The Accidental Cyclist

by Dennis Rink

For a while Icarus drifted out of his physical being and flew along, above the trio, carried aloft by his imaginary mythical wings. He looked down on himself, the Grey Man and the Leader as they trundled along through the emerging countryside and his chest was filled with an overwhelming happiness and sense of well-being, a feeling so strong, so warm that it seemed to melt the imaginary wax that held together the feathers of flight, and he tumbled back down to earth with a slight bump and found himself stopped at the side of the road.

  “Time for something to eat and drink,” said the Grey Man. “If we want to travel all day we need to make sure there is enough fuel in the tank.”

  “How far have we gone?” asked The Leader, adding hopefully, “we must be nearly there.”

  “Almost twenty miles,” said the Grey Man. “That’s nearly a third of today’s distance.”

  The Leader groaned.

  A quarter of an hour later, fortified by peanut butter sandwiches and a couple of curious bars made from oats and dried fruit, the three continued on their way. The Grey Man remained in the lead, not once making reference to the map that flapped from his back pocket. He seemed to know his way through these leafy lanes of Kent. They crossed over the top of the North Downs and plunged into a long, winding descent. With their heads down, elbows tucked in and their eyes straight ahead they tried to gain maximum advantage from the force of gravity. The Grey Man, the lightest and thinnest of our three riders, seemed to have the greatest attraction to gravity, and it drew him downhill faster than the other two. At the bottom of the hill they regrouped, taking the left fork in the road. Icarus was breathless with excitement. “Boy,” he said, “wasn’t that fun.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” said The Leader, “it was totally bloody scary.”

  “That must be the longest downhill in England,” said Icarus. “If I wasn’t carrying all this luggage I’d go all the way back up and do it again.”

  The Grey Man smiled wanly. “That wasn’t a long downhill,” he said, “or even steep. Just wait until we get to France, then you’ll find what real downhills are all about. And uphills. That was nothing more than a hillock.”

  Under his breath The Leader mumbled something that seemed to rhyme with hillock. The Grey Man did not hear, or pretended not to hear. He glanced at his watch, and signalled for them to continue on their way. And so our three riders pressed onwards into the dark green heart of deepest Kent.

  The sun was still high in the sky, but it must have been nearly teatime. Icarus laboured along beside the Grey Man. The Leader, contrary to that appellation, was some way behind them. “I’m totally knackered,” said Icarus, using a term he had recently learnt from The Leader, and of which his mother would not have approved. He didn’t care. His mother was far, far away and could not hear him. Moreover, he was too tired to care about anything. “I don’t think I can go much further.”

  “We’re nearly there,” said the Grey Man. “See that roundabout up ahead?”

  Icarus nodded.

  “Well, we turn right there, and up a short hill” – Icarus groaned – “up the hill, through the town, then a short downhill and we will be there. This is where we will spend the night.”

  The Leader was falling back even further, so The Leader stopped to wait for him, to encourage him over the final mile.

  Icarus turned at the roundabout and set off up the short hill listlessly, head down, legs labouring to turn the pedals. He noted that he was entering a small town. To his left was a long stone wall that stretched along the road and was overhung by trees. On the right were some comfortable Victorian houses. Town Hill, the street name read. A droplet of sweat trickled down from under Icarus’s helmet and into his eye. With a grimy, gloved hand he rubbed his eye, which only made the stinging worse, and succeeded in blurring his vision. He could see a black blob on the edge of his right eye. Icarus blinked hard, but the black blob seemed to grow larger. Steadily the blob grew level with him – it seemed to be overtaking him. Icarus shook his head violently to try to clear his vision, then looked across to his right. Next to him, gliding gracefully, effortlessly up the hill was a nun, her bicycle totally engulfed by her habit. She seemed to have no legs – or if she did, they were hardly moving, Icarus thought. As she slowly drew ahead of Icarus she turned her wimpled head and gave him a beatific, dimpled smile, and sailed onwards and upwards, propelled by some divine power. Icarus shut his eyes tightly for a moment and imagined that an invisible rope linked their two bicycles, and that the nun was effortlessly pulling him up the hill. As if by a prayer answered, or by dint of his imagination, Icarus felt the pressure on his legs lighten and he was drawn up the hill. The nun, burdened by a sudden extra weight, turned round to see what was holding her back. Icarus, jolted by the sensation, opened his eyes and saw the nun looking at him, her smile now gone. The invisible band snapped. The nun, released, powered gracefully over the crest while Icarus, overcome by fatigue and gravity, ground to a halt and, for the first time that day, found himself pushing his bicycle.

  At the summit he stopped and waited for the Grey Man and The Leader. When they arrived, The Leader looked even more tired than Icarus felt, if that was possible.

  “Where are we going to camp?” Icarus asked.

  “We won’t be camping tonight,” said the Grey Man, “I’ve got somewhere special.”

  The Leader, glassy eyed, was silent. The Grey Man gave him a small push, so that he rolled slowly down the main road through the town. Shops and pubs lined the ancient, crooked street, unblemished except for a supermarket that scarred the timber-framed facades. The Grey Man picked out a tiny lane between the buildings, barely wide enough for a small car. Immediately they were out of the town again, gliding down a mossy, stone-walled tunnel topped by a leafy canopy. Down they went, a quick drop, across a ford, the left through a wide set of iron gates into a forecourt, where they stopped.

  “This is it,” said the Grey Man, “no more riding today.”

  Icarus took in their surroundings. A small stream burbled lightly alongside the driveway, shaded by a giant willow, and other trees that he did not recognise. He wanted to lie down in that stream and let the water wash over him. Beyond the stream was a meadow filled with wild flowers and … sheep. Yes, real sheep. Icarus was reminded of the park opposite his mother’s flat. This was all so different, so natural, so far away from that manufactured, manicured greenery. And he had got here, all this way, under his own steam.

  “Welcome, welcome, friends,” a voiced thundered behind Icarus.

  A large man in a threadbare brown robe strode towards them, arms spread, a knotted white rope just holding the wobbling belly in place. On his feet were a pair a pink flip-flops.

  “Hello, Brother Sam,” said the Grey Man.

  Brother Sam stopped and stared, and stared. His eyes went blank for a moment and his brain seemed to shift into neutral. After three or four seconds he blinked hard, and as he opened his eyes Icarus could see that all the laughter and life had returned. “Oh, my Lord,” Brother Sam exploded, “Peter, it’s you. Welcome back. It’s so good to see you. Are these your boys? What are you doing these days? It must be ten years since last we saw you …”

  The questions and statements tumbled out of big Brother Sam’s mouth, and the Grey Man stood there waiting for the torrent to subside. He couldn’t have answered the questions even if he had tried.

  Icarus looked at The Leader and mouthed: “Peter?” The Leader shrugged, too tired even to express surprise.

  “I’ll tell you later,” said the Grey Man. “Maybe. It’s another long story.”

  The monastery was built in a U-shape and at its heart was a large ancient stone barn, tall and airy. Icarus, the Grey Man and The Leader were shown to a small ancient caravan in the middle of an apple orchard.

  “I’m afraid two of you will have to share the double bed,” said Brother Sam. “I’ll leave you to settle it. You can come and join us for tea at four o’clock.”

  When he had gone Icarus turned to the Grey M
an and asked: “Peter? This is getting quite confusing.”

  “What is this place?” asked The Leader, unconcerned about Icarus’s concern for the Grey Man’s many monikers.

  “I’ll explain,” said the Grey Man. Icarus and The Leader both stood there, expecting an answer to their question. But the Grey Man just sat on his bunk, thinking, and not explaining anything. Finally Icarus said: “Well?”

  “Oh, yes,” said the Grey Man. “I was going to explain.” And then he thought a bit longer, then said: “I used to be a wayfarer.”

  “What’s a wayfarer?” Icarus asked.

  “Well, a person who chooses to live on the road.”

  “You mean a tramp,” said The Leader.

  “Or a beggar,” said Icarus.

  “I suppose like a tramp,” said the Grey Man, “but not a beggar. I’ve never begged. I’ve asked for food, but not begged. There is a difference,” he explained, although Icarus and The Leader weren’t sure what it was.

  The Grey Man went on: “And while I was on the road I wanted to be anonymous, incognito, so I travelled about without calling myself anything. I just moved from place to place, depending on the weather, or which way the swallow flew, or just whichever way the spirit moved me. I would work if any work was available, but only enough to keep me alive. I would never stay in one place for more than two or three days. And I would sleep wherever I could find a warm, dry, safe place.”

  “It must have been quite a lonely life,” said The Leader.

  “Well, I wanted to be alone, but it wasn’t lonely. There were – are – lots of other wayfarers who I’d meet from time to time. And we would talk – talk about where you could get a meal, or some work, or a place to stay for a few nights. And this monastery here was one of them.”

  “You used to stay in a monastery?” said Icarus.

  “Yes,” said the Grey Man, “most of the places where we were welcomed were religious orders like this. They weren’t all Christian, mind you. There were some Buddhist and Sikh communities. And even some of the Christian ones didn’t seem all that Christian. This was the place that I came back to most often, where I felt most comfortable. Anyhow, finally one very bad winter Brother Sam asked me if I would like to stay here for a while, try to get my life back together. I said okay. But I needed a name, and Peter was the first name that came into my head.”

  The three travellers joined the monks for tea in a long, low library. There were about ten monks in all, monks of all ages, shapes and sizes. They all wore the same uniform brown habits, hitched up variously by leather belts, or bits of rope or string, revealing underneath an array of sandals – leather sandals, reef walkers, flip flops and plastic women’s sandals. They had all obviously been working – some had hands grimy from gardening, another wore a floral pinafore over his habit, another wore mechanic’s overalls.

  One monk who was almost as wide as he was tall rolled in carrying a tray filled with mugs of tea, and sliced fruit cake. The others helped themselves, then flopped down into the comfortable armchairs that lined the whitewashed room. Some of the monks were quiet, others talkative, loudly regaling one another of their day’s exertions.

  Some who recognised the Grey Man gathered around him and asked him where he had been for the past how many years, and where were the three travellers heading.

  When he had finished telling the brothers about his travels and his change in circumstance, the Grey Man – or Peter, as he now appeared to be known – excused himself from the company, saying: “I must just pop across the way to say hello to the sisters.”

  “The sisters?” asked Icarus as the Grey Man disappeared past the window and through a carefully tended cabbage patch.

  “Oh, he’ll be wanting to say hello to the nuns. They are over there,” said Brother Sam with a wave vaguely in the direction of a cluster of ancient buildings on the far side of the vegetable patch. “Peter used to get on very well with the sisters. And they seemed to have a soft spot for him too, heaven knows why.”

  Icarus and The Leader were sagging, slipping deep into the comfortable armchairs. Icarus hoped that they might snatch a short nap before dinner, but he found that he and The Leader were unable to turn down Brother Sam’s invitation to wash up the tea mugs, then spend an hour in the cloisters helping to weed the borders and flower beds. The fact that they had no idea of what they were doing didn’t seem to bother Brother Sam. “Everyone who stays here enjoys helping us with our little day-to-day tasks,” he informed them joyfully.

  Icarus and The Leader did not see the Grey Man again until everyone was gathered around the vast dining table for supper. He was standing at the table next to Brother Sam, who summoned the two younger men to take the seats on either side of them. The Leader promptly hauled out his chair and sat down, only to be hauled up by the collar and the booming voice of Brother Sam, who said: “Grace.”

  “What?” said The Leader.

  “Grace,” Brother Sam repeated. “We don’t sit down until after the grace.”

  Having never said grace in his life, nor ever heard it being said, The Leader had absolutely no idea what Brother Sam was talking about, but he was too weary to argue or make a scene, so he stood up again and waited behind his chair. Bowls of some steaming brown concoction was served up to everyone at the table. Brother Sam recited something in a foreign tongue, which to The Leader sounded like dominoes tumbling out of his mouth. Before the last amens had finished echoing through the cloisters the monks – and Brother Sam himself – were seated and exchanging bottles of brown sauce for ketchup, Tabasco for the pepper mill. Icarus and The Leader pulled out their chairs and sat down.

  The Leader poked at the brown potion, which appeared to be spread across a bed of mashed potatoes.

  “You a vegetarian, boy?” Brother Sam asked The Leader.

  “No sir. At least, I don’t think so.”

  “No matter. There’s no meat in there, so everyone can eat it.”

  “But what is it?” asked The Leader.

  “Mushroom and lentil casserole,” said Brother Sam. “Get it down you. It’ll keep you going for miles tomorrow.”

  The Leader groaned slightly at the thought of the miles he’d be cycling tomorrow. He was still shifting in his seat, trying to get comfortable and help his backside forget the miles that they had cycled today.

  Quickly the dining room settled into the sounds of men eating, the sounds of men who know each other well, and are not conscious of being in one another’s company. The Grey Man recognised those sounds, as did The Leader to a lesser degree, the chewing, the occasional soft belch, the scratching and the sighing. But to Icarus the sounds were alien, of another culture, because they were the sounds that men make only when they have long been deprived of the presence of women.

  In spite of the food’s outward appearance, Icarus and The Leader found their supper unexpectedly tasty and filling and, copying the monks, they used the crusts of their bread to mop up the last traces of gravy on their plates. Slowly, as the food disappeared, the conversation reappeared.

  Brother Sam spotted the scallop on Icarus’s collar. “So, you’re pilgrims then, I gather.”

  “Yes,” said Icarus, “we are.”

  “Yes,” repeated the Grey Man, and Icarus spotted a sudden sparkle in his eye. “We’re on a pilgrimage to spread the word.”

  “You’re spreading the word of God?” asked Brother Sam, his surprise obvious. Could Peter have been miraculously converted to the faith?

  “Well, not really the word of God. We’re spreading the wheel of God,” said the Grey Man.

  “So, you’re proselytising?” Brother Sam asked Icarus. A flash of alarm sparked across Icarus’s eyes. He had never heard the word, and knew not what Brother Sam was talking about.

  “You could say we’re proselytising,” the Grey Man interjected, but Brother Sam turned and addressed his next question to The Leader: “What is your destination, then?”

  “Mont Ventoux,” said Icarus.

 
“That is not a place of pilgrimage that I have heard of,” said Brother Sam, turning back to Icarus. “Is it a place of some particular significance?”

  “It’s the spot where Tommy Simpson died,” said The Leader.

  “I’ve not heard of this particular saint,” Brother Sam mumbled, more to himself than to the others. “The blasted Romans keep creating more and more saints, it’s so difficult to keep up with it all …”

  The Grey Man said: “So you’ve not heard of the blessed Thomas Simpson, Brother Sam? He’s the patron saint of all cyclists in the British Isles.”

  Brother Sam frowned darkly, then realised that he was being teased, and his face softened. “It is good to have a sense of humour in these matters,” he said, “but you must remember that a pilgrimage is a serious matter, and it must be done in God’s name, and in God’s name alone.”

  There followed some heated debate between the Grey Man and the assembled monks about the necessary attributes of a pilgrimage. Icarus and The Leader were too tired to listen, so made their excuses and returned to the ancient caravan. They crawled into their sleeping bags side by side on the double bed and fell asleep. Outside the summer sun was just dipping past the horsechestnut trees at the bottom of the meadow.

  24. LIFE IN THE COUNTRY

  The Leader was the first to wake the next morning. He turned over, opened his eyes, and was awake instantly. “What’s that noise?” he asked no one in particular. Then: “Why is it still light outside?”

  “Go back to sleep,” said a voice from under a blanket at the far end of the caravan. It was the Grey Man. “It’s gone four o’clock, you dummy, so it’s already light.”

  “But what was that noise? It sounded like a creature being strangled.”

  “It was a rooster,” the voice responded. “And if you don’t keep quiet and go back to sleep, you’ll be strangled.”

  The Leader turned over and snuggled back down into his sleeping bag, just as Icarus opened his eyes. He rubbed them and said: “What’s going on?”