Pedalling to Cologne
Cologne. I’ve never been, but it sounds like a plan.
A couple of weeks ago I lost my notebook. It shouldn’t be a big deal; it’s worthless. But every now and then I find myself missing it. There are thoughts in there I’ll never remember. All bad things have a silver lining and I guess this short story is just that.
I lost my notebook yesterday. It was cheap; easily replaceable. But when it comes to notebooks, it’s not the book that’s of any value. It’s the words written inside. Some words are light enough to float off the page and into a breeze. Others are so heavy they rip the paper. Before they reach the end of my pen, they knock around in my mind, knocking over my logic and routine. So, understand, whenever I get a chance, I empty some words into the world. Relief is instant in most cases. A few sentences cyclical, evaporating into the sky, then gathering to cloud my thoughts. They are the words that are a part of me. I'm sure you'll have some of your own. Don't worry, you don't have to tell me what they are. But I know how they feel - we all do. It aches when you leave them somewhere you shouldn't. If you get rid of them for an hour, a couple of days if you're lucky, they return with ecstasy or misery.
I decided to go shopping for a notebook. But it’s too late in the day.
I can see a book at the end of my bed, propped up against the mirror. My sleepy eyes tell me it is the notebook. I roll out of bed and plant my feet on the cold floor. A draught curls around my ankles. It doesn’t take me long to see it’s just a book. Heart of Darkness, by Joseph Conrad. Words from a different time. I open it and flick through the pages. It’s nothing like a notebook, I think and put it down. But I can feel the sentences build in my head, calling me back to sleep. Letter-by-letter, organising themselves into something tormenting. A puff of dust washes off the curtains as I pull them open. The sky is cloudless and pale blue. The sun pricks my skin, and when I look away, little white bubbles float in my eyes.
Outside, cars glide across the drying road. The woosh plays with gusts rustling the dying leaves. Nature and man are heading to work hand-in-hand. I think about writing it down, but in what? Your phone? I hear you mumble. You’re right, I am being a little dramatic. But it’s not the same. There’s no relief in tapping my thumbs.
For once, I’ve got nowhere to be. But I want to be amongst the hustle and bustle. It’s my day off, and then the weekend is here. I peer out the window and crane my neck for a view down the street. My bike’s where I left it: locked against the faulty lamp post. I always have to check. It’s a symptom of laziness. I should lock it up somewhere safe. Sooner or later, it’ll be gone. But not today, and I’m taking that as a win.
My bag is half-packed from the last time I did this. Back then, the trees were green and sticky and I had somewhere for my words. I pull out a water bottle, energy bar wrappers, bike lights, an empty camel sack and a compass. No map. I suppose that tells you a lot about my preparation. I’m an all-compass, no-map kind of guy. The bottle smells as if it has died. It’s the breath of a thousand people who sleep all day. The camel sack is no better. I squeeze enough washing liquid for all my utensils, pots and pans into a bowl and drown them in hot water. I've got leftovers in the fridge - a symptom of having great neighbours. It’s a day older than it should be, but fried rice never goes off. I scoop it into a tub and put the tube at the bottom of the bag. Three energy bars drum on the tube when I throw them in. You can never bring too much food. There’s mould at the bottom of my bottle, unmoved from its soaking. But a washcloth and a chopstick combine to make quick work of it.
The sky is still blue and cloudless, but I pack my waterproofs anyway. You can never be confident in this country. Rain is always a gust way from ruining your day. I want to write that down. I repeat it ten times instead and hope it sticks. Now I’m ready to leave, but a thought comes to mind. My bag thuds against the floor. One more thing, just in case I want to push the boat out. My tent. And a pillow. I’ll sleep anywhere, but not without a pillow. One last check out the window. Blue skies? Check. Food? Check. Bike? It's waiting for me. My bag is heavy and bulging; the weight is comforting on my back as if someone is holding me.
“Going for a long one,” It’s one of the great neighbours. I’m not sure if he’s the one who cooked the rice, but he’s certainly no stranger to the kitchen. Almost every weekend, he comes knocking with something new to try and some new words to practice.
“That’s the plan.” I dry my seat with my sleeve.
“How was the rice?”
“It’s in the bag. Will it still be okay?”
“Did you keep it in the fridge?
“Yeah,” I say, hoping for a good answer. I don’t want to spend my day munching through oat bars.
“It’ll be fine,” he steps closer to his door; his keys are in his hand. “Have you got a route planned?” he asks, talking over his shoulder. He’s one foot in and one out. I can feel the heat rush onto the street.
“I’m going to try for Germany.”
“Okay. And what about tonight? Are you coming back? I’m cooking empanadas.”
“Probably not. I might make a trip out of it. I have my tent with me.” My lock takes an age to turn: A symptom of neglect.
“Really. Well, Drop me a text if you're around Cologne by Saturday. We’re going for the weekend.”
“I’ll race you,” I say and spin the pedals. “Cologne, here I come!”
“Good luck!”
Cologne. I’ve never been, but it sounds like a plan. Usually, I stop, turn and retreat at the German border. Fleeing back to the safety of our orange bike lanes. But I don’t feel like settling today. It’s funny how that works. One minute you’re in love with your normality; it’s everything you live for. You fall asleep congratulating yourself on the idyllic ‘norm’ you’ve created. Then, one day, you catch an unwelcome glimpse of it – an unflattering angle in a mirror – and decide it’s not all it's cracked up to be. I think about that while I leave the city; a breeze picks up once I reach the flat landscape and suffocating sky. But it's at my back, pushing me forward.
The first fifty kilometres are fast and dry. Cars hum as they pass. The woosh has evaporated with the standing water. There are clouds in the sky, but they are passive: too white and thin to have anything unwelcome hiding inside. My ‘normality’ has been a mix of tiresome work - ending every day a fraction later than the last or small moments of relief when I empty my head and scribble onto the page. I pass a woman sitting against a tree with her knees tucked against her chest. She’s reading. I imagine her reading my notebook. Some of the pages are illegible – penned in a rage. Others are sad, romantic, and silly. I wonder if any of them match her words. Maybe she has been writing the same sentences in her head.
Fifty more, and I stop for a break. I’m in… well, nowhere. I lean my bike against a tree; it's still and stubborn in the building breeze. There are narrow canals on either side of the road and houses with farm yards and stables. I think about the fried rice burning a hole in my bag but decide against it. I should keep it. I might find myself in the middle of nowhere further down the road. My water tastes like lemons and detergent, but I gulp half the bottle.
“Hoi!” A biker pedals past. He’s decked out in Lycra, his calves are huge, and his bike is considerably more fit for purpose than mine. But even with my odd-job look, he recognises me as one of the family. I smile and get back on the saddle. I’ll never catch him – he’s pulling into the distance. But even as a dot, he’s good motivation. An empty page, ready to be filled.
The next fifty feel like nothing - a walk in the park. Even on flat, ruler-straight roads, Mr Lycra disappears within a couple of minutes. Every muscle in his legs pumps him further into the distance. I haven’t been here in a while, losing sense of time. The sky’s painting the thin clouds pink. I pull another oat bar from my pocket, open it with the help of my teeth and start munching. All of a sudden, I'm hungry. A sign flashes by, and I catch a few blurry words. River-crossing, Germany, Rhein. When I set off, I didn't presume I would make the border. It was a possibility, but a slim one. I’m out of shape and unprepared. I spent the whole of yesterday moping about. Today, I pedalled through a hundred and fifty kilometres, give or take a couple. Eventually, I hit the river. It’s here the Waal turns into the Rhein - A fine place to set up camp.
Love, Luke
I really enjoyed the first paragraph!