Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
There was just the rustle of my feet in the undergrowth and the odd squawk of a
surprised bird as it fluttered up through the canopy.
As perverse as it seemed, I loved the sensation of fighting for every inch on the
road and eking out a living in the forest. I knew that too much time spent in the
city would spoil the taste of porridge and dull the colour of sunset. Out here in the
elements one truth was clear and unavoidable: life was supposed to be difficult. I
preferred to accept and struggle through that, rather than distance myself through
modern conveniences. Although Chris and I disagreed on many things, the passion
to live a simple, challenging life was deeply woven into both of us.
I returned to camp with a bundle of freshly chopped wood. Chris had already
set up the tent and was sitting by the creek gnawing on the end of his pen. I took
pleasure in building the fire and slicing potatoes for another meal. By the time the
water was on the boil, the sun was flaring through the forest on its journey towards
the horizon.
I stirred the pot with a long twig and peered at the sky. I realised it wasn't just
the vivid sense of being alive that bound Chris and I. It was when the roads, bikes,
weather and landscape failed, and all that remained was our tortured bodies, that
we connected the most. This intimate sharing of subtle agony and reward created
a special bond. No one could have fully understood the special intricacies of our
humour and routine. By this stage of the journey we had become attached to every
little item on our bikes and considered them highly valuable. This even applied to
the dirty soft drink bottles that we picked up on the roadside and carried for months
on end! We knew each other's habits so well that they could be predicted well in
advance. This intimacy was torn apart in cities. The things that we did have in com-
mon no longer had relevance and our differences boiled over more easily.
Chris closed his notebook and pulled out the camera. Just a few more minutes
and the potatoes would be ready, then I could fry up the sardines. We hadn't spoken
in hours, and yet it didn't matter.
It struck me that something had dramatically changed since the beginning of the
journey. There was less tension in the camp, and disagreements were often obscure.
Now the journey to Beijing
was
life. It wasn't a simple matter of compromising our
identities to get on. The journey itself had become inseparable from our identity.
In effect, we had found a common passion that would endure as long as we kept
cycling.
