Chapter 21
The road to Picketburg isn’t long, but half of it is under construction. That’s a shitload of construction.
The road isn’t bad though and when I get some cruising up it’s a nice meander around the mountain ranges, which have gradually become more and more interesting since crossing the border.
Despite it being a short day with nice sunshine and decent, distracting views, I never feel far from total panic.
I hate being on this bike. Every minute is a minute of feeling fucking terrible.
In actual fact, this ride is absolutely superb; most mountainous roads are.
Not long ago, a ride like this – this constant bending with no need for brakes but always rolling the throttle - would have had me grinning like an idiot, would have had me bouncing in the saddle and making stupid noises in my helmet. Like a happy moron.
Instead, I can’t wipe this tense grimace off my face. It won’t go. I’m so fucking wound up. And it’s a travesty. Just a wasted opportunity to enjoy what is one of the great rides of the trip.
Makes me feel even worse.
Instead of wishing this road would never end, I’m wishing the miles would pass faster, get me to Picketburg sooner. Instead of savouring it, I want to skip it.
Every minute the tension cranks itself.
By the time I roll into Picketburg my teeth are on edge and I’m borderline fucking frantic.
Picketburg.
This is it: the final pit stop.
One stop from final destination.
I shack up at a B&B that’s basically just someone’s old house and they've given me one of the rooms. It's a bit weird to be living with a stranger. But they’re old so, yeah, no worries.
I head out for a late lunch and just for a meander. I feel the need to shake that morning off, somehow.
It just fucking clings to me.
Walking down the main drag of this tiny nothing town I come out of my own head and into the real world in a snap.
Something’s got my back up... and my skin crawls just a little...
I look about me. Despite the broad daylight, this place is dodgy as fuck.
Pissed drunk people everywhere with punters passed out on the pavement. Not pretty. At all.
All eyes are on me.
All the eyes.
Not nice eyes either.
What the fuck is this about then?
I puff my chest out and make myself walk tall. I give my best “don’t you dare fuck with me” face. More like the “don’t even fucking think of talking to me, don’t fucking dare” face. It’s basically just a malevolent squint and a pulling at the corners of the mouth. “go ahead, punk, make my day”.
I’m shitting it.
This has snuck up on me, bigtime, I never thought that after all the places I’ve been so far, that Picketburg would feel the dodgiest...
I’ve walked through the market quarter of Lagos, alone. I’ve been in the whore-houses of Monrovia, for fuck's sake.
It’s palpable. I can feel these jokers sizing me up.
Fuck this.
I quick step it to the local supermarket and calm down over a tub of yoghurt.
Crisis averted.
Note to self: Be behind locked doors before the sun sets.
After whittling away the sunlight hours in conspicuous places I come back to my room to stew my brain for the night.
Escapism doesn’t even do the job, while I eat my dinner of bananas and apples and more yoghurt, watching a movie, I can’t stop a tremor in my hands. It’s cold, but it's not that cold...
I can’t write. Every time I try I feel like I’m going to slip over some edge, as though thinking too much is dangerous. I push it away.
I’m ratcheted to snap.
In my heart, I know that I’m not going to make it.
One half day. A quarter day, even. And that's it.
But I know that I’m not going to get there.
I can feel that it’s not going to happen.
Something will break.
I can’t sleep.
I don’t.
I’m exhausted, at the end of my tether, but my heart keeps smashing in my body. Enough that it makes my whole body wiggle while I lie in bed.