We’re ten days away from the fiftieth anniversary of that day.
There was no one on earth I would have changed places with. Or so I thought – until that black night on the pavement of Grays Inn Road, when I stood dripping rainwater, sweat and despair, crushed by the unwieldiness of the monster I had created, and the enormity of the prospect I had invented for myself.
Only three yards away, behind the thick glass doors of the Sunday Times lobby, was the bright and comfortable world that suited most people well enough. I could see the commissionaire, smoothly uniformed behind his desk, looking forward to a pint of beer and an evening with the telly. People in sensible light-weight suits, with interesting jobs and homes to go to, flaunted their security at me and I felt my gut scream at me to strip off this ridiculous outfit and rush back into that light and the familiar interdependence. It struck me very forcefully that if I went on with this folly I would forever after be the man outside in the gutter looking in. For a moment I was lost beyond hope, utterly defeated.
Then I turned away from all that, somehow fumbled my packages away, got on the bike and set off in the general direction of the English Channel. Within minutes the great void inside me was filled by a rush of exaltation, and in my solitary madness I started to sing.
What should we do about it, if anything? I know I’m going to drink something very special. How about you?
UPDATE
Joe Kearns in Dublin suggested people get together to mark the day at various locations around the world.
You can see the list of venues on this page.
It has been so hard to let go. I’ve been promising to do it for a year at least, but even at the last minute, with the money already in the bank, I couldn’t quite reconcile myself to losing the bike.
Drew and Ruth were there with the van, all ready to load but I had to take it off for one last spin around the block and I felt so good on it, no different to the way I’d felt riding to Greece or to Ukraine a decade or more ago.
It had been my European ride ever since Dirk Erker bought it on my behalf, in 1997. Dirk was a master mechanic and a great traveller himself, who rode a lot in Africa. He kept it in his workshop in Duisburg for me and he was the nominal owner for 12 years until he moved to Dusseldorf. By then the bike had a few problems, and it languished at the back of the shop for a while, until some German fans thought it would be fun to resurrect it if I would pay for the parts. Of course I said yes, and in 2017 I rode it, triumphantly, from Bavaria to France. But then my troubles with the French bureaucracy began. They changed the rules, and it was three years before the bike became legal.
Anyway, now the deed is done, and I know it was right thing for me to do.
So, with the help of two handy villagers, we shoved it up the ramp and, after a tearful farewell, it started its journey to a new life in Ireland.
Drew Millar, the happy new owner, is the bearded one. Jean-Marc (left) and his friend are on the outside, and the old guy in the middle – that’s me.
I still have the MP3 of course, and it’s big enough to take me anywhere I want to go. I’ll probably ride down the coast towards Spain someday soon and get a last look at the beach in the tail end of summer. Then I’ll get back to my notebooks, and bring you more memories from 47 years ago, probably from Singapore. I hope you’ll tune in.
And a new life begins, in Belfast
