You've Gone Too Far This Time, Sir!

by Danny Bent

  Once into Germany, the scenery was majestic - beautiful woodlands, blue skies, green rugged pastures. Taking an off-road route, where I’d come across the deer, led me towards the hills. Precariously perched on top of the hills were fairytale castles, pointed spires on top of romantic towers and turrets balancing on thick stoned walls. I had a feeling I’d fallen down a rabbit hole and was living in Fairyland. If the big bad wolf had stopped me to ask in which direction Little Red had gone - “Wo ist mein Frau Rot?” - I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised.

  What did shock me though were the speed limit signs. Famed for its no-limits autobahns, the smaller cyclable roads also had bizarre speed signs, for instance imposing a limit for tanks which was only twenty kilometres per hour slower than it was for cars. I didn’t see any tanks, but I did imagine one flying past me swiftly followed by a police vehicle with flashing lights.

  “Will you step out of your tank, please? Do you know what speed you were travelling?”

  “Sorry, officer, I was late for church and the traffic was terrible!”

  * * *

  A rainbow shone in the distance, arching over the picture book scenery. I stopped to take a photograph whilst pondering the pot of gold that lay at the end. Aware that an elderly lady was standing watching me, I unclipped my shoe from the bike. My specialized MTB shoes had special toe clips that attached to the bike to stop them slipping off in the ice and wet. Using my unclipped shoe to balance myself, I took a picture. Unfortunately, just as my finger hit the trigger, the bike started to topple. With one leg strapped in, I was flung to the floor slamming my knee and elbow into the concrete, tearing the skin and revealing the flesh. The lady hobbled over and asked ‘Alles gut?’ I had ‘studied’ German at school and should have been able to string at least a few sentences together but, with blood streaming down my leg and arm, I could only remember a plangent declaration that had scraped me a pass in my final exams: “Ich habe meine Mutter verloren. Wo ist die Polizeidienststelle?” I have lost my mum, where is the police station?

  * * *

  After the fairytale beauty of the day, when I lay in my tent I couldn’t help but sleep like Sleeping Beauty. I didn’t wake up until nearing midday the following day when an Aussie disturbed me by wobbling my tent.

  ‘G'day mate, sorry to wake ya’.

  I unzipped my tent with one hand, holding my sleeping bag to cover my modesty and squinting against the sun which was drying the world after the night time rains. Luckily for me there hadn’t been a drop of rain during the day yet but it was still raining cats and dogs at night.

  Oblivious to my lack of response, he continued “I heard there was a crazy pommie bastard cycling these ways. You’re heading off into the Ukrainian woods?’.

  I nodded, half asleep.

  “Well here you go, bud, good on ya” He thrust a wedge of notes into my hand that looked like an absolute fortune.

  I refused to take them until he explained “You can’t change them outside the country, and I'm sure as hell not going back.”

  I thanked him profusely, grasping his hand with both of mine. Laughing and winking he looked down, bringing to my attention the fact that I’d dropped the sleeping bag.

  I zipped up my tent as he walked away and sat rigid with shock. Then I whooped with glee, throwing the money into the air and letting it fall around me like snow flakes. I’d been handed my treasure at the end of the rainbow after all. To celebrate, I took the rest of the day off. I’d been riding for six days, my legs and butt felt swollen, and my belly was tight.

  Starting a novel I’d brought with me for company, I lay on my roll mat soaking up the sun's rays until I turned the last page, before gently cycling down to a supermarket where I bought myself a feast. On my return, the children who had been pestering me to play all day returned and chatted as I cooked a one pot gourmet dinner. I was surprised at their level of English. When I said they must be top of the class, they replied that they were actually the worst and that they were given detentions and held back regularly because of their lack of practice and pronunciation. I would be worried that, with my level of English, I’d struggle myself in such schools.

  Rested and with energy levels restored, I powered through central Germany coming out the other side. Having already cycled what I guessed to be about 130 kilometres, I stopped in the afternoon at a gorgeous village café / bistro. I ordered a latte and a bowl of strawberries and cream to start. As the words left my mouth, I could feel the table next to me stop and stare. I was seated next to a tribe of German builders who were on the razz on a Friday afternoon. They were huge – well over six foot, all of them. They were looking at me as if to say 'Order anything like that again and we’ll kill you', so I quickly got the barmaid's attention and asked for a curried bratwurst and beer.

  As I did so, a huge dinner plate of a hand took hold of my own and shook it with such vigour it nearly ripped my shoulder from its socket. They wanted me to join them and, as I pulled up my chair surrounded by these man-mountains, I couldn’t help but to feel like Sophie in the BFG.

  We played cards and drank beer - a really great way to finish my first week of cycling - then the waitress came out with a fresh round of beers. The tankards held two pints and, as I tucked into my second, I could feel my legs weakening but my tongue relaxing. My German was really starting to flow. However, on the suggestion that the drinking games should begin, I hastily said goodnight but was persuaded to take one last tipple - an apple shot that tasted like pure meths. I headed up to bed, stopping off briefly at the bathroom to bid a very close and intimate goodnight to the toilet bowl.

  Chapter 5

  The trouble with ending your first week with a bang is that it means that you start your second week with another bang - a banging headache in my case – so I hoped getting out on the bike might mute the bass drum beating in my head.

  I was leaving Western Europe today. The border town was signposted in both directions. Two kilometres to the east or four kilometres to the north. Why would anyone choose to take the four kilometres route when you can get to the same spot in two kilometres? It seemed a no-brainer.

  My question was soon answered when a signpost indicated that a twenty percent climb lay in ambush between me and Adorf. I had to grit my teeth and stand on the pedals, stomping for a good ten minutes to get myself, my bike and my luggage up there. I’d made a vow that there would be no walking my bike up hills or mountains. I hadn’t imagined this would be questioned so early on in the trip.

  Descending into the Czech Republic, I stopped to adjust my seat that had worked itself loose. Whilst I adjusted it, a Czech old boy came over to offer his help in the form of a bottle of potato rum. It was ten in the morning. Laughing and shaking his hand, I clapped him on the shoulder and declined his invitation. He invited me to come and stay with him whenever I wanted.

  I pulled into Karlory Vary, a town filled with gorgeous old Czech architecture. The hotels were more like palaces and had the price tag to match. I was flagged down by a passing pedestrian and convincingly told to avoid the big hotels and head up the hill for the best hostel in town. It was another knee destroyer; I could almost hear the grinding of bone on bone.

  I was shown to my dorm. A typical Eastern European one, it offered a mattress that was more or less a sack filled with random lumps of foam and a bean bag pillow that was about all there was to advertise. But there were friendly faces about and young ones at that.

  Sitting in the bar studying my route for the next day and making idle chit-chat over a Coke with a Spanish couple, I stood to leave when the barman called me over to offer me a herbal shot. I had to buy him one back and soon we were talking about our travels. He’d recently returned from a short trip to India. He told me about how they used poo bricks to build their houses and about how many flies there were on the food. I wasn’t sure whether he was joking or not. He had a false eye which meant I couldn’t tell whether or not he was able to look me in the eye.

  Continui
ng his generosity, he offered me a shot of potato rum as a photographer took some pics of us toasting Czech liberation from communism. Most Czechs are passionate on the subject. The photographer told me that he’d had a particularly great day which he put down to carrying his Chinese lucky coin. A year ago he’d been in town when a group of gypsies came by offering lucky pendants for sale. Taking a particular liking to the coins, he bought every one she had but only had one left now, his own.

  As the night continued, the manager made a potent statement. ”I go walking, get stinky feet – you go cycling, get very stinky feet!!” He then ran upstairs to his lodgings and came back with a half-used fungal infection cream. He handed it to me with a big smile. There wasn’t much left in the tube (his walking had obviously taken its toll) but I was thankful for the gift, and self consciously applied it lavishly before falling asleep.

  As I left the next morning, the photographer was still propped against the bar with a rum in front of him and, as I swung my leg over Shirley, he staggered over and handed me his lucky coin. “Good luck to you, Mr Cycle Man.”

  * * *

  The barley quietly waves me through, the winds whistle and the corn pops like party poppers celebrating my arrival. A lizard scrambles out of my way. The car horns toot their approval and I savour the smell of evergreens in my nostrils

  It's the perfect setting to think about things, so I get into cruise mode and start to do just that….

  The main thing I am thinking is "Why am I doing this?" I'm not thinking it because I'm tired or in pain, even if am. It's not because I'm not enjoying myself. I'm just kind of interested. To travel; definitely. To raise money for charity; that's a bonus. To get friggin' strong on the bike; we'll see. Hopefully I’ll be kicking butt when I get back if my legs hold up. Educate myself; always handy for cocktail party chat. To allow me to get things straight in my head; nah, I'm always gonna be Bent. To meet new people? To live a simple life; it's cool knowing everything I own is in these panniers. I haven't lost anything for ten days. That's a record. To grow calves (I am eternally ribbed for having the smallest calves in cycling); I think that's the one.

  I am jolted from my thoughts as my wheels crunch over a particularly large lizard which has scrambled in the wrong direction and been flicked up and slapped against my panniers. My stomach lurches, but not enough to put my off my lunch.

  I arrive at my favourite eating place. A scenario plays out in my mind:

  "Good day, sir. I've reserved your usual seat"

  "Why thank you very much - as close to the shopping trolleys as possible?"

  "Of course. Would Sir like to order a drink?"

  "A dram of caffeine with as much sugar as possible, please"

  "As you wish. Would sir like the à la carte menu?"

  "No I'll have the buffet. Anything and everything from every aisle."

  1pm every day. I'm like clockwork. It’s as though the supermarkets expect me. Their shelves are always full and the staff are always smiling.

  * * *

  I drift on. The smooth tarmac highways of Western Europe are long gone, being replaced with a rougher gravel-strewn thoroughfare, sporting a variety of potholes. These roads need concentration, especially if you’re trying to read road signs.

  I’d wondered in Germany whether the government spent more on signposts there than all the other countries put together. The signs seemed as though they went on forever. I could start reading a sign in the morning, continue reading until lunch (usual seat), before finally coming to an end at night.

  The Czechs, on the other hand, favour a very different approach. In the middle of the night, when everyone is asleep, they sneak round houses in the same manner as the BFG but, instead of planting dreams, they look out for all the left-over games of Scrabble sitting on the dining room tables. They don't disrupt the game, so you never know they've been. They simply take all the remaining letters sitting in you letter holders. You know, the z's, c's, h's, k's. The ones you pull out when the game is almost over and curse your bad luck. Now, to save money, they use only these letters to produce all their road signs. They have developed this special machine that enlarges them appropriately before sticking them together randomly and without any thought at all as to order, forming names like Rybna nad Zdobnici.

  It's a crazy world we live in - I don't know how I stay so normal.

  Chapter 6

  Hannah, the receptionist at a camp site in Jesenik, was definitely cute. With dark flowing hair, the pale skin of the Eastern Europeans, and a body I would willingly swapped with Shirley for a day or two, she was a sight for travel-sore eyes - the smog of the last few days had left my eyes red and puffy. So I casually hung round the reception which proved to be a little shed in the woods, and leaned nonchalantly flexing my growing calf muscles, angling for a date the next day. Hannah was studying English and was already teaching it to both school children and adults. She smiled at my persistence and asked if I wanted to join her and her friend tomorrow.

  My route had taken me along a busy truck-infested highway where exhaust fumes had filled the capillaries of my lungs, clogged my nostrils and coloured my skin. Turning off this road I had to navigate the Rychleby Hills and my knees were again causing me problems. The crunching of bone and gristle on each revolution was almost audible. I needed a day's rest and here was an invite to spend it with two Eastern European girls. Do I want to join you? I needed to think long and hard before making a decision in a nanosecond. Hell yeah!!

  I asked Hannah what they were up to. Lounging by the pool in bikinis sipping cold cocktails? Dancing at a folk festival in little black numbers? Her next words caused these images to disparate with a distinctive cracking-popping sound only heard in the wizarding world of Harry Potter. “We’re going cycling,” (my knees screamed in pain), “to visit some of the lakes nearby and to do some sunbathing”.

  Unconvincingly I replied “Wonderful, that’d be great.”

  My day off had turned into more cycling, but at least I’d be with Hannah and her friend. Surely there'd be bikini action by the lakes.

  * * *

  Hannah mentioned that the fried cheese was the best thing on menu at the camp site's café. She was right. It was the ONLY thing on menu. Wearing a dirty apron, the cook, a curly haired, middle aged lady who’d had a few too many fried cheeses of her own, slopped melted batter and some greasy chips onto my plate. I ate one then, to the cook's surprise, ordered another. She was so pleased she gave me a free snaps which tasted like it was siphoned-off cheese oil. Nasty.

  * * *

  Hannah's gorgeous friend turned out to be called Radim, an army lieutenant who also happened to be her boyfriend, and certainly wouldn’t be looking too great in a thonged bikini.

  He was competitive and wanted to show his girl that he could beat this cyclist, who she had raved about, up all the hills. I am also competitive and wanted to show his girl that I could beat some jumped-up army boy up these hills too. So each and every hill, whilst looking calm, relaxed and composed in the face, we put the hammer down. It was a perfect rest day. He led us up alleys and through fields until everything opened up to reveal an old mine that had been flooded for safety. Cliffs of rock disappeared vertically for hundreds of feet beneath dark pools of water.

  This could only mean one thing. Rock jumping! With a complexion that requires Factor Ginger sun cream at all times, I have never been one for lying on the beach. So, when I holiday with my family or girl friends, I always seek out a spot for rock jumping that enables me to have immense amounts of fun whilst my nearest and dearest get a lovely bronzing tan.

  I suddenly had that holiday feeling and a smile cut my face in two. I started with a few smaller ones – bombing in to wet onlookers and then moved up to about three metres, hurling myself into the depths below. To get to the bigger jumps you had to swim across the quarry and then climb the rock face. My upper body had wasted away cycling constantly for two weeks and, when I got to the top, my arms were shaking. This was soon mat
ched by my legs when I looked down. Oh my, that’s a big drop. Surely I needed a parachute or a bungee chord for this?

  I inched to the edge and stood frozen for about a minute. I went over the details in my head: feet together, arms by your side - or you can get bruising or internal bleeding, or worse. I counted down in my head. 10, 9, 8, ….. , 3, 2, 1 and stepped back two paces. I couldn’t do it.

  I could see Hannah gazing up at me and it gave me courage. I shut my eyes and jumped. I was in the air. Memories of Nice flew through my head. This was the same height. It takes a long time to travel ten metres. Thwack! The soles of my feet hit the surface as I plummeted through it. I opened my eyes and the dark water had consumed me. I saw the bright lights coming closer and closer. I got to the top and could hear one person clapping. She was smiling and laughing. I laughed too. I’d done it. That was one big jump.

  As I got out of the water, all eyes were on the rock where I’d come from. “That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, I just jumped ten metres into cold dark water.”

  But they weren’t looking where I had come from. Their eyes were higher. About thirty metres above, silhouetted in the midday sun, was a boy of no older than thirteen. He was standing up there posing for the cameras below, enjoying the attention. Then suddenly he threw himself off the cliff face and dropped to the water. How he survived I have no idea. Water from that height must be like hitting concrete.