The map shows me a shortcut to take en route to my destination city in Poland. Don't take shortcuts in Poland. I knew not to take shortcuts in Poland. I still don't know why I thought I'd take a shortcut in Poland.
I go along what you could call a road if you were feeling generous. I try and find some gratitude in the idea that I am probably seeing places that no English man has ever seen, in fact little villages that probably no-one except for their residents has ever seen. I try and find some happiness in how old the buildings are, that with the cobbled stone roads it's almost like a glimpse into the world 200-300 years ago. I try this, but I can't, I hate every puncture fearing second of it. I hate how all the locals look at me with pure contempt and confusion, like I'm the strangest thing they've ever seen, and everytime a car drives by I imagine some new-age version of the final scene from easy rider is about to occur.
Nothing breaks as I reach my destination. Nothing except for me as I sudden realise I've been operating this whole time on the wrong date. I thought I had a day more to travel than I did. I'm exhausted and this realisation is too much for me, my brain frantically tries to do the maths of what I must travel now, but panic makes me forget my numbers. All I know is that everything is fucked, my body, my wallet, my time period. It will be something like 180km a day and I can barely cycle.
I'll never win.
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