The Accidental Cyclist (26 page)

The Leader poked at the brown
potion, which appeared to be spread across a bed of mashed
potatoes.

“You a vegetarian, boy?” Brother
Sam asked The Leader.

“No sir. At least, I don’t think
so.”

“No matter. There’s no meat in
there, so everyone can eat it.”

“But what is it?” asked The
Leader.

“Mushroom and lentil casserole,”
said Brother Sam. “Get it down you. It’ll keep you going for miles
tomorrow.”

The Leader groaned slightly at
the thought of the miles he’d be cycling tomorrow. He was still
shifting in his seat, trying to get comfortable and help his
backside forget the miles that they had cycled today.

Quickly the dining room settled
into the sounds of men eating, the sounds of men who know each
other well, and are not conscious of being in one another’s
company. The Grey Man recognised those sounds, as did The Leader to
a lesser degree, the chewing, the occasional soft belch, the
scratching and the sighing. But to Icarus the sounds were alien, of
another culture, because they were the sounds that men make only
when they have long been deprived of the presence of women.

In spite of the food’s outward
appearance, Icarus and The Leader found their supper unexpectedly
tasty and filling and, copying the monks, they used the crusts of
their bread to mop up the last traces of gravy on their plates.
Slowly, as the food disappeared, the conversation reappeared.

Brother Sam spotted the scallop
on Icarus’s collar. “So, you’re pilgrims then, I gather.”

“Yes,” said Icarus, “we
are.”

“Yes,” repeated the Grey Man,
and Icarus spotted a sudden sparkle in his eye. “We’re on a
pilgrimage to spread the word.”

“You’re spreading the word of
God?” asked Brother Sam, his surprise obvious. Could Peter have
been miraculously converted to the faith?

“Well, not really the word of
God. We’re spreading the wheel of God,” said the Grey Man.

“So, you’re proselytising?”
Brother Sam asked Icarus. A flash of alarm sparked across Icarus’s
eyes. He had never heard the word, and knew not what Brother Sam
was talking about.

“You could say we’re
proselytising,” the Grey Man interjected, but Brother Sam turned
and addressed his next question to The Leader: “What is your
destination, then?”

“Mont Ventoux,” said Icarus.

“That is not a place of
pilgrimage that I have heard of,” said Brother Sam, turning back to
Icarus. “Is it a place of some particular significance?”

“It’s the spot where Tommy
Simpson died,” said The Leader.

“I’ve not heard of this
particular saint,” Brother Sam mumbled, more to himself than to the
others. “The blasted Romans keep creating more and more saints,
it’s so difficult to keep up with it all …”

The Grey Man said: “So you’ve
not heard of the blessed Thomas Simpson, Brother Sam? He’s the
patron saint of all cyclists in the British Isles.”

Brother Sam frowned darkly, then
realised that he was being teased, and his face softened. “It is
good to have a sense of humour in these matters,” he said, “but you
must remember that a pilgrimage is a serious matter, and it must be
done in God’s name, and in God’s name alone.”

There followed some heated
debate between the Grey Man and the assembled monks about the
necessary attributes of a pilgrimage. Icarus and The Leader were
too tired to listen, so made their excuses and returned to the
ancient caravan. They crawled into their sleeping bags side by side
on the double bed and fell asleep. Outside the summer sun was just
dipping past the horsechestnut trees at the bottom of the
meadow.

The Leader was the first to
wake the next morning. He turned over, opened his eyes, and was
awake instantly. “What’s that noise?” he asked no one in
particular. Then: “Why is it still light outside?”

“Go back to sleep,” said a voice
from under a blanket at the far end of the caravan. It was the Grey
Man. “It’s gone four o’clock, you dummy, so it’s already
light.”

“But what was that noise? It
sounded like a creature being strangled.”

“It was a rooster,” the voice
responded. “And if you don’t keep quiet and go back to sleep,
you’ll be strangled.”

The Leader turned over and
snuggled back down into his sleeping bag, just as Icarus opened his
eyes. He rubbed them and said: “What’s going on?”

Outside the rooster crowed
again. “What on earth is that?” Icarus asked.

Icarus and The Leader lifted the
curtain. On a post just beyond their window was a proud red and
white cockerel, with puffed-out chest and a bright red comb,
announcing to the whole world that it was a beautiful day and it
was time that everyone was up.

“Somebody just throw something
at the bloody thing,” the Grey Man shouted from somewhere inside
his nest of blankets. Icarus opened the window and The Leader
hurled a shoe at the offending bird. The shoe missed the bird but
struck the post. The cockerel squawked and looked offended. It
tried to fly off, but its clipped wings prevented it from flying
more than a few yards. With what appeared to be a disgruntled look
at the two young men in the caravan it flapped across to the
chicken coop, where it knew that it ruled the roost, and Icarus,
The Leader and the Grey Man went back to sleep.

Icarus woke again about an hour
later. He lay still, staring up at the roof of the caravan. It was
quite a boring roof, he thought, not at all as interesting as the
ceiling of his bedroom. The bedroom ceiling was a Victorian affair
made of pressed metal and had swirls and curlicues, and leafs and
ferns. Over the years he had lain in bed for hours staring up at
the ceiling, losing himself in the patterns, daydreaming of big
adventures in a world he would never know. The caravan’s ceiling
was just a mottled grey, with patches of mould in the corners for
decoration. He tried to discern a pattern in the shapes of the
mould, but could not find one. I would rather be lying in my own
bedroom, staring up at the ceiling there, Icarus told himself. And
then he thought a bit about that assertion and decided that it was
not necessarily true. No. The bedroom ceiling was infinitely more
interesting and absorbing that the caravan’s, that he could not
deny. Even as he lay there, The Leader snoring gently alongside,
Icarus could picture every swirl, every curlicue, each leaf and
fern of that bedroom ceiling. Clearly he had lived there too
long.

He studied the patterns of the
mould above him now, tried to memorise the shapes. He shut his eyes
tight and tried to reproduce them in his mind’s eye. He could not.
He opened his eyes again. The splodges and splatters were not where
he remembered them. For a while longer Icarus just lay there and
stared at the ceiling, just as he had stared at the ceiling of his
bedroom. But instead of becoming carried away into the pattern
itself, Icarus’s mental processes churned away unconsciously, until
it dawned on him, in his early morning reverie, that his mouldy,
splodgy caravan roof was infinitely more exciting and interesting
than his bedroom ceiling, because it was new and unknown.

Last night, Icarus said to
himself, last night is the first night, as far as I can remember,
that I did not sleep in my own bed, in my own bedroom, in my
mother’s flat.

He wondered for a while what his
mother might have to say about that. But then he realised that it
did not matter what she might have to say, he did not care what she
might have to say. And the not caring seemed to lift a tremendous
weight from his chest.

Icarus rolled over and quietly
climbed out of his sleeping bag. He tiptoed to the door and went
outside into the strengthening sunlight. For some time he just
stood there, barefoot on the dew-damp grass, drinking in the sights
and sounds of the countryside.

Soon after a hearty
porridge-and-toast breakfast Icarus, the Grey Man and The Leader
were packed, replenished and mounted, ready to head eastwards,
onwards towards Dover and what Icarus believed was the real
beginning of their pilgrimage. The Leader groaned as he straddled
his saddle. “It’ll get better once you get going,” the Grey Man
told him.

Brother Sam embraced them one by
one with his bear hug and the monks waved and cheered as the trio
turned down the lane, crossed a small stream and followed the high
stone wall that surrounded the abbey. As they emerged from the
tunnel of trees The Leader, who was at the front, braked so sharply
that Icarus and the Grey Man almost ran into the back of him.

“What’s up?” Icarus asked.

“Look,” said The Leader, “a
platoon of penguins.”

Ahead of them, lining one side
of the road in front of the stone wall, was a row of nuns, all
wearing black habit and white wimple. The Grey Man gave The
Leader’s ear a sharp twist, so that for a few moments he forgot his
saddlesoreness. The Grey Man leant his bike against the wall and
went up to the first nun.

“Mother Mary Matthew, it’s so
good to see you,” he said.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” she
replied. “I am glad to see you are in good health, Patrick, and
finding your way in the world. God speed you on your journey.”

Icarus looked at The Leader and
mouthed Patrick at him, with a big question mark after it.

The Grey Man meanwhile was
moving along the line of nuns, addressing each by name. Sister Mary
Mark, Sister Mary Luke, Sister Mary Andrew, and so on. Finally he
came to the last nun. She was quite a bit younger than the rest.
Icarus recognised her as the nun who had passed him on the hill
into town the previous evening. Beneath her wimple she was
blushing. As the Grey Man addressed her simply as Sister Susan, she
said nothing, but blushed brighter than before, and she pulled from
under her habit a small silver package and gave it to him.

“Why, God bless you, sister,” he
said. “And God bless you all, sisters.”

“He does,” said Mother Mary
Matthew sternly. “And let us ask Him to bless you as you go on your
way.” And she turned smartly and quickstepped back into the abbey,
the sisters following obediently like baby ducks following their
mother. Sister Susan was the last to go in, and as she turned,
still blushing, to close the large wooden gate, Icarus could have
sworn that she gave the Grey Man a big wink with her final
wave.

“What’s in the package?” asked
Icarus.

“Why’ve they all got men’s
names?” asked The Leader.

“Cheese sandwiches,” said the
Grey Man.

The Leader repeated his
question, but clearly the Grey Man did not wish to answer any more
questions and was already setting a smart pace down the road.
Icarus and The Leader groaned as they set of in pursuit.

It was another hot day as the
three pilgrims pedalled through the rolling Kent countryside,
snaking their way just south of the North Downs, heading for Dover,
where that band of chalk downland would end abruptly in a series of
sheer white cliffs. Icarus and his fellow cyclists passed through
apple orchards, occasional hop fields, and endless valleys of
golden wheat peppered by patches of bright red poppies.

By late afternoon, when the
uphills seemed to be steeper than ever and the downhills too short,
the Grey Man turned down a narrow track and into a farmyard. A sign
on the gate told them that campers were welcome.

“Tonight we sleep under the
stars,” he announced.

Icarus and The Leader felt they
could have slept right there in the saddle, were it possible. They
followed the Grey Man into a field, where they rolled out their
sleeping bags in the shade of a sprawling oak tree and lay down.
It’s just like the park at home, Icarus mused as he looked up into
the branches. He was just drifting off when a strange bleating
sound brought him back to the present.

“What’s that?” he asked,
alarmed.

The sound was coming from the
hedge just behind them. The three walked up to the hedge and looked
over into the next field, where several ewes and their lambs were
grazing.

“Oh, look,” said The Leader,
“pretty little lambs. I’ve never seen a lamb before. Not up close
like this.”

“What about when you had a few
slices of one on your plate for Sunday dinner?” the Grey Man
asked.

The Leader looked at him aghast.
“You mean this is where roast lamb comes from?”

“Where else did you think it
came from?”

The Leader stood there and
watched a pair of lambs as they played in the field, chasing one
another, jumping onto a bale of straw, or the big, fat ram, as if
they were playing king of the castle.

The Leader regarded them for a
while, then muttered, more himself than to anyone else: “I suppose
I’m never going to be able to eat lamb again. Not without thinking
of these cute little things.” He turned to the Grey Man and added:
“Man, I do wish that you’d never told me that.”

Sleep evaporates from Icarus’s
eyes like the morning mists. The Grey Man is not in his sleeping
bag. The Leader is still asleep, a slowly pulsing mound on the dewy
ground. Icarus sits up, rubs the last mists from his eyes and looks
around for the Grey Man. He finds him on the far edge of the
fields, staring east, silhouetted by the rising sun. He looks
tired. Clearly he has not slept well, and even his shadow is
looking older, stooped. Icarus decides it is not time to talk. He
lies back and waits for the morning sun to warm the air around
him.

We are on the third day of our
travels, and as we get nearer to the coast, the Grey Man becomes
quieter, almost morose. Icarus and The Leader, although tired, are
becoming accustomed to the long days in the saddle. Along the way
they observe more, enjoy it more, while the Grey Man seems to
become more and more withdrawn.