This Road I Ride

by Juliana Buhring

  “Yes, everybody inside,” her husband agrees. “This is no weather to be out in.”

  “What about my b-b-bike?”

  “Uh, well, we can put it in the back.”

  He opens the rear storage compartment and helps me lift Pegasus inside. Then we all pile into the camper van.

  “I’m Trevor, and this is my wife Pat,” he says. They had pulled off the road to eat dinner and were just clearing up when I chanced upon them.

  “I’m Juliana.”

  “Oh, look at you, you poor dear! You’re shaking. What can we get you? A nice hot cuppa?” Pat offers.

  “Forget the tea. A bit o’ bourbon will do her better,” Trevor suggests, and I could not agree more. He reaches into the cabinet for the bottle and pours me a glass. “There you go. Get that into you.”

  No further encouragement is necessary. I obediently knock back the fiery liquor. Meanwhile Pat puts a kettle on the stove, and while she prepares the tea, Trevor pours me a second shot of bourbon. I can feel warmth suffusing my body, extremities tingling as the blood rushes into them. By the time I’m drinking the tea, I’m already pretty well heated up.

  “Now then,” Trevor, who has been watching me from across the little foldout table, says, “tell us, what are you doing all alone out here on a bicycle?”

  “I’m cycling across the North Island.”

  “You’re what?”

  “Cycling from Auckland to Wellington.”

  “All alone?”

  “Yup.”

  “What for?”

  It’s not the first time I’ve been asked this question. “Uh, well . . . because I’m cycling around the world, and New Zealand is en route.”

  Trevor just stares at me blankly. Then he starts laughing. “You . . . are . . . cycling . . . around . . . the world?”

  “Yes.”

  Pat sits down next to her husband, shaking her head. “You’re plum mad.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Why?” Trevor asks again.

  “Why not?” I smile.

  “No, seriously.”

  “Well, I’m hoping to set the first women’s record for circumnavigating the world by bicycle.” I explain all the details, the route, the rules, and everything else they want to know. While we chat, Pat prepares some sausages and butters bread for my dinner. She reminds me of my German oma—my grandmother on Mum’s side. Gentle, caring, and attentive.

  My oma and opa came to Greece to visit when I was a baby and Mariana was a one-year-old toddler. We were living in a big commune on the beach in Rafina just outside of Athens. Dad had created a radio program—Music with Meaning—that was broadcast on more than two thousand stations around the world, and anybody in the group who could play an instrument or sing was sent to Rafina to create music for the show. Mum was a violinist on the show, and when Dad fell ill, she was assigned to care for him. They fell in love, and I was the result, followed by my brother, Victor.

  Mum suffered from a rare form of arthritis that worsened with every pregnancy, and after Lily was conceived her condition deteriorated to the point where she could barely walk. This was reason enough for the cult leaders to separate her from my father. Dad was the star of the show, and they did not want his attention and loyalty distracted by a private love affair and a growing family. Mum was sent back to Germany with my brother and two sisters for treatment. She was forced to leave me behind at four years old, and I didn’t hear from her again until I was allowed to visit her briefly for the first time at fourteen.

  I did not see my grandparents again until I was seventeen, when I decided to visit them on my own for a week. They had always wondered what became of me and were thrilled when I contacted them. After Mum returned to Germany with my siblings, I had simply vanished from their lives, as though I’d never existed. Meeting my grandparents was an emotional experience for me. I didn’t recognize their faces, but they had saved stacks of photographs of me and the rest of the family from my early childhood. I had been forced to destroy all my photographs, so this was the first time I saw pictures of my mother, father, brother, and sisters all together.

  One evening Oma and Opa went out, leaving me alone in their living room. The soundtrack to the film Somewhere in Time was playing on the old record player. As I sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, looking through photo albums of distant and close family members, a profound sadness swept over me—the kind I had often felt on waking from a recurring childhood dream. In the dream I would see my mother in the distance, holding my brother and sister by the hand. I’d call out to them—louder and louder—but they couldn’t hear me. They just kept walking away from me as I desperately tried to catch up. No matter how fast I ran, they always moved farther into the distance. I would wake up sobbing hysterically, my mattress soaked in sweat.

  That evening in Germany, as I looked at a picture of my smiling two-year-old self, a feeling of deep bereavement hit me like a sucker punch to the gut. That happy little girl did not know the trials she was about to face, the sense of abandonment, and the trauma of growing up alone in a frightening world, never knowing from where the next blow would come, with no one to protect her, nobody to run to for help, nobody to offer her solace from the suffering. A giant sob shook my body and emerged in a loud, anguished cry. I hadn’t allowed myself to cry for years, but the tears came flooding out. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. I wept for hours, mourning the family, the childhood, and the innocence that a little girl had irretrievably lost.

  I stayed with my grandparents for a week and for the first time understood what it meant to have family who truly cared for me. It gave me a glimpse into everything I had missed over the previous fourteen years. I reconnected with my mother again shortly afterward and celebrated my eighteenth birthday with her and my brother and sisters.

  “My goodness, you were hungry,” Pat says as I polish off the sausages and buttered bread.

  The next obvious question is What now?

  “How far is the nearest town?” I ask Trevor.

  “Well, about ten miles in that direction.” He points with a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the road leading down the mountain.

  “Do you think the wind will die down a bit?”

  “Not likely. It will probably be like this till morning.”

  “Great,” I sigh. “Do you think you might be able to drop me there? I’ll just have to ride back up here tomorrow and start again.”

  Trevor does not appear keen to head back the way they have just come. They were planning to drive another 125 miles in the opposite direction, to stay the night with friends. We toss around a few ideas, then he slaps both hands decisively down on the table. “Look, it makes no sense for you to go down there and come back again. We’ll stay parked here, and you can sleep the night if you don’t mind the bunk up there.” Once again he points a thumb over his shoulder, this time indicating a little cubicle above the driver’s seat. It might just as well be a king-size bed in a five-star hotel, so shattered am I from the day’s exertions.

  “That looks wonderful. I could sleep just about anywhere. Are you sure, though? I really don’t want to inconvenience you.”

  “Not a problem. If you’re fine with that, we’ll call our friends and let them know we won’t arrive till tomorrow.”

  “I really appreciate it. Thank you!”

  “You’ll probably want to eat some breakfast before you leave in the morning,” Pat says. “What time will you wake up?”

  “I usually get up at dawn, so around six. Don’t worry about breakfast, though. I can get something in town when I arrive there.”

  “It’s no trouble. We’ll get up around then ourselves, so you might as well eat with us.”

  SEPTEMBER 7, 2012

  True to her word, Pat is up at dawn, preparing coffee and toast with butter and honey. I eat quickly, pack up Pegasus, and say goodbye to my rescuers. The wind, though still strong, has dropped off considerably. More to the point, it’s now behind me. After
a good nine-hour sleep, I feel completely recovered and ready for today’s challenges.

  Yesterday morning I made a short phone video and posted it to my Facebook page to let people know that I’ve run out of money so will have to fly home shortly. I had hoped that leaving without a sponsor would prove my serious intention to cycle the world, and that some company or other would invest in me once I was under way. I now realize that this was overly optimistic.

  No sooner had the video uploaded than I started to receive messages from online supporters who’d been following my adventures, telling me not to worry about the money, to keep going. Antonio calls to tell me donations have been flooding in, and we now have enough to continue on to Australia. Buoyed by this unexpected good news, I book an early morning flight to Brisbane for September 9.

  Despite the misadventures and series of unfortunate events that have made up the bulk of my New Zealand experience thus far, I’ve been well compensated by cycling through countryside that can be described only as otherworldly. It is clear why Kiwi director Peter Jackson chose his home country as the setting for Middle Earth in his epic Lord of the Rings trilogy. I keep expecting to bump into a pipe-smoking hobbit emerging from one of the many strangely shaped hills carpeted in vivid greens and yellows. Angry crosswinds whip the clouds into dramatic formations; rivers flow into waterfalls that charge over craggy bluffs. The whole place has an eccentric, haunting beauty. I feel as if I’ve stepped through a portal into another world.

  SEPTEMBER 8, 2012

  I turn on the television and catch today’s local weather report. Powerful winds of up to 100 miles per hour and heavy rain are predicted for one p.m. Wellington isn’t called “The Windy City” for nothing. Although less than promising, the good news is that the gale-force winds will be mostly behind me. I just have to reach the airport before one p.m.

  This seems simple enough in theory. But the reality is hardly ever simple. In order to avoid pedaling along the highway—which would be direct and straightforward but illegal—my satnav takes me down numerous side roads that don’t exist. I get lost a couple of times and have to retrace my steps—now into the wind, of course, at which point the wind and I exchange a few strong words. Nevertheless by one p.m. I am just six miles from the airport and feeling relaxed when, right on cue, the clouds explode in a downpour that would shame the fiercest Asian monsoon. The powerful torrent hits me like a fusillade of bullets.

  “Oh, come on!” I shout into the maelstrom. There is nothing to do except embrace the deluge and keep pedaling. If you can’t beat it, join it. I arrive at the airport with my body, bags, and bike completely drenched, attracting disapproving stares as I drip my way through the departures hall and into a cafeteria. I need something hot, and quickly.

  Sipping a cappuccino, I check my phone messages. Mark Bennett and his wife live in Wellington, and they’ve been following me on Facebook. They had sent a message that suggested we meet at the airport as they knew a place nearby where I should be able to find a box for Pegasus. They’re flying in today from a vacation on the South Island. I get another message from Mark, saying that their plane has been delayed, but they should be with me in an hour. My flight out to Brisbane is early tomorrow morning, which gives me a leisurely half day to disassemble and box up Pegasus and get the rest of my gear in order.

  I settle down at a table in another café and grab something to eat while I wait. Just as I am finishing, Mark and his wife emerge out of arrivals, and we walk to the local bike shop not far away to pick up the box. As a keen cyclist himself, Mark has had plenty of experience pedaling through New Zealand’s challenging elements.

  “After hearing about your journey and your story, our two sons have decided to donate all their piggybank savings to the Safe Passage Foundation,” he tells me.

  “Wow! How old are your sons?”

  “Seven and ten.”

  “Please tell them thank you. I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”

  “When does your flight leave?” he asks.

  “Very early in the morning. I need to find somewhere cheap right next to the airport, if possible. I’ll have to be up at around three.”

  I discover too late that all the hotels and hostels near the airport are booked out because New Zealand is playing an important football match tomorrow. “I guess my only option is to spend the night in the airport itself,” I say after trying all of them.

  “That’s not even an option,” Mark says. “The airport closes for a few hours every night. It reopens at four a.m.”

  Once again I am saved by Kiwi kindness. The Bennetts invite me to stay the night in their guest room, and Mark even arranges for his father to drive me to the airport early the next morning. I have my first warm bath in over a week, wash and dry all my clothes, and clean and pack Pegasus in readiness for the 3,250-mile journey across Australia. I feel fresh stirrings of anticipation. This adventure thing is becoming addictive.

  KAMIKAZE MAGPIES

  SEPTEMBER 9, 2012

  Jesse meets me at Brisbane’s arrivals hall and waits patiently while I reassemble Pegasus. He hasn’t changed since I last saw him ten years ago in the Gambia: tall and well built, with black hair and Asian features. I was visiting Mariana and Lily in Senegal, and we had taken a bush taxi over the border into the Gambia, where Victor was living with Jesse, his wife Maria, and their baby son. They were all struggling to survive as missionaries. With no field support in that impoverished country, they had difficulty raising money for even the most basic necessities, so they ate a lot of boiled eggs and peanuts—the cheapest food available. Finally, when their son almost died from a serious illness and Maria got pregnant again, they decided enough was enough and returned to their home country, Australia.

  I follow Jesse’s car out of the airport. The route to Brisbane is confusing in itself, and finding a road that is cyclable even more so.

  “One of my cycling friends, Mick, wants to pedal part of the way with you,” Jesse informs me when we stop at a shopping center.

  I recognize Mick when he pulls up on his shiny black road bike. His face is older, but the sandy blond hair, blue eyes, and distinctive nose are all unmistakable. “I know you!” I shout.

  “You do?”

  “Don’t you remember me from Japan?”

  Mick had attended the school in Tateyama, Japan, where I was sent at eight years of age. The cult leaders had separated him from his parents, just as they had separated me from mine, so he often ended up in the same training ­centers—disguised as “international schools”—that were created specifically to condition and indoctrinate children born into the group. I was not yet six when I was sent to the largest one, in the Philippines, and herded into a group of thirty-five other children of the same age. It was the first of many such centers to sprout up around the world. They all used food and sleep deprivation, beatings, “exorcisms,” enforced silence, and public humiliation to mold an army of “little soldiers for Christ.” I learned to shout “Revolution for Jesus!” at the top of my voice, never to question any instruction or doctrine, and never to form any attachment to my fellow inmates, family, or even possessions. Most chillingly, I was taught to embrace the concept of death through martyrdom.

  The Children of God were an apocalyptic cult, and they lived in anticipation of the imminent end of the world. Any day now, we were told, the Great Tribulation would begin, and the Anti-Christ and his forces would take over the world for seven years. During this time we would have to go into hiding. If we were captured, we would probably be tortured and eventually killed. The Christian martyrs of times past were our childhood heroes. Many bedtime stories featured such macabre scenarios as Daniel’s ordeal in the den of lions, being sent naked onto a frozen lake, being shot or burned alive—all to prepare our young hearts and minds for death before we could even start to think about life. At the time the notion of living into my thirties seemed just as incredible as living forever. We were born old, waiting to die, reconciled to the idea that
life was just a commercial break of sacrifice and suffering, here for a moment, then gone like a bad idea, a blink in the eternal paradise of the afterlife.

  I cried on my thirtieth birthday. When Antonio asked me what was the matter, I told him, “I wasn’t supposed to get old!”

  He thought I was hysterical. “You’re only thirty!” he said, laughing.

  The eight-year-old me would never have dreamed she would eventually grow up and ride a bicycle around the world.

  “I’ll leave you guys to catch up,” Jesse says as he drives off, leaving Mick and me to start our ride together. “See you at my house later?”

  Jesse’s place is forty-five miles down the coast. After thirty-five miles, I have my first breakdown. The shifter must have been damaged during the flight because the derailleur has jammed deep into the spokes. “Shit.” I carry Pegasus to a café across the road while Mick calls Jesse.

  “Okay, the good news is that he’s coming right over, and there’s a bike shop not far from here,” Mick says as he disconnects.

  I treat myself to a consolatory piece of cake while we wait for Jesse to turn up, which he does just ten minutes later. We leave Pegasus at the bike shop, and Jesse drives us to his place, where Maria is waiting with cold beers. She shows me around their spacious, tastefully decorated home. The kitchen leads out to a veranda with a large garden beyond. What a difference from when last I met them in Africa! Jesse is now in IT, and Maria is studying for a degree while also working part time at their boys’ school.

  The four of us sit in the garden with our beers, and Jesse fires up the barbecue. I enjoy the easy feeling of hanging out with family. We all shared the same unusual upbringing, one that most people would consider bizarre at best; but when we’re with each other, we don’t have to explain anything. We know who we are and where we came from. Our home was not a house, a neighborhood, a city, or a country; it was not even a person. Home, for us, was a group, a collective identity that spoke the same language, used the same lingo, sang the same songs, and followed the same belief system. As long as you spoke, sang, and thought the same way, you belonged to it.