker spaniel. His little legs are caked in mud, and so is the hair dangling from his tail. Once I’m on the path again, the woman's standing by my bike inspecting it.
“Danke,” she meets my eyes as I pass her the muddy leash. “You aren’t biking far on that thing, are you?”
“I have a few kilometres left,” I say and tap the saddle.
“Where have you come from?”
“Haarlem. The Netherlands.”
“Oh,” I can’t tell if she’s impressed or worried. “That’s a long way on a bike like that.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Well, good luck. I hope I don’t see you pushing it home in an hour or two.”
“So do I,” I say and start pedalling again.
The sun is fading quicker than I’d like. The temperature is plummeting - it feels like my wheels might turn into ice and stop spinning when the wind blows off the river. I stop again, this time to fish my lights, scarf and gloves out of my bag. There’s a barge waiting in the river with a window glowing against its black steel body. In the glowing circle, a man pours hot water into a mug. The steam looks as though it’s smoke. I start to pedal again, this time a little harder. There must be a town in the distance, and I want to reach it before the horizon turns from orange to black. I turn back onto the bike path parallel to the dual carriageway. Here, the sound of the wind lapping against the skeleton trees is replaced by whooshing Volkswagens. The lonely light of the barge kitchen window, is exchanged for a river of white headlights.
Snowflakes start to fall as though they’re a thousand tiny kites catching a breeze. I pedal faster, and they appear like stars passing at light speed. But they are neither, I decide. The thought comes to me clearly as a flake finds my eye. Each flake is a soul, falling to the earth for its final rest. Some rush to the ground or are thrown against it by an angry gust. Others seem to fall forever, drifting up and down as though time has no say in their lives. All of them exist in a world of calm and chaos. Almost all of them descend on their unique paths; they twist and turn, leaving fresh prints in the snow. Others come together and fuse. They are rare happy accidents.
Usually, accidents are sad, if not sad - unfortunate. Falling off one's bike is an example. But it’s not 'sad' to fall, it’s uncomfortable, painful even, but 'sad' is a stretch too far. Although I suppose it depends on the context. If you’re racing for a gold medal and fall on the final sprint, that would be pretty sad. Sadness itself is a strange emotion. It’s malleable more than most, say anger or love. It’s hard to feel love towards a stranger, but you can feel sad for someone you’ve never spoken to. Likewise, you rarely get angry about something you have no association with. But you can feel the wobbliness of sadness without context.
A car horn honks, and I flinch, staring my wheels into the muddy grass verge. The front wheel slips left to the right before I pull it back onto the smooth concrete. That was a close one. I really shouldn’t be daydreaming like this. But once you’ve been pedalling for eight hours, it becomes inevitable. Our minds are too curious to look straight ahead for that long. And now it’s dark, the scenery is considerably more boring.
My mind wanders around, looking for something to play with. Then I think of Ralf, or at least his excited tail, long dangling hair and incessant sniffing. We always had a dog in the house when I grew up. They’d cause mayhem, snatching the biscuits from the coffee table and barking nonstop whenever anyone walked past the garden gate. They had more energy than we could keep up with, and if they missed a walk, you’d know about it the following day. I know what’s coming next because I always remember the scene whenever I think about the dogs. It was a dull autumn day, or at least it felt that way. Dad had just got home from a trip, and Mum was cleaning the bathroom, making it smell like vinegar.
“Want to come for a walk,” Dad asks just as much to me as to the dog. Her tail starts to drum against the sofa, and my mind searches for an excuse.
“I’m alright.”
“Oh, come on. You’ve been inside all day.” I peer outside. The rain has stopped, and the footpath is a swamp of orange and brown.
“But I’m tired.”
“Tired of what? Come on, your eyes will go square if you watch the TV all day.”
“But I really can’t be bothered.” His eyes look defeated, a little sad. At least, that’s how I remember it.
“Suit yourself.” He clasps the leash to her collar, and with a swift turn, he’s heading out the door. As soon as he leaves the room, I feel it. It starts in my stomach and then crawls up my chest.
I can feel it now. I'm pedalling faster to feel the ache somewhere else. The real dagger comes when he walks past the window, through the autumn swamp and out of sight. That image will stay with me for the rest of my life. If I want to feel sad, I think of those five steps. Five steps is what it took to walk from the right side of the window to the left. Even then, I never moved.
A snowflake hits my eye again, and for a moment, I can’t see. Three desperate blinks later, and I can see. I’m still upright and pedalling across the concrete. By all accounts, I’m close. Each blue sign I pass says Köln. The kilometres are ticking by: 30, 25, 20. Without an unfortunate slip or a poorly timed snowflake to the eye, I’ll make it. There’s a glow on the horizon, and each time I look ahead, I feel warm. But if I make it tonight, where am I going to sleep? Camping in the city is distinctly different from setting up a tent on the banks of the Waal. I doubt I’d even put it together before a friendly German comes over to tell me to move.
I stop at a junction and cower behind a big oak while I think about my next move. If I go further, I’ll pay a fortune for a hotel. These are the practicalities I hate about spontaneous trips. One minute you’re enjoying yourself, cycling through the frozen air, thinking about memories that deserve their moment in the sun (or snow), and then you’re faced with real-world decisions. I want to turn around and cycle through the night to my bed. But I don’t have it in me - and the ferry would be gone anyway.
My phone is buried at the bottom of my bag - it’s ice cold and won’t turn on. A few minutes under my armpit does the trick, and the screen flashes white. A stream of notifications slides down my screen once I get a signal. Most of them are useless or depressing. There’s a message from my lovely neighbour.
Hey man, I hope you’re making good progress. It is icy here! Hopefully, you’ve managed to stay upright. Sorry to cancel on you at the last minute, but Amy’s got some sickness bug, so we aren’t driving down anymore. If you make it, bring back some sausages! See you when you’re back.
I should be disappointed, but I feel a weight drop off my shoulders once I read it a second time. Now I'm free. I’ve got nowhere to be and no one to meet. Next on the agenda, find a hotel. There’s one half a kilometre away - I slip my phone back into my bag and start pedalling. There’s something about being outside all day (especially in the winter) that makes going inside almost euphoric.
There’s a shower in my room, though it’s a little dated. The glass has a hand mark on it, and there’s mould in the corner. The bathroom steams up instantly, but the hot water is more than euphoric. I think back over my trip with a smile frozen on my lips. I can see the orange brush stroke hanging onto the sky by the Waal and the couple who met me in the morning, wrapped up in their Snoods. I think of the man with the calves, little Ralf and the giant skeleton trees. I think of the girl who never came back and the one I spoke to all night and then abandoned without a word. I think of my Dad taking those five steps from right to left with the dog pulling him forward.
Opposite the king-size bed is a small TV. I turn it on and flick through the German channels. There’s a program about antiques, and I leave it on while I drift off. Maybe tomorrow I’ll make it to Cologne, maybe not. Wherever I end up, I need to remember the sausages.
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Love, Luke