The whole Polish family line up and wave goodbye, wishing me luck as I cycle off down the road. The moment is quite touching, and I feel as if I could be their eldest son who has decided to abandon the smalltown Polish farm life and family, and instead has chosen to saddle up, setting off to make it in Hollywood or something.
Just like this eldest son, I head forward with little idea as to exactly what I'm doing, uncertain if I'll be able to do it. Uncertain if just like the prodigal son, I may be be back here soon enough, bruised and broken.
The sun is shining, but there is a strong headwind. I think to myself that I'd rather the rain than this as the next 100km feel as if they are all uphill. I do it in five and a half hours, stopping only once in order to down a bottle of milk since the adverts have told me it will make me strong.
All I think about is Kilometres, I probably spend four hours of cycling insulting them in my head. I tell them that they mean nothing to me, that I can eat a kilometre, digest it and shit it out in under 3 minutes. I tell them I'm surprised they even have a name as they are so insignificant.
Yet secretly I fear the kilometre. I don't want to stop when I've done 50 as I'll know I'll have to do it all twice again. I don't want to stop when I've done 100 or I'll know I'll have to do half of everything I've done again. I am scared of the kilometres, they are constantly looming over me, but I will not let them know this. I carry on insulting them. I think they are beginning to believe my fascade.
Just like this eldest son, I head forward with little idea as to exactly what I'm doing, uncertain if I'll be able to do it. Uncertain if just like the prodigal son, I may be be back here soon enough, bruised and broken.
The sun is shining, but there is a strong headwind. I think to myself that I'd rather the rain than this as the next 100km feel as if they are all uphill. I do it in five and a half hours, stopping only once in order to down a bottle of milk since the adverts have told me it will make me strong.
All I think about is Kilometres, I probably spend four hours of cycling insulting them in my head. I tell them that they mean nothing to me, that I can eat a kilometre, digest it and shit it out in under 3 minutes. I tell them I'm surprised they even have a name as they are so insignificant.
Yet secretly I fear the kilometre. I don't want to stop when I've done 50 as I'll know I'll have to do it all twice again. I don't want to stop when I've done 100 or I'll know I'll have to do half of everything I've done again. I am scared of the kilometres, they are constantly looming over me, but I will not let them know this. I carry on insulting them. I think they are beginning to believe my fascade.
I stop at 100km because my knee begins to hurt. It's lunch time and although I eat well, it seems I hardly make a dent in the packed lunch I've been provided with. Staying still quickly becomes tiresome. I sing a Leonard Cohen song to myself by the side of a dumpster and almost start crying (again). It seems I don't like being left alone with myself much at the moment so I get back on my bike in order to vent out more emotions on those damn kilometres.
My knee is in a bad way. It hurts if I ride sitting on the saddle, so I stand on the pedals and sprint. A roadsign tells me I've just cycled nearly 30km. My watch tells me about an hour has gone by. I don't really know what just happened, I think the word cycle just played on repeat in my head for an hour.
Stopping becomes necessary again as I sit down on the saddle and realise my knee is buggered. I get a bag of Ice of some people in a garden. I go down the road and ask some other people if I can sit in one of their chairs and apply the ice.
My knee is in a bad way. It hurts if I ride sitting on the saddle, so I stand on the pedals and sprint. A roadsign tells me I've just cycled nearly 30km. My watch tells me about an hour has gone by. I don't really know what just happened, I think the word cycle just played on repeat in my head for an hour.
Stopping becomes necessary again as I sit down on the saddle and realise my knee is buggered. I get a bag of Ice of some people in a garden. I go down the road and ask some other people if I can sit in one of their chairs and apply the ice.
Now I'd like to describe these people as not too friendly, but: they gave me a beer, let me have a shower, gave me some lotion for my knee, a place to sleep and made me breakfast... So this could be a bold statement. However, I didn't like them very much and I left early the next morning as I felt their hospitality was wearing thin. There is no hug when I leave, and I don't care to write much for them as I feel it would dishonour all the many much more interesting and extraordinary characters I have met in this journey who I have not been able to include in my journal.
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