The bailiffs arrived. They were waiting outside in their van, looking at their watches. At 11 o'clock I opened the door and let them in. I had my bag packed and was ready to leave. I wished them a cheerful goodbye and headed on down the road. A twenty minute walk took me to Streatham. I admired the houses and gardens and arrived at the block that was my destination. Up to the fourth floor and along the walkway to flat fifteen. As I expected no-one was home. I peered through the window and spied my bicycle. I pushed open the front door and looked at my old faithful and checked it for punctures. At least the tyres were hard. It was a rickety old racer. Whilst working with my brother renovating a house we visited the dump with a pickup truck load of trash. As we offloaded the heavy bags I observed a collection of broken bicycles. We left the busy environment and I took three cycles that I combined to make one reasonable pushbike. It served me well. After loaning it to a friend I now retrieved it from the empty flat where he had left it for my collection.
The gears worked partially and the bottom bracket was creaking but it rolled smoothly. I steered back the way I had come but made a turn up Norwood Road. I arrived at another squat where I would stay the night before my long ride to Preston. Only Grace was home. A good Christian amongst a household of marginal characters, she felt this was the right place to fulfill her role. She boiled a kettle on the gas stove. The house had no electric. An oasis of darkness in this city of tiny lights. We drank tea and I explained that I had left the house in Herne Hill and tomorrow would cycle to Preston. She had some panniers for a bicycle and wondered if they would be any help. This was very fortuitous as cycling with my rucksack on my back would have been tedious.
Soon more inhabitants of the house arrived. Adam and Kasia had been looking at a van to buy. They were planning to travel to festivals to sell tea and cakes. Adam was my busking partner. He played the violin and I the flute. We would buy a day travel ticket and head down the underground. Busking was not permitted. We would pitch until an official moved us and then find another spot and continue thus. After an hour or two, if we had not made much money we would take a more proactive approach. The two of us would board the Piccadilly line. One would play and the other would pass the hat. Playing to a captive audience proved more profitable. This was not popular with the authorities and a more frightening breed of enforcer was called to severely reprimand us. We made our profit for the day and retired.
Adam invited me up to his room for a drink. Kasia greeted me and Adam brought out a bottle of rum. He smiled his cheeky smile as he poured me out a capful. Kasia protested that this was the most ungracious way to drink. Adam seemed perplexed that she frowned upon this elegant ritual. He decided to get a couple of glasses. We sipped our libations and he told me of the van they had viewed. He politely acquitted me as he and Kasia wished to relax. I descended to the front room.
Dean and Colin were hanging out. Dean was a chunky guy. He was strumming a few chords on his guitar. He was proud to tell me he had learnt in prison. I didn't enquire why he had been. Colin was a gangly creature. He sang a little song - "Small boys are cheap today, cheaper than yesterday. Big boys are two and six cuz they've got bigger dicks!" I demurely acknowledged their mysterious performance. Soon they retreated to their domain. In this large Victorian house I felt I would not disturb the residents too much with a little flute playing. There was still some daylight left on this summer evening so I took out my music stand and began "A tune a day for flute, book two". I carefully studied the first lesson, which was a short excerpt from a classical piece of music. Allowing myself small concessions in timing and correct breathing I felt I had done justice to the notes. I repeated until I made a successful rendition three consecutive times and relaxed. As the day began to darken I made myself an early bed.
Before the house awoke, on an early summer morn, I arose, packed my panniers and set off. With my last few pounds I bought bread, cheese and tomatoes. I filled a large plastic bottle with water before I commenced. My plan was to busk. I had only busked with Adam and our other colleague Sean, who played guitar. I had to break out on my own. By cycling northwards with no money I would be forced into action. I headed through the city. Buildings, traffic and people. I would wait till I came out the other side and find a more tranquil settlement. All morning long through the big smoke. By the afternoon I exited the metropolis and arrived at St Alban's. This looked like the place. I wandered up and down the streets and found an alleyway that looked perfect for the job. Another circle before I plucked up the courage. And another. Indecision was the precursor to failure. I couldn't bring myself to do it. I mounted my cycle once more and continued to the countryside. Into the evening I traveled on. Long before dark I perched my two wheels against a gate and climbed over into a field. I sat down and ate the last of my food and drank water. With no sign of rain this would be a fine spot to bed down. I brought my bicycle in behind the hedge and rolled out my mat and sat down. An hour later the twilight began. I unwrapped my sleeping bag and lay on it. When the darkness came I climbed in as the air cooled.
Awake with the early dawn I began to pedal. I would follow the main road two hundred miles to Preston. Slowly I advanced. I did not wish to stress my bicycle. With its squeaky bottom bracket and precariously aligned wheels it would not take much to cause a breakdown. I had no tools and no puncture outfit. Not even a pump. With only water for breakfast I was hungry. In my overcoat I was a tramp on wheels. My cause - the road. I scoured the edges for food. A lonesome carrot was becoming rubbery. I cleaned it and ate up. Some fresh tomatoes were more satisfactory. A loaf of bread was slimy and best left alone.
As a hitch-hiker I had learned to stick to the motorway service stations where it was easy to ask for a lift. Extravagent automobilists would buy a meal to break up their journey. Half eaten plates were easily come by. As a cyclist I remained on the A road. With a bicycle I was a different beast. I had no lock. I could not venture far from my transport. I had placed myself in a trial of endurance. If the bicycle broke down in any way I was prepared to abandon it and stick out my thumb, but while it continued to function I would continue the challenge.
I spied a church a little distance from the main road. I carefully approached. Never recklessly pedalling over rough ground but watchfully weaving my way around the potholes to avoid damage. Here I found a tap and refilled my two litre bottle of water. A bench under a wondrous oak tree tempted me to sit. An empire of wood. The majesty of God. I rested a while. The sun was rising higher in the sky and the day began to heat up. I rolled up my overcoat and strapped it between the panniers. My fedora was good for all weathers and would shade my face from the sun.
Back on the road I progressed at minimal speed to conserve both the bicycle and myself. I found a bottle of Coca-Cola. Sweet fizzy drinks became my staple as they were frequently discarded. I admired the landscape of open fields over the hedge. Lay-bys became my hunting grounds. Overflowing bins provided half eaten sandwiches and portions of chips. I checked the freshness of my gains. I steered clear of the motorists. After gathering at the lay-by I continued down the road to find a gate into the fields. Over and a few steps along I was miles away from the hysteria. To be nowhere was far away. The beautiful green soothed me. No sensuous love but the airy soft of nature.
Time ticked on and my pedals turned. Through towns I passed. Better to leave the buildings behind. More order meant less pickings. The road was my provider. The speedy traveller lay waste to the landscape. Like a bird who picks the worms from the furrow of the plough, I followed his trail. The weather became overcast and as I journeyed North the roadside rewards became fewer. I sustained myself with the sugary sweet infusions. The sun broke through on the low evening horizon as I retreated to the fields for the night. I picked flowers of clover for my supper. A healthy antidote to the sickly orange Tango. My place apart was a homeless home. The crimson crumbs disappeared over the cloudy edge. No flash of luminous green to enlighten the miracle of life.
I awoke thirsty and drank half of my half bottle of water. Now half a litre left. My first hunt was the basis of all living organisms. The colourless, transparent, odourless liquid that forms the seas, lakes, rivers and rain. But no rain was falling on my cavalcade. I peeled the landscape for opportunity. Down across the slope of the field was a drinking trough for the cows. An old bath with a ball valve tap. I enjoyed the opportunity to stroll over the grass. Another step away from civilization. Don't let me leave your lonely world. In the corner of the field stood a figure. Where had he come from? He observed me as I made my way towards the trough. As I looked in his direction he looked away and slowly began to follow the hedge in the other direction. An educated ignorance let our paths diverge. I filled my bottle and gave a furtive glance. He had disappeared. Back to my bicycle and onto the road. As the heat rose the breeze cooled me.
Towards the conurbation again. The commuters speeding past. At a gentle pace I progressed. l followed the signs. Into the lay-by for a breather. The bins were still empty at this early hour. I continued along, my hunger sharpening my senses. A bottle of Tizer lay alone, its label still fresh. The bright orange liquid had not faded in the sun. As I unsrewed the lid a fizz was released. Still cool from the night air, the three quarters full bottle was my saviour. My motor was fuelled and I journeyed on. The Hawthorne blossom adorned the hedges and little birds darted in and out. Free from responsibilities I was happy. Then into the town, still asleep at this early hour. Close to a bus stop lay a crispy twist. A little stale from yesterday with possibly an aftertaste of pollution, but free from any major infestation. I gratefully received my alimentation. Slowly through, I found some fallen fruit and out before the shopping day began.
A successful incursion on my path of unachievement. I was beginning to feel my stomach contract due to minimal nourishment. Hopefully a more substantial morsel would come my way. The next lay-by proved successful and an old cheese sandwich filled the hole, washed down with a young vintage of Pepsi-Cola. I covered some distance and felt the beauty of slow movement through the open landscape. Untangled from constant timetables. My legs were tired, but I eased them along this route of endurance. By night time I was nearing the middle of my journey. Exhausted, I found a field to sleep before darkness fell.
A little after the break of day I bundled up my bed, glugged down my water and put my tired limbs into action. Soon the aches disappeared and the legs pumped on. The miles rolled by and the usual supply of half drunk cans and bottles of fizzy pop came my way. A paper wrapped portion of chips still damp with the morning dew eased into my contracted belly. One hundred miles to Preston. The exaltation of the hobo is a pure state. Not dependant on the pyramids of power but fuelled by introspection, the simple beauty of existence. The wheels turned a thousand revolutions per hour. A warmer day required more liquid. A bottle of water lay in my path.This temporary life was permanent. My engagement with the ephemeral was taking hold. Not a gung ho radical but a subtly seduced devotee. No right or wrong in this newfound philosophy. Like a mysterious language unfolding. Thus I progressed. The beautiful green fields passed by. A half eaten snicker bar was beginning to melt as I peeled back the wrapper. Why would anyone leave such a delicacy behind? The road steepened and I walked my bicycle along. The cars passed frighteningly close but in the light of day they must have seen the lonesome voyager. I became bomb proof as I toiled on. At my slowest pace I savoured the vast uninhabited space. Maybe tomorrow I would arrive. The day stretched out. The climb continued. Walking was pleasant but I still had many miles to go. The road levelled and I climbed back onto the saddle. The outskirts of another town passed by and the fields welcomed my lonesome spirit . I must enter once again. I had travelled far. Not to the Serengeti or the snow capped mountains of the Alps but to England's green and pleasant land. I reclined a while.
On my way again I searched for water. I found a handy size bottle of Tango but yearned for some pure H2O. A petrol station was the solution. From the brightly illuminated shell shop the cashier surveyed the forecourt. What was this ragged character that perched its cycle by the pumps? He gave me an intimidating look. I spied the toilets to the side of the buildings and walked towards them. Too busy counting change he did not pursue. I filled my bottle and relieved myself. The retail attendant imposed his precarious authority with a glare as I demurely cycled away.
Once more unto the breach. As I became used to my weariness, stamina developed. The collective society created bridges, tunnels and great feats of engineering, as I, the individual, traversed the landscape. Now drifting down a gentle slope the smooth tarmac carried me along. For no reason a car honked his horn. Maybe I had meandered a little from my narrow edge as my reverie blurred my mind. Ferocious milk thistles leaned out from the verge as their heavy buds boasted bright purple flowers. A capacious lay-by welcomed me in. As I slowed to a halt I spied an unusual find. A clear plastic bag full of thick pre-cooked pancakes! I parked my cycle by the bin and inspected the filling fuel. They smelt good and fresh. Keen to ingest I ambled to a quiet corner of the empty lay-by and sat down to feast. From the close-by brambles I picked blackberries to garnish my repast. Washed down with wonderful water this was fine fayre. My belly filled as I leaned on the smooth trunk of a large sycamore. My hunger assuaged I began to doze. The sound of a car pulling in woke me and slowly I returned to my velocipede. Late into the day I pedalled and found my field a little before dusk. Not too far tomorrow.
Weary I awoke. I would be glad to reach home. At last a sign indicated only forty-five miles to Preston. The feeling of a full belly escaped me and signals were sent to my eyes to be alert. I began to tire of my desperation. A large bag of crisps were soggy but tasted okay. I forgot my status and enjoyed my breakfast. I pushed on towards Warrington. Now I was nearing home. I filled up with water in a large urban cemetery. I was surprised how prosperous the town looked. Only 30 miles from Preston we were still in the county of Cheshire which described the appealing look of the town better than the grim sounding name of Warrington. In my memory the name was coupled with Wigan - the next town along the road. This was in the region of Greater Manchester and was more in keeping with my vision of an average Northern town. I cycled by, leaving only twenty miles to Preston. Now on through small towns whose names, first heard when I was a child, conjured up strange images of places outside my small infant world. Standish, Eccleston, Euxton, the famous Leyland, Bamber Bridge, Walton-le-dale passed by and I arrived at the rough house of Preston. It was strange that what once seemed to me a normal town now seemed a brutal place after my travels to more comfortable zones. I steered down Friargate past the old Black Horse where I drank my first pint of Old Tom and on by the Adelphi where I acquired a taste for Tennant's Extra. Past the student accommodations and along the downbeat Plungington Road until at last I emerged into the temperate zone of the Withy Trees. Into the bourgeois suburbia of Fulwood.Through Broughton and on past my old primary school by the medieval St John the Baptist church. Now out into the farmland once again. Not the unknown wilderness but familiar fields of my youth. There I had picked mushrooms. As the main road gently sloped I looked over to the large tree on a steep hill where we had built our daring rope swing. The large railway bridge spanned over the small river where our adventures flowed.
At last I turned into Station Lane. Past the large detached houses and over a small railway bridge and a sharp left took me down a bumpy track. The shared road was never well maintained though it led to our impressive house. My father had bought the ruins of an old stately home and built our large family residence on a small portion of the foundations. I hoped someone would be home. My dad was mowing the lawn. He was surprised to see me. I was tired and drawn after my expedition. He wondered what had happened to me. He seemed confused that I had cycled all the way from London.I was glad to be home. Though I wandered errant I still had this retreat. Nothing lasts forever.