Two bicycle rides.

It had been bubbling up for over a week. A slowly expanding, intractable mind boggle of all that it was to finish something bigger than oneself. Pushing up from down below yet frustratingly held back by a stubborn learned reserve, wise and cautious to the dangers of minds finishing before bicycles. It really was nearly the end and an end evidently in need of attention. I had developed a deep desire not just to gather up and remember the three years I had just spent on a bicycle but to really feel them. To find a way through the hugeness of it all, to appreciate what I had seen, to build a pew from which to view it all. A mysterious need, determined to accept the end as a 'when' not an 'if'.

And so it was, from the storm torn foot hills of the French Pyrenees heading north through eerie forests stripped of trees by recent storm winds to the parades of Paris (and that well kept promise kept of hot chocolate). A decision made to Cycle through two adventures at the same time, to shift ones full attention away from the present and to engage in the past. Two cycle rides, one trundling along at eight miles per hour over rolling hills and through beautiful hamlets, the other effortlessly skimming over the vast landscapes of the world, through moments miraculous in detail all spread out over a momentous three years. One idling along, all bonjours and baguettes the other peddling in free fall through nearly twenty thousand miles of adventuring, massively recollectable yet remaining persistently aloof and surreal. I realised how important it had become for me to somehow touch the essence of what (on earth!) had just happened during the last three years of my life, to uncouple shallow recollections from the yearning to really feel and appreciate it.

I re-crossed every border in miraculous hi-fidelity, each one as vivid as yesterday. From the eggs served and shared with the man with the big Kalashnikov in the middle of the Uzbekistan desert to the three times crossing into Switzerland. From the re-crossing into Indonesia to the immense windy solitude of the Tibetan frontier. The climbs up to the borders of Bosnia, Laos and Turkey and the swooping down onto the scorched plains of India. Cycling three years ago into Serbian mine fields before revisiting the Cambodian ones the year after.

A cyclist might pass clad in Lycra hailing a "Bonjour!" before speeding off. I pass a closed Boloungerie, a slate church spire then lurch backwards to the warm welcome and cup of tea on the second (legal) crossing into India before skimming over a heat wave to the border official in Bangladesh and his fabulous curly moustache.

Two bicycle rides complimenting each other in strange moments of synchronicity. Remembering the herd of Llamas that softly padded through camp in the Bolivian Andes to the shock of (actually) passing a grazing Llama in a wood land clearing only one hundred miles south of Paris! Trumped, unbelievably the next day as I rounded a corner cycling straight into the path of two camels! Paused on the path of camels in France whilst fondly remembering the moment I first cast eyes upon one on a rubble strewn track in Kazakhstan. Two bicycle rides pleasantly colliding. Crossing grand girded bridges in France whilst remembering the proud moment Condors wheels rolled onto the bridge between Romania and Bulgaria or the cold north European air blowing across a small stone bridge tingling exposed skin just like the warm air had on the friendship bridge between China and Nepal.

What a wonderful time! Cycling through the same French landscape in 2009 as I had last seen in 2006. Full of joy at the slow recognition of all that I had achieved. As thick clouds rolled over the last grand châteaux’s of the Loire valley I began to count, reaching fifteen before the interruption of torrential rain then up to twenty five before the irresistible urge to stop for French pastries and then finally sitting on a wall enjoying the last crumbs I tallied up, WOW! Thirty three countries by bicycle, each one as loud and saturated as ever, hundreds and hundreds of days pedalling brought forward in mind to sit right next to the last. It certainly was a lot to contain, all that re-visiting and mulling over.
The last day in France, sitting on the edge of mainland Europe and on the edge of a great emotional recognition. It began with a free espresso from a kind cafe owner. Following the brief piano duet with his young daughter he gave me a map showing the green routes all the way to Dieppe (and the ferry port). It was always going to be a rather surreal days cycling. Fourty miles of cycling before England, far more surreal than many of the sights I had just re-visited! Acceptance that the end really was drawing close came (typically) at the oddest of moments. There I was, exactly as I had been hundreds of times before, crouched in an open landscape on the 'toilet' going through the motions in idle thought when normality was interrupted by an odd third persons point of view. I had somehow, quite involuntarily peered down upon myself, wallowing there in mud next to the pile of compost, baring all and now feeling quite disconcerted by what I saw. The normal every day-ness of it all seen with new eyes. I didn’t want to do this anymore. I felt uncomfortable at the sight of myself and walking back to Condor through smelly puddles of rain realised that it really was a good time to be going home, that the end was coming and that I could allow myself the luxury of accepting it. No more of this sitting and squatting, no more of the daily chore in wondering where one will be sleeping and when one should collect water. No more Visa applications, no more worn out gears and chains and snapping spokes. Onwards to England!

The following morning dozy from staggered sleep on the ferry port waiting room floor, Condors wheels rolled in slow motion off the ferry ramp and onto England. Giddy with excitement in the knowing that if I should speak I would be perfectly understood. I spotted a man (anyone would do!) at the end of the disembarking ramp shining in luminescent clothing and excitedly called out to him:

"Good morning!"

He replied: "Aye it sure is. You alright?"

"I am now!" I replied.

Just as I cycled past and with an impeccable sense for the situation at hand the man hollered out:

"Yeh, Good 'ol blighty!"

Following a few 'so nearly finished' days with friends in Brighton it was north to that (now) mythical street corner in Shepherds Bush. North to that self proclaimed place where I would now be truly happy to stop. Two days of slow motion cycling, chuckling at the mental prowess three years of cycling had provided in easing up the 'Biggin hills' of South England, comfortably sweating, not fretting and only struggling with the notion that one of these hills might actually be the last.

There were lots of lasts! The last time I would mistake the black pen stain for a mosquito on a damp inner tent and the last time I would wish for morning sunshine to dry it. The last time I would feel the weight of Condor hitting a steep gradient and the last time I would feel the painful lurch like an anchor being dropped overboard. The last time I might enjoy the euphoria at reaching the top! So many lasts yet still enough firsts to remind one just how incredible it was to be travelling by bicycle. On the last nights camp, nestled in a leafy stretch of woodland just inside the M25 I came across a wonderful way to lessen the skew of a tent bent on a beach in Azerbaijan. In the last few hours I learnt to not obsessively save the last drop of warm tea in the flask 'just in case' and then came the largest learn of all, I was about to make the last peddle stroke and had no regrets.

Giddy and surreal and consistently having to pause to stop the spinning I finally breathed it all in and let out all that pressure and bubbling from down below. I began to cry, right outside the Asda super market next to a traffic sign flashing a bright red message for me to Slow Down. How appropriate! I had indeed slowed down, a racing mind calmed by finally releasing all that had been welling up inside. Tears fell in full view of the Asda supermarket shoppers, I smiled to reassure (them?) that these really where happy tears falling on the supermarket car park and that this really was one of the happiest days of my life. The day I would finish cycling the whole way around the world.

Four hours later I crossed paths with the Condor of three years ago. Crossing the spot I had first pushed down onto Condors peddles twenty thousand miles ago. The grandest of all loops closed. More tears, this time with the support of a friends shoulder. Joy! I searched around, I held on, feet wanting to stay on the ground, eyes wanting to focus, mind wanting to grasp. No chance!

A few days ago whilst wondering about the writing of this blog entry I was returning from a short visit into town. A round trip of less than three miles to meet an old friend. Condor was light and breezy, feeling a little twitchy, freed from the immense load it had so faithfully carried for so long. It was four o'clock in the afternoon and tea would be served on the family table soon. As I skirted round York Minster I suddenly lurched, an instinctive, late afternoon reaction at how built up the area was, fussing about how difficult it would be to find a place to camp, then fussing further as I had inadvertently forgotten to collect water. A mental lapse lasting less than a second but a clear sign that the end may not yet quite have arrived . . . . . . . . .

I suppose it would be a while before I really stopped cycling, before the pleasure in passing a clear stream would be purely aesthetic and not a place for drinking and washing. Maybe it would be a few more weeks yet before my body ceased tensing a little at the sight of a steep hill or a tree arching in high winds. How long might it be before I stopped waking and wondering how far I might cycle today. How long would it be before England felt less surreal than the Kalashnikovs in Kazakhstan?

How long might it be before I really stop cycling?

Glen Saberton
glen.saberton@googlemail.com