Loud noise.

Right in my ear.

I bolt upright. Eyes wild. Adrenaline dumping.

Tent...

Angola.

Rooster?

Fuck it.

Fuck you. Fucking rooster.

I unclench. Slowly.

Cocker-doodle-fuckin-doo.

The rest of the roosters in the tree next to the tent take up the chorus. I think they were all as surprised as I was... There must be a whole fucking flock of the bastards. It’s still near pitch in the middle of the chilly night. Christ knows what time, but it’s nowhere near dawn.

I roll back down to sleep.

---

Loud noise.

"Argh!"

Damn that fucking retarded rooster!

This is the third time that bastard has woken me up.

The rest of the bastards are cutting sick with the premature chorus.

It's like they're doing it right in my ear.

Jesus!

I’m going to find that bastard and wring his neck...

---

Again...

Fucker.

This time, it’s a little lighter out.

Dawn. Must be.

I lie still...

The roosters won’t stop.

Now it’s goats. Right outside my tent. Bleating like crazy.

Nature’s alarm clock.

There’s no staying asleep anymore.

My body’s in rigor mortis. It takes time to move even an inch.

Bleary eyed, I poke my head out of the tent.

The chief is sitting outside on a chair. I think he’s got the same problem as I do. Either that or he’s been waiting for me to get up for a chat.

"Ola..."

First things first though; I head to The Shrike.

The front tyre seems fine. So does the back, for that matter...

I give my second last banana to the chief, and we both have breakfast.

The chief watches me while I strike camp.

I go and take a shit over the back of the village in the bush somewhere.

We’re good to go...

I won’t lie, I’m nervous about today. Nervous about the last thirty clicks.

Scared.

I just want to throw the bike into the back of a truck or something and be a passenger.

I’m so tired of worrying.

But, I satisfy myself with saying that it doesn’t matter if it takes me the whole day; all that matters is that I make it the next thirty. That’s enough.

Take it easy.

I fire up as quietly as I can - which is fucking loud - and peel out.

---

As the kilometres and time tick by I feel like I’m on a treadmill. Tomboco seems to get further and further away.

All stretched again. Skewed. Fucked up.

I’m terrified.

So bloody scared.

Every second is an almost physical effort to suppress the panic. The closer I get, the more panicked I feel. It just keeps building up on me till it’s too much.

I can’t focus.

The breaks have to come more and more often.

In the end I’m breaking every few kilometres to take a walk and compose myself.

To try to calm down.

To check the tyres.

It’s a tiny, infinite nightmare.

---

Till it’s not...

There it is...

Tarmac.

Blacktop. Assfalto.

Return of the ‘mac.

Euphoria. Pure elation.

I’m overwhelmed. Overcome.

It’s over.

I take a moment or two at my “border”. I walk about for a bit and I soak it all up.

I get back on the Shrike and we cross the threshold.

Unbidden, I find myself screaming in my helmet.

Roaring.

Over and over again with all the air in my lungs.

Like an animal.

I don’t know how many times, or for how long...

But I let it all out.

I roar into the helmet till I'm hoarse.

And then I roar some more.

I tell it to the trees.

It's done.