Alone - Off the Trails - page 106

Munching into a thick pryaniki , I looked back along the road. To my astonish-
ment the camp site was still in view. In two hours, I had covered less than two kilo-
metres. In the midst of all this, thoughts of Bruce kept coming.
I thought of a conversation that I had with Bruce's father, Sandy, one night. I
had just returned from a cycling journey to the Isle of Skye and was planning to
get work on the broccoli farms in southern Scotland. Before hitchhiking back to
Bruce's home early one morning, I had been feeling ravenous and decided to swipe
a pint of milk from the doorstep of a small hotel. When I mentioned the broccoli
farm work to Sandy, he replied, 'Oh, Tim, ye don't wunt to werk down there. Down
there are the kind of people who would steal milk off your front doorstep!'
I burst into laughter and the truth came out. The event only added credibility
to my tag as a 'thieving Australian convict'. From there on Bruce joked that he
warned Sandy to hide all the valuables, including the knives, forks, toilet paper and
milk, in a safe.
I had no idea how long I had been sitting there, but the bag of pryaniki was just
about empty. With some composure restored, I set myself to the task of pushing.
Somehow I found a rhythm and took pleasure in the way my muscles stretched.
As I peered down I couldn't help but feel proud of my tattered runners that now
openly displayed two rows of toes. The repetition and sense of getting somewhere,
however slow, was satisfying.
The sun finally thinned out the low cloud and brought with it a warm ambience.
Before me lay a metre-wide band of road that was clearly solid enough for riding.
Finally, I began to make ground. The further I went, the better the road became.
Eventually, I found myself gliding along carelessly. I rode as if I was experiencing
one protracted moment. The crunch of gritty sand beneath the wheels and the con-
stant pushing of my legs didn't feel like a timeline of events, but a state of mind
and body. The road meandered over such flat ground that for what must have been
hours I didn't need to touch the gears. Was that the land passing me, or me passing
over the land? The horizon gradually came into focus through the rippling heat and
passed again into the haze. When hunger threatened, my arm reached automatic-
ally beneath the seat to find more pryaniki . I was the passenger of this journey, not
the driver. I let my mind fall into an abyss of merciful blankness; I wanted for the
thoughts to come, not to think them.
In the distance there appeared the shimmer of a lake. The skyline was engulfed
in a mirage of gin-coloured flames. A familiar scent in the air, the harsh light, and
the rippling horizon told me it was the sea. It occurred to me that this was an es-