It’s time to leave.

I saddle up the Shrike.

Tearing myself away from this safe place, it's as hard as it's ever been. But there's no choice; no reason to stay.

I fire up and roll out of the backpackers.

Onto the main drag of Tsumeb and I can already feel that my sense of balance is off. I have to make constant, un-natural, machine like inputs of thinking and movement to keep the bike in a straight line.

I don’t think I’m going to make it to the next village... Not like this...

No turning back now. Just fucking do it.

---

There’s fuck all to see.

Just like always.

I'm trying to stay on top of my breathing and trying to keep my mind positive. It’s a constant effort.

The next village, Otjiwarongo, isn’t far. A touch under two hundred clicks. About three hours in the saddle.

I'm counting every minute, ticking every kilometre.

I continually calculate the ETA; the estimated time of arrival. Constantly dividing distance remaining by current speed.

It’s exhausting.

---

I ride into town, still ok, just before midday.

I stop to see if my GPS has accommodation options on it, like in Tsumeb. After looking for a few minutes, focused on the little GPS screen, I swoon. Hard. I nearly drop the Shrike.

Fizzzzzzz...

I was holding my breath. I'm not sure for how long. But enough to nearly black out.

I’m ok.

The moment I stop thinking about it I just stop breathing.

It’s fucking exhausting me, thinking about it every second of the day. It’s just not natural.

---

I get accommodation at the local church, in with the nuns.

$N180 a night.

18 bucks.

It’s ok.

No, actually, for that price, for a church, it’s pretty shit.

There are two beds - which is no good to me. I’m essentially paying double.

I’m all settled in and it’s just past midday, or something like that.

Now what..?

Otjiwarongo is hardly inspiring...

There’s nothing to do. It's a dead, halfway town.

I need distractions but this place is like being stuck in a sensory deprivation chamber.

Nothing to do but fill a lot of hours between lunch and dinner and bedtime.

I’m not busy enough.

That could be part of what’s eating me.

A rectangle would be ideal right now. Any form of escapism.

Give me a fucking Idiot Box.

As it is, all I’ve got is a crappy, easy-reading novel.

Over the hours I read about half of it, then go for dinner.

---

I walk the dark village for an hour.

Nothing doing.

But that’s fine, because the town has a “Wimpies”, a shitty looking fast food joint.

I miss my street food...

I head to Wimpies and they’re fucking shut.

Shut!?

Bastards.

It’s only 7pm. What the fuck is going on??

Fucking shithouse.

There’s no kitchen at the church so I can’t cook myself something.

I head to the local supermarket and buy a fucking awful looking, plastic wrapped, deep fried chicken, paired with an extremely questionable, cold frankfurt sausage and a buttered bread roll. Coming included with the meal is a tin of soft drink.

Not long ago an egg sandwich would have been a perfectly acceptable dinner. And now this seems super-duper suspect. Funny how quickly standards can change...

I eat the cold chook, pass on the sausage.

I need a shower.

Of course, it’s fucking cold.

Of-fucking-course.

I fucking hate this.

It must be near freezing outside. Literally. It’s fucking freezing and there’s no fucking hot water.

Fuck this.

I come out of the half-minute shower with pink skin. Shivering with violence. Swearing. Colourfully. In a church.

I’m going to hell...

---

I wake up on my back staring at the ceiling. Eyes wide.

Heart smashing in my chest. Like a hammer.

It feels like my heart’s going to break.

I hate this.

I hate this so much.

I have to cram down my rising panic that’s already out of control.

It’s light.

Another day.

It’s very early. I put on my shoes and go running.

It's outrageously cold. Seriously, bitterly cold. Beyond cold. The sun is a blinding bright pin-prick in the late dawn of a cloudless blue sky, giving no warmth whatsoever. The whole world feels brittle and dry. Snap frozen.

I'm in a pair of shorts and a “breathable” singlet...

I cut the run very, very short; my nipples are threatening to make a break for it.

I take another shower of frozen-over hell and go through the motions, loading The Shrike like a robot.

I can’t control my heart. It won’t listen to me. It’s its own master.

Well, I’m leaving anyway.

I can’t stay here another day.

What would I do?

I fire up the Shrike. Bless it. It's never given me trouble despite the freezing temperatures and it's hard, short life.

I whack a dirty big strip of gaffer tape over my speedometer. Fuck you, ETA’s. I don’t wanna hear about it anymore.

I bid the nuns farewell, they don’t seem to like me much.

We peel off into the still freezing, crisp air.