Thursday 29 September 2011

8. Mental


'What the fuck are you doing? What THE FUCK are you doing?' I am screaming to myself, I am almost crying to myself, I am going mad. I've just travelled 5km by scooting my heavily luggage laden bike with one foot on the pedal and one kicking the floor.

My knee was still cocked up in the morning, I couldn't cycle and this seemed the only option. I remembered I'd seen on google maps once that 130km takes about 24 hours to walk. I figured that if I could scoot my bike twice as fast as one walks, I would have my day's 130km done in 12 hours. The clock hits 9:30 AM, I've been going half an hour and 5km are done so I'm on track, but off the rails. I don't just curse myself, but almost completely abuse myself for not taking more rests the day before.

My knee isn't excrutiating, it just hurts in that way where it feels uncomfortable. It feels wrong like something might snap, and with so much of my journey to go I don't want to risk further injury. I don't know anything about what my body is capable of, I've never really tested it. I just keep going, I just tell myself that I'm invincible, that everything will be ok, that if God were made of 46 chromosomes they'd probably differ little from the one's I'm carrying. This God of cycling ignores all pain as he scooters onto and past the horizon. 

It seems a little late on for this, but I realise I've failed to explain why I have to travel so far each day. The answer lies in two events; my birthday on the 30th where I plan to meet some friends in Amsterdam, and my brother's 21st on the 1st in London. Beyond very much wishing to attend both these events, getting to London for the 1st has just become another of my obsessions. I said I would do it. I'm going to do it.

I scoot a little more, but inevitably a point gets reached where I really can't understand what I'm doing anymore and I have to stop. The clock hits 10, I tell myself to stretch for no less than an hour before I am allowed to continue anymore. I hate stretching and a very long hour passes me by on the side of a Polish motorway. It's at times like this, where you lie on a patch of grass in the middle of nowhere for an hour with your hands on your toes and your face in your crotch that you really wonder what's going on. I'm sure you can all relate.

Fortunately the knee feels a little better. A loop of riding slowly for half the hour and stretching for the other half then proceeds for 10 hours straight. I travel 90km. Joy and motivation overwhelms me with this achievement; it had seemed impossible at the start of the day andon top of this my right knee doesn't hurt any more. 

My left knee however is completely twatted and my achilles tendon is swollen to the size of a house mouse. I would have said tennis ball here in this expression, but it is overused so I don't. House mouse will do, and it is probably more accurate to boot. There's a lot of pain floating round me and I'm generally unhappy with the way my body is treating me. If my body is a temple, all I can imagine is that the deity they pray to on the alter is a statue of me with a walking stick, and all that the cells in there worship is the idea of fucking me over and making me miss birthday parties. It's not just me against the world anymore, it's me against myself. 

And I'm going to win.

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