Make It So

Day 86

New York, NY to Portland, OR

Distance: 2,454 miles

Getting up time: way too early (indeed earlier than any other day on the trip, including cycling days)

Celebrity encounters: one major, magical meeting with an inspirational man

One of my favourite things to read when I am at home is The Week. My favourite section… “It must be true, I read it in the tabloids.”

Well, today it wasn’t a tabloid. But, as I sat on a United Airlines flight at a painfully early hour, my bleary eyes were caught by a headline in the New York Times “Bilingual Parrot Silent About Absence”.

African Gray Parrot, Nigel, who spoke with an English accent while living with his owner, Darren Chick (great name) in California, escaped four years ago, and was recently found and reunited with Darren. On his return, Nigel had lost the British accent but was fluent in Spanish. “Now he just prattles on in Español all day,” Darren lamented. “And he bit me when I picked him up.”

I managed to speak with Nigel, who disclosed that he’s also learned to cook and plans to open a boutique Mexican restaurant a few miles down the coast. And he still speaks BBC English.  But we won’t tell Darren either of those things.

Anyhow... as you will realise from the above, Steed and I had a little assistance from a plane to manage today’s target. My return to Portland to reunite Steed with his bike box and spend a few days savouring the delights of the ultra violet state.

After a couple of fun-packed days in Washington DC with my friend Julia, I picked up a rental car, packed Steed and the Pan-y-As in the back, and prepared to drive to New York.

I filled out the rental car forms, selecting all relevant options.

“Don’t forget the EZPass,” Julia told me, with sage foresight.

Having selected the “GPS” option too, I proceeded to take half an hour searching for my destination on the bleedin’ device (it was perilously close to being thrown out of the window). Giving up on it, I decided to trust instinct and general logic as I started to navigate my way out of the DC traffic and its web of streets.

Around fifteen minutes later, my eyes wandered lazily to the gas level gauge for the first time.  After much gnashing of teeth, I swung the car round and sped back to the rental shop – sped being a relative term of course, given the circuitous route I took. My “full tank” option consisted of a little under a quarter tank, and so it was back for re-fuelling before setting out once more.

I’d woken up at 7.30am, pedalled off from Julia’s at 10am, arrived at the rental car place at 10.30am, and finally got on the correct road out DC at 12.46pm. I had taken five and a half hours to go 2.5 miles.

Cycling 4,300 miles across the US seemed like a doddle in comparison.

But it was all worth it in order to drive through the Lincoln Tunnel and into New York, and have almost a full week staying with my friend Mary-Louise. Plenty of time for eating, drinking, shopping, running, walking, catching up with lots of old friends, eating, drinking … did I mention the eating and drinking…

And then it was time to take the emotional step of getting Steed packed up in a temporary bike box for our little jolly back to Portland.

My old favourite, Toga on the Upper West Side, were fantastic, getting the job done in super-quick time, and generally being the reliable, quality stalwarts of the bike shop world that they have always been.

I was glad to see the elegant and graceful shop cat, Museo, was still around. Although, as happens to us all, a bit slower, and older than I remembered him. But all the more grateful for the strokes and scratches behind the ears than the days when he would prowl the aisles of carbon-fibre racing machines.

I am hoping that Steed’s time in the hold of the plane will be uneventful. If he comes out speaking French or Serbo-Croat, I will be suitably cautious before getting back on the saddle.

The plan for the next few days. More eating and drinking (natch, this is Portland, people, the culinary centre of the universe), hanging out with Valerie, Paul and Chipper, perhaps heading out with Steed for a couple of short rides, and hopefully catching up with a couple of the West-bounders who I passed on the trip to share stories, and a few beers.

Final blog with stats to come soon…

Meanwhile, still time for donations to the charity websites I set up to support those affected by domestic abuse.

Thanks again to those who have already donated, and more thanks for all the support which I have continued to get from blog-readers and others in completing my journey.

And on that note, I should also mention that I am sitting next to Patrick Stewart on my flight today. 

Yes… THE Patrick Stewart.

He is utterly charming and, once we got chatting, told me that he is a patron of Refuge, and has spoken extensively about domestic violence, having come from a family where his father was violent to his mother. I am slightly shame-faced for not knowing that, but feel honoured to hear him speak about his own experiences of abuse. And finding out about what he has done since to try to educate and support is inspirational.

And so the magic of this journey just keeps on unfolding. All that is needed now are a few more donations.

To coin a Patrick Stewart/Jean-Luc phrase…  please help MAKE IT SO.

Me x

To Me... and You

Day 76

Williamsburg, VA to Yorktown, VA

Distance: 14 miles

Road surface: Champs Elysées (fitting)

I was remarkably efficient packing up my panniers, eating breakfast and doing my stretches this morning. Anyone would think I had gone through this routine before…

But I did have a small tear in my eye as I checked out, realising this was indeed my last day of the trip. I would pedal my last stroke just a couple of hours later.

It was a strange feeling setting off onto the Colonial Parkway, which runs all the way from Williamsburg to Yorktown. I was expecting something quite grand, given the name, and there was a certain "je ne sais quoi" about it.

It was wide and boulevard-like, framed by elegant trees, though still natural looking… not “planted” and certainly not pollarded (i.e. cropped or chopped to shape). But it was the road surface that was the talking point.

I had heard in dispatches the night before that the road was “cobbled” for want of a better term, but I didn’t quite believe it. I didn’t think the Americans did cobbles, and so I wasn’t really fully prepared.

It was really like a bit of a TransAm joke to make the last few miles (or first few I guess if you were going the other way) on bone-shaking terrain. And I was lucky. I had a beautifully cool, sunny day. And, rather like a rider in the final day in the Tour de France in Paris, tackling the cobbles of the Champs Elysées, I would not want to tackle it in the wet.

And “lucky” and “grateful” really are my words du jour. I have developed the ability for most of this trip to see the humour in moments that might in the past have made me anxious, angry, upset or scared. If I can take one thing from my experiences over the past few years, it will be that I can survive anything.

Without wanting to tempt fate, I can’t believe that I will ever, in my life, allow myself to live without hope in the way that I did for so long, Failing to see the positive and seeing only the negative. And for me, this is the pivotal issue. The thing that changes lives.

Cycling along with the sunshine dappling through the trees, and then catching sight of the cool, blue, Atlantic Ocean will rank up there with one of the best moments of my life.

“I did it,” I kept thinking.

I have done this. I have done this all on my own. This is amazing. This makes me feel alive. I am sad this is going to be over. But I am happy too. So happy.

Me, little me, silly me, human me, flawed me, sometimes awful me, sometimes wonderful me. But always “me”. I am in the world for a reason. And I will stay in the world and be happy, and do my bit for as long as I can.

I knew that when I reached the finish point, like for the rest of the trip, there would be no-one there with whom to share it.  And that has been a telling aspect of this whole trip for me.

I wanted to achieve this goal on my own. I had something to prove. To myself. But I also yearned to share. To connect. To love, and be loved. To compare and share experiences, to hear others’ perspectives, and share their adventure.

As I said before, no man, woman, or touring cyclist is an island, and I appreciate that more now than I ever did before.

And when I cycled past the white sand of Yorktown Beach, sitting bright against the deep blue, and turned the corner to reach the Victory Monument, something inside me knew that I was going to find the monument deserted. That I would truly end this trip alone. And I was right.

It was a good ten minutes before anyone arrived.

And while I was anxious to get some photos, that something in me was also glad. I had no witness to me cheering to myself, to me literally hugging Steed and telling him how much I loved him. That, although he is metal and carbon fibre, in my mind, in my soul, he is a loyal and unique companion, who has been there for me through thick and thin.

And once I had completed my own personal celebration, I was ready to FaceTime my wonderful, amazing sister and my cute, cheeky, bubbly little nephew, and share the moment with them. And what a joyous moment it was.

Then a lady called Billie arrived and parked her car up. Before she could opt whether to walk towards the monument or somewhere else, I had legged it up to her, cycling shoes click-clacking on the path, with my iPhone in hand…

Yes, there is another tale for today. When I took my camera out of my handlebar bag to catch the moment, there was more bad news. Making a sad little noise and flashing up a message “battery exhausted” I couldn’t help but wonder whether it was simply learning from the mistress. But again it made me laugh. Obviously I had messed up what I thought was my overnight charging of the camera and it was now dead, on my last day, at one of the, if not the, seminal point of the trip.

But Billie managed to operate the iPhone (thank heavens for the iPhone) and I ended my little monument session with some decent shots, and some prompters to help me remember my emotions at that moment.

Rolling away from the finish and conscious that I had to cycle to the nearby airport to pick up a rental car to get to Washington DC and see my friend Juila, I had mentally decided that I wouldn’t bother circling town to try to find the Visitor Centre and sign my name in the TransAm register. But as I made my way towards the highway, I found myself cycling directly past it.

I stopped in and signed my name, and chatted with the guy behind the counter, who gave me a little pin/badge to commemorate my trip.

I am, and will always be, proud of my achievement. I can now wear it like a badge (literally).

I have learnt so much, experienced things I never expected, seen the most breathtaking sights, and met some of the kindest, most genuine people I have ever met in my life.

And I have received beautiful, life-affirming, loving support from friends and family.

I’m not going to name all names now, or give you all the stats, but let's just say 4,300 miles, and here are a few of the things that people gave me to keep me safe through the trip.

Now if I could just raise a bit more money for these charities I want to support, and spread the education and support for those affected by domestic abuse, I’ll be an even happier girl.

I know… but I have to keep trying.

That’s what life is all about.

Me x

Holding On, Keep Holding On...

OK, I know, it's awfully Beverly Craven.

But I've only gone and bleedin' done it.   Yep, Transamerica, DONE!!!

I have so much to share about yesterday and today but I am, for some reason, uncharacteristically, completely and utterly exhausted. And overjoyed.

For now, here's a couple of shots of the final moments.

Happy Finished Girl...

I love you Steed

It's Official

Full posts to come.

Thank to all of you for your ongoing support.

Me x

Holding Blog

Safely in Williamsburg, VA. Just 14 miles tomorrow morning to Yorktown, and the end of my trip...more then.

Me x

Love and a Battlefield

Day 75

Ashland, VA to Williamsburg, VA

Distance: 80 miles

Bowls of cereal: three

Theories on love, life and the universe: many

My start for the day was hardly what you would call alpine. I know that from the fact that Kelly & Michael was already on the TV in the background as I went about my morning stretches, which means that it was after 10am.

The reasons behind my sluggishness were multiple. The 99 miles from the day before, added to the weeks of growing weariness, plus the biggie. The little voice in the back of my brain reminding me that this was my last proper day of cycling. That after today, the trip would be virtually over. And my sub-conscious obviously wasn’t sure it was ready.

It’s a universal concept, the principle that all good things (and bad) will come to an end. Living things, people, events, they all age and eventually they cease to be, at least in the form that we know them. And then we are forced to deal with the loss of them, to manage change.

They say that the pain of losing something, or even the fear of doing so, is much more powerful than the desire to have or do something that we haven’t yet experienced. And so even if you feel that you are ready to move on, knowing that the time has come, there is still a part of you that is sad, and grieving the loss before it has even occurred.

I guess I would say that it how I felt today.

Once I was on the road, I was in no hurry to speed through the miles. The terrain was almost flat, the road surface variable, spanning the gamut from LL Cool J to TOWIE coarse. Mr Edwin, the headwind, made a final appearance, but he was gentle with me, simply kissing my face, rather than slapping it (as my friend Jerry would put it). The scenery was more of the same, the colours still gorgeous, and the tree-lined roads still as charming as can be.

Despite (or perhaps because of) my laid back approach, I found I was burning through the miles, and catching up on my late start. Having already stopped at a Walgreens to use the rest room and do a super-quick prowl of the aisles, I then stopped at a gas station to grab some lunch. I had packed a bagel with peanut butter and jam from breakfast as a back up, but when I walked inside the strangest thing happened. I saw a stand with those little cereal pots displayed on it, and I had a strong craving to eat several of them, one after the other.

Buying a small bottle of milk, I proceeded to chomp my way through a Frosties (grrrrrrrrrreat), some Honey Nut Loops and a Raisin Bran (a token thumbs up to health). Something about the familiarity gave me comfort, and it was like I was on my sofa at home, wrapped in my favourite blanket, watching trash TV.

Again, I didn’t really want to leave, but eventually I peeled myself away from Kafe Kelloggs, and rolled over to the nearby junction with the big highway. Where I sat waiting for the lights to change. And waited. And waited.

I soon realised that the lights were triggered by a weight sensor in the road (a lot of the lights are), so if there is no car in the sensor box, there will be no green light. The sequence will continue as if you do not exist. Despite rolling the whole of me and Steed, Pan-y-A and Pan-B onto the sensor box, and actually doing a little “traffic light stomp” kind of dance routine (much to the amusement of passing motorists I am sure), I was stuck.

I saw a car rolling up in my mirror and sighed with relief, until I saw its indicator flashing and the side of it as it disappeared into the gas station. I apologise for the words that came out of my mouth at that point.

I thought about trying to cross the highway without a green light, but there were no pedestrian crossings, and the roads were all busy… apart from mine.  I even toyed with the idea of turning right onto the highway and then right again from there, in order to go straight, but I couldn’t believe that some vehicle, any vehicle would not arrive on “my” road.

And then a car appeared in my mirror, and as I willed it forward, and beckoned it in, I was, probably for the first time in my trip (one day from the end) overjoyed to see a car on the road behind me. Bingo! Green light, and Steed and I were on our way again.

Continuing on, I found myself in the midst of the battlefields of Virginia, with a host of signs providing me with historic markers and much information about the individual battles and how they fit into the overall timeline.

As I rode along, I started analysing the term Civil War as well. Because it didn’t sound like there was anything “civil” about it. And it is quite telling that fights within what is supposed to be a cohesive unit are sometimes the worst. Like the term “domestic abuse” which makes it sound like it’s domesticated, like a cat or a dog that is house-trained (I think I heard someone on TV make this observation recently too which is probably why it stuck in my mind). And it is anything but that. But with everything, as I had been thinking about the trip, eventually it stopped. Wars, abuse, they all come to an end in some way and at some time. I am one of the lucky ones...

Anyhow, from there, it was just a short hop to ponder on love and relationships. And thinking again about how hard I have found it completing this journey on my own without the continuity of at least one other person as company. No touring cyclist is an island…But with the wrong person, how much of the magic of this trip would I have missed?

And as I contemplated further, I found myself on a nice paved bike path by the side of the road for several miles. More time for thought as less for concentrating on traffic and road positioning. Then, just as the path ran out, I bumped into Dave, a retired physician from upstate New York, who was cycling the Atlantic Coast route from Bar Harbor, Maine to Key West, Florida.

It was a fortuitous meeting, not just because it was nice to have some company but also because he told me there was a new bike path all the rest of the way to Williamsburg, which was due to open officially next week, but which we could ride on now. We pedalled along it together for a few miles, until we got to a section where they were still rolling the tarmac, where we agreed I should head off since my normal cycling speed was a little faster than Dave’s and I still had quite a bit of ground to cover.

Before I went, I also off-loaded most of the rest of my energy bars and gels onto Dave, since he still has 5 weeks left. I had been intending to put project “Hoover” into operations over the past few days and clear this section of my handlebar bag myself, but for some reason the plan did not really get past the aspirational stage (pun intended). And it was another sign that the trip was coming to an end.

Heading off on the new, smooth bike path, I flew along and was soon only a few miles outside Williamsburg, where I took a wrong turn and ran out of bike path… So it was back onto the highway for Steed and me, during a busy Friday night rush hour, but still, it was fine.

Arriving at my hotel, I realised that this would be the last time on this trip I would check into a hotel. I expected to feel emotional, but instead I went into practical mode. Just wanting to get done what needed to be done and trying to keep my focus for the logistics of the last day and not messing up so I could actually enjoy it and savour the last few miles.

With my prep done, I headed out to a cool bistro for dinner, having a good chat with a guy called Daniel, who was in Williamsburg for the art fair and was selling pottery that he makes himself. He had some wise words for me, and I was glad that I met him.

Last day tomorrow… and I am finishing this trip with more questions than answers. Maybe that's just life... it's the questions that keep us alive, and drive us forward, to greater happiness or enlightenment, or perhaps both. And the more we have, the more we have to share with others.

Which reminds me of a poem that I have copied out into the front of many notebooks I own:

"He who binds himself to a joy

Does the winged life destroy

But he who kisses the joy as it flies

Lives in eternity's sun rise"

William Blake

Which takes me back to Love. And this time enduring love, by saying Happy Anniversary to my Mum and Dad, who celebrate their 48^th anniversary today… Now that’s what I call a long and happy journey!!

Me x 

Call Me Fluff

Day 74

Charlottesville, VA to Ashland, VA

Distance: 99 miles

Time to think: lots of it

I’m not sure how many blog readers will remember Call My Bluff, the British TV game show (or Call Me Fluff in my parlance)?

It’s where the people on one team give three different explanations as to the meaning of an obscure word, only one of which is true. The other team has to decide which is the true definition, and who is bluffing.

Well, I had a l-o-t of time on the bike today to consider this in relation to the word "Bumpass".

Yep, I had a full 99 miles worth of time. When I set off into an overcast Charlottesville, I realised I would be cycling around 90 miles. But yet again somehow I had underestimated the total distance.

It didn’t matter though. The ride today was gently rolling, for which my legs were eternally grateful. 

And I was pedalling through country roads with little traffic, surrounded by trees of many different beautiful colours. What with the temperature and the light winds, it was another near perfect cycling day.

Steed and I made good time to our lunch spot, bumping into Karel again literally a couple of miles before then, and just as he was about to turn off onto a different road to get to his destination for the night, which was slightly off the route.

And it was after lunch that I started pondering the question of the day in earnest. I even started to imagine Steed with a pink bow tie on doing a Frank Muir impression as part of my own Call Me Fluff set up.

Bumpass…

(1) the movement made by happy people doing the hands, knees and boomps a daisy routine?

(2) a ball in a game of hockey, football (soccer) or rugby which arrives just behind you as you are running forward?

(3) getting into a nightclub for free because the bouncer/doorman likes your booty?

Naturally, (3) is my favourite. But of course it’s none of the above. It’s a tiny place in Virginia, too small to be incorporated but with its own post office.

Yep, that’s the kind of thing that amuses you during 99 miles on the road.

Despite the distance, I made it to Ashland in good time and even while the bike shop was still open, so I could give Steed’s tyres a final pump up.

After showering, I headed across the road from my hotel to a fantastic little sushi bar hiding in the middle of an average strip mall.

Back now and super tired again… just for a change.

Only one more long day, and then a short hop to the coast on Saturday morning. I still can’t quite believe it.

Me x 

Virginia Fizz

Day 73

Charlottesville

Distance: zero miles (non-cycling day)

Glasses of bubbles: one… enough for now

A fantastic day in Charlottesville with my friend, Julia, who drove down from Washington DC to be with me for the day. Woohooooo!

It’s almost two years since we last saw each other, and we had a wonderful time catching up on news and views. And, talking of views, Julia whisked me out of the city to a fantastic hotel with beautiful gardens and lovely food.

Although I still have two long cycling days, and then a short hop to the coast, we indulged in a glass of champers to celebrate seeing each other again, and to toast the progress I have made so far on the trip.

Making our way back into the city, we parked up and strolled along the downtown mall, taking in the small shops and stores. We treated ourselves to a pedi (me) and a mani (Julia) and then had a quick drink sitting outside before Julia had to head back.

A quiet night for me tonight trying to get over my tiredness and be fresh for the last push. The TV tonight looks fantastic… new Criminal Minds for one.

Today, I’d also like to make another plea for support with my campaign to try to increase awareness of the issues arising from domestic abuse, and to raise money to support those affected by it.

Two prompts.

First a huge thank you to my anonymous donor, who split their donation between my three UK charities:

Refuge – who provide support and education at every stage of domestic abuse, but particularly a safe haven for those escaping domestic violence.

Samaritans – who offer support much more widely than simply in domestic abuse situation, but who are contacted by victims of domestic abuse, particularly when they are in denial about the fact that what they are suffering is abuse, which is what I did in my own situation.

White Ribbon Campaign – which tries to tackle the issue at grass roots, with men telling other men that abuse of any kind is not OK, cool, or in any way acceptable, at any age or in any circumstance.

For US donors, I am also supporting NBC presenter Tamron Hall’s Shine a Light campaign, which focuses on saving the lives of those who might otherwise be killed by their abusers, seeking to educate boys and girls from an early age, and to educate others, friends, families, colleagues of victims as to how they can help when they suspect or become aware of abuse.  

If any readers of the blog feel that they want to support these causes, please please donate whatever you can spare.

Second, as Julia and I walked through the mall, we were taken with the chalk board, allowing people to exercise their first amendment rights of free speech and being used this month to raise awareness of domestic violence. It made us catch out breath, and want to support the initiative.

Tonight I have posted another two supplemental posts sharing my experiences to seek to educate and raise awareness of how these things actually happen – to explain the complexities and the mindset of the victim, and to put some context and meat on the bones of the stories that we hear in the press.

Thank you to all of you for your support.

Back on the road for another long day tomorrow.

Me x

Supplemental Post: Lost

I wrote this post 8 months after leaving the relationship to try to explain what I was going through at that point. Even though I knew that I could never go back to Him, I was finding my new life without Him very hard to handle, and couldn't make sense of anything. I post this to try to explain the long-lasting effects abuse has on a victim and the conflicting feelings they have trying to move forward.

*** 

Sometimes I feel so lost that I fear I will never find my way ever again.

It’s not like being lost on the road, where there are signs and passers-by. People to ask for directions, to check in with again to find out if you’re on the right track. To exchange a smile and a wave and a nod. Because generally when you’re on the road, you have some idea of where you’re going. Your destination is clear, even if you have several possible routes. And somehow you know that if you point yourself in the general direction, you’ll get there eventually. You might take a longer road, or one with a poor surface that slows you down, but you’ll get there.

The way I feel is quite different to that. It’s like being lost in the middle of a jungle. Where there are no tracks, or identifying landmarks. Like I’m buried in the undergrowth and every direction looks the same. I’m there alone. I have to decide how to get out, or whether to stay. But it’s dark, and it scares me.

I don’t really understand how I got there. When I look back, I question whether it was actually me that led him by the hand, our eyes wild, glinting in the half-light. Maybe I thought that it was going to be exciting in there, exotic, unknown. Perhaps I realized that I was getting myself, and him, deeper and deeper into the wilderness but somehow it didn’t seem to matter because I always had him as my point of reference. Or maybe I only took us in so far, to the edges of the forest, where light was still coming through. A place where I still knew how to get out. And then he led me in the rest of the way, told me that knowing how to get out again was cheating, not giving enough of myself, not committing.

Whichever it was, I went right to the heart of that forest. And even though sometimes he was scarier than the snakes hanging off the trees, I felt safer with him there. But now he’s not with me anymore and I’m still in there.

I know that I chose it. I thought that it would be less frightening, that I had a real chance of getting out. I also realize that there are people waiting around the edges, reaching towards me, ready to help, even if I can’t see them from where I am. But I have to take the first steps into the darkness on my own, and have faith that I am walking towards them, and sometimes I can’t bring myself to do it.

Because on some days, I don’t want their help. They’ve never been to the heart of the darkness. Only he has been there, and I still want it to be him that I find. Even though I know it’s not good or right, it just hurts too much being apart from him. Then I have to grit my teeth, bear the darkness, step towards the edge and wait for the sun to rise. 

Supplemental Post: An Evening Out

Warning: I am posting about my experiences of domestic abuse in the hope that it will help others to a greater understanding of what goes through a victim's mind when these things happen. And in the hopes that, by describing my experiences, I can help shift the stigma and provide support to those still in abusive situations to know that others have been through this and survived, that they are not alone, and that it is not about them - it is about an abusive situation that hopefully they can move away from when they are ready to do so. 

***

I know how to handle waves.

We live on the beach in the summer, my mum, my sister and me. Building sandcastles, eating ice-creams, crabbing.

We swim in the sea long after the holiday season is over. Once it starts to get cold outside, there’s only one option. You have to submerge yourself in the water as soon as possible, and stay there.

“Warmer in than out,” we all say.

And when a big wave comes, my Dad has taught us the drill. We know that the worst thing you can do is let it catch you unawares. You face it head on. When you see its crest, you dive straight into it, swim through it, stay beneath the water until you know it has passed.

But sometimes you pick a wave that’s too big. When you dive under, you get trapped in its roll, its power unstoppable. You end up tumbling in the sand, over and over, coughing up seawater, and feeling the sting as it pours out of your nose.

It’s days like that when you realise that you should never have stepped into the water in the first place.

***

It’s the height of summer and I arrange a night out with some friends of mine, let’s call them Josh and Lucy.

I guess I know that He doesn’t really like Josh, but He and Lucy seem to see life in the same way, to share a connection, and a sense of humour. I think it will be enough to assure us a fun evening. But when it comes to the night, He is reticent.

We are late setting off but I stay positive, calm. On the bus, I put my hand proudly on His knee, smiling, breathing in the scent of his aftershave in the air. He looks straight ahead, a flat expression on his face, his body motionless.

We’re half-way there when He utters his first words for the journey.

“I think I’ve left the side gate open, I’m going to have to go back.”

***

And so it’s time to make a disclosure, this time about Him rather than me. He is obsessed with security. At times, it borders on the OCD, but most of the time it’s just another quirk, a further reason to love Him.

As part of the works we have done on the house, we have a full alarm system installed, plus a giant-sized, double-locked side gate, which prevents access to the alleyway along the side of the house. We hang new fire doors on every room in the house, and He decides that each should have a lock on it.  Any time we leave the house for more than a night, He walks round the house before we leave, locking every single door with its separate key, jangling the bunch like a jailor. He is the one to lock the front door and set the alarm whenever we go out. He feels more comfortable that way.

Despite all of this, He still sleeps with a metal bar under his side of the bed.

***

Although we’re late, we get off our outbound bus and head back home.

It’s after He’s checked the gate, while we’re standing again at the bus stop outside our house, that I can’t help myself.

“I knew it would be locked,” I say, with a false smirk on my face, making light, pretending that I am simply finding it endearing. But He sees straight through the veneer. 

“Don’t you fucking speak to me like that,” he spits. “One more word out of your mouth and I turn around and I’m back in that house, you understand?”

His body tenses. I do nothing, say nothing.

“You understand?“ he repeats. “You think you can do that?”

My body is frozen and yet I force my muscles to nod.

“You f*cking answer me or I’m turning right round and walking back into that house,” he shouts.

“No, please don’t do that,” I beg. “I’m sorry, we’ll have a good evening.”

Something about the exchange cuts straight through me. But it’s the faces of the young couple at the bus stop I remember. Her features tight like those of a wild animal on high alert. His arm around her, protecting, but still his expression fixed, head turned away, in submission. 

When the bus arrives, we get on it. The couple at the bus stop stay where they are, only daring to sneak a glance once the bus has started to pull away.

We trundle and rumble back towards central London in silence. I let my mind wander, trying to force-feed it with positive propaganda before I have to speak again. An idyllic picture enters my head. An emerald green meadow, dew glistening on the blades of grass, bright sunshine sparkling off the deep blue stream that cuts across its middle. A roe deer with a white tail, its slim neck extended down, drinking. 

It’s too perfect , too innocent. I know that it’s just waiting for a man with a large shotgun to streak into the scene and blow it to pieces. But at the same time, that seems too obvious.

***

The evening is unremarkable, save that He flirts openly with the waitress. It’s as if I don’t exist but I’m not going to challenge it. Josh and Lucy clock it but say nothing, which suits me.

He and I carry on drinking when we get home. It’s becoming a well-worn routine. But that night, with each drink, I’m gaining in confidence, becoming more indignant.

“I want to see a picture of that girl you slept with after we were together,” I tell him. “That ex.”

“Why?” he questions. “How is that going to help?”

“Because I need to see what she looks like,” I say, bolstered by a cocktail of wines and spirits.

“Otherwise, I just walk around thinking that everybody is her,” I continue. “Like the waitress tonight, or somebody I pass in the tube. I think that they could be her, and it rips me apart.”

And so he goes upstairs and gets out his photo albums. We sit on the sofa and we start at the beginning, right back to when his boy was a baby. He’s energised, in his element as he walks me through the pictures.

There are loads of them. Girls that He’s never even told me about but that now he describes, how He met them, how long he was with them, why they split up. He’s not insensitive about it, He keeps it factual, doesn’t wax lyrical. If anything, He’s dismissive of them. I feel like it’s helping. Until we get to the end of the albums.

“You’re kidding,” I say. “Where’s the other one?”

“What other one?” He asks, and looks at me like he’s truly puzzled.

“The one with her in it,” I say.

I’m expecting Him to produce it magically out of nowhere, but that’s not what he does.

“With who in it?” He looks at me blankly, but I’m not buying.

“So let me get this straight,” I fire at Him. “I ask to see her, and you take me through everyone else, I have to listen to all this sh*t about all these other girls that I didn’t even know about, but I still don’t get to see a picture of her, which is what I asked for all along?”

“I don’t have any pictures of her,” He replies.

 “Why then?” I ask. “Why did we just do this? Why?”

He shrugs.

“I didn’t realise what you were looking for.”

And I know I am not going crazy. I remember how it started, and I know what He has just done.

I lean in towards him calmly and deposit the contents of my drink over His head.

The image of the deer and its pretty little neck is fleeting, as my sub-conscious registers it instantly in the base of my stomach. The crest of the wave approaching. And the realisation that I have made a gross miscalculation.

On the Trail of the Lonesome Pie

Day 72

Lexington, VA to Charlottesville, VA

Distance: 76 miles

Climbing: last serious climb of the trip

Views: spectacular

In the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, on the trail of the… well, I am no longer the lonesome pie, for a couple of days, at least.

Tonight, I met with Ed and his wife, Holly for dinner. I was working for Ed in London just before I left for this trip and was thrilled when I found out that my route took me through Charlottesville, which is where Ed and Holly live.

And as today approached, I realised that Ed would be the first familiar face I had seen since I left Valerie and Paul’s house in Portland, OR on July 21, waving goodbye to Paul with my blue surgical glove-covered hand, two of my fingertips dripping with blood, after a disagreement with a sharp knife…

It seems a long time ago.

Since then, I have covered around 4,000 miles, seen amazing scenery and wildlife and met some truly wonderful people. And each day has brought a new start, with different and unexpected happenings, and chance meetings with folks I would never have met had it not been for the fact that I am doing this trip on a bicycle, and on my own.

But, as I have said before, I have missed seeing friends, family, loved ones and having the continuity that comes with everyday life. At least I will be not be taking it for granted so much when I return.

Today, I was keen to get an early start from Lexington, but as is sometimes the case these days, my planned departure time was at least 45 minutes before the time at which Steed and I actually rolled out onto the road.

I had woken up early and ventured out in Lexington town centre in search of breakfast, only to find everything closed. The coffee roasters, which sounded great, somehow seem to get away with opening at 10am of a morning, which sounded very civilised, but not much use to me.

Instead I camped out on the porch of Macado’s, the sandwich chain to which Vince and Joanne had gone when getting that fantastic grilled ham and cheese sub for me in Marion, VA, and was first in through the door as it opened at 8am. The guy there was great and stepped to it for me when I explained the situation, whipping me up a delicious BLT and coffee in the shake of a lamb’s tail.

When I did eventually set off, it was a warm but overcast morning, and I was a little disappointed as I knew that I would be climbing to the Blue Ridge Parkway at around 25 miles into the ride, and I was looking forward to the views. It runs 469 miles from the Great Smoky Mountains in North Carolina to the Shenandoah National Park In Virginia, although I was only on it for 20 miles or so...

The ascent to the parkway was one of the longest and steepest of the trip so far, which is in some ways ironic, since it was also my last big climb of the trip. From here to the coast, there is some rolling terrain, but nothing to rival what has been the bane of my legs for the past few weeks.

And as I was climbing, I could see through the trees that the sun was coming out, like it was beckoning me, ready to show off its vast, spectacular views rather than shroud them in mist.

When I reached the top, just as I was about to join the parkway, I met Karel, a Dutch cyclist on a recumbent bike who is also Eastbound. We stopped and chatted for a while, and by the time I headed out onto the Parkway and continued to climb (what was that all about?) I suddenly realised that I was seriously pressed for time. Having made arrangements for dinner, and knowing how long these mileages actually take me, I was a little anxious.

I was also running out of water. The climbing had been more strenuous than I had expected and continued for longer on the parkway, and the last grocery store marked on the map was nowhere to be found and/or had closed down.

As I looked from side to side and out to the blue mountains in one direction, and a spectacular valley in the other, instead of taking it all in in a leisurely fashion, my brain was thinking… you really should get a move on Kat – oh, and you should have woken up earlier, been quicker at eating breakfast, managed to get through the railroad crossing before that long train came along and made you wait over 5 minutes, not spoken to Karel for so long, and why oh why did you get so cocky and think that you didn’t need to bring an extra bottle of water… have you learned nothing?

But gradually, I convinced myself to relax and realise I had some downhill in hand, and that I would find a way to make it work. It always does work out, even if it’s not quite as expected, and it was just remembering that and having faith in it which then allowed me to soak up the beauty of my surroundings, and even manage to stop and take a couple of shots (which really do fail to do it justice).

Descending from the parkway, and flipping over the map, I found that I was expected to do a huge loop around on some back roads to get to Charlottesville. I had seen a sign on the main highway saying “Charlottesville 19”, but by ACA-man’s route planning, this was around 24 miles. Sighing but setting out to follow ACA man’s advice, I found myself on the crappiest road surface for some time, going up and down small steep hills past loose dogs, and still with some traffic on the road. When a sign told me to turn directly away from the direction I knew Charlottesville to be in, I had had enough.

Muttering “bugger this for a game of soldiers” as I spun Steed around, we headed for the highway and made our way, quite safely, into town on that.

My B&B is right near the University, which has some beautiful, historic buildings and monuments, as well as a little area of hopping bars, cafes and restaurants, which I am looking forward to trying.

Holly and Ed told me all about it after swinging by to pick me up and taking me for a fantastic meal at their Country Club (which is also the place where they got married).

It was a lovely evening, with great food and wine, and even better company.

And tomorrow, my lovely friend Julia is driving down from Washington DC to spend the day with me in Charlottesville.

As I said, lonesome, not I…

Me x