You've Gone Too Far This Time, Sir! Read online

  Radim rustled us up a coffee which helped to calm my nerves which were still on full alert. He and I embraced. He appreciated my courage. He really was a very nice man and we had enormous fun all day. Hannah’s a lucky girl to have him.

  As night fell and we cycled back to the camp site, Hannah and Radim asked where I was going tomorrow. I mentioned that I wanted to get to Auschwitz in Poland without really knowing how far it was. They said it was impossible. One hundred and eighty kilometres in one day carrying all the kit too. Absolutely impossible.

  The attitude I’d suffered when my father had proclaimed that the trip to India was impossible and that I’d get killed took over. “Anything is possible,” I proclaimed, wanting to prove them wrong. They’d waved the red flag in front of a rather scrawny bull. I told them I was going for it.

  The next morning I woke and I sneaked out of the camp site trying not to wake the people who had kept me awake themselves with their snoring. It was as if the people in question had stuffed their mouths and nostrils with mucus, and then fallen asleep.

  As I pulled out of the gate, Radim and Hannah ran after me. “You’re not getting away that easily!”

  They’d decided to keep me company till the border, to try and give me some extra strength for what they were calling my pilgrimage. They would only come as far as the border as “it was the dark land” beyond. So I left my entourage behind at the border and honoured the millions of Jews who were forced to take this same route, saying goodbye to their loved ones just here - petrified, weakened by days of marching, never to be reunited.

  Once in Poland, the sun beat down as I pushed on without rest to Auschwitz, the German concentration camp. The wind blew so strongly into my face, at times I was pedalling like crazy to get DOWN hill. My own three-pronged whip, my ego, beat me to go faster and get there before nightfall.

  I needed food and water as I’d burnt off the Svíčková na smetaně (or steak in sauce) we had eaten in the morning, washed down with traditional Kofola - Czech cola. Initially I was hopeful that I’d find a café - the shops wouldn’t accept Czech money, dollars or pounds. As it was Sunday and banks were closed, I needed to withdraw money from an ATM but my bank had put my cards on hold on the grounds that money had been withdrawn abroad (because I'd been withdrawing it!).

  I was really thirsty. I had one very dry old bread roll in my bag which I tried to eat but the thick spit in my mouth wouldn't wash it down. No one offered me help, as had been the case for the Jews. They were probably scared of the consequences. I was looking quite scary and beardy at that moment. Those who offered food to the Jews as they were paraded past their houses were beaten. Those who helped them up were knocked to the ground in their place.

  I tried to lighten my mood by hooting my horn, singing, whistling and being generally cheery to the Poles, but got no reaction. Those travelling in the opposite direction simply kept their heads down or looked upon me with glazed eyes without moving a single facial muscle. When I hooted my horn, their eyes narrowed. Those talking in doorways moved inside and closed their shutters when I travelled past. It was eerie.

  I noticed on my map that I was getting close to the Czech Republic border again, and took an emergency turn to buy Mars bars, Coke and water. I'm sure the Jews were not allowed such luxuries!

  Marching on as the sun moved to my back and then behind the horizon (I am one stubborn man), I was sure I should have been there by now. My rough estimates on the map said I’d done the required 180 kilometres, but then realised I'd taken a wrong turn up a main road in the opposite direction. I had wondered where all those cars had come from. Turning, I trudged back the exact same way as darkness fell.

  Created in 1939 after the German invasion of Poland, three million people (mostly Jews) were killed in this concentration camp, normally in gas chambers. After their arrival they lived in shacks in the camps doing hard labour under terrible conditions, with no hygiene and poor nutrition.

  Describing myself as a zombie on my commute to London now seemed senseless. These people really were the living dead. No flesh hung from their bones, their eyes were sunken and dark, their clothes were shabby and torn, and insects infected their hair, clothes and bodies.

  They knew they had little to no hope.

  Comparing my suffering on a bike ride I chose to make to what they had suffered was almost a sin. It was incredibly sad and, in my weakened state, it put a tear in my eye. I stopped twenty kilometres from the camp and checked into the only hotel I could find, a posh one with velvet bed covers, silk curtains and a mattress that caressed my body. I was hungry, so was going to the restaurant; I was thirsty, so I'd probably sup on a soft drink or as much water as I needed, before lying down in my bed and sleeping till I fancied living my dream again.....

  Chapter 7

  Slowing as I passed Auschwitz to think of Radim and Hannah and the fact I hadn't made it in one day, I acknowledged that they had been right. I didn’t stop. After the emotions of the previous day, I didn’t think I could handle it.

  Yesterday was a Sunday. Polish people embrace the Catholic Church wholeheartedly.

  Today was Monday - so a different day. At home I knew everyone would be sour-faced, making their way to work, squeezed into the London Tube, sitting down to the desks and computers. Here in Poland, people had spent Sunday recharging their batteries and most had taken part in religious ceremonies that had left them revitalized and invigorated. This meant smiles, laughter and inquisitiveness all day for me.

  Polish girls are so utterly beautiful. It is like being a kid in a candy store. When the first one smiled at me, I almost pitched my tent at once and proposed to her right there and then, asking her to live in my tent happily ever after. If I’d continued in that vain I might have had a number of wives by now - that is assuming they all said 'yes', which I think a guy with my good looks, charm, wit and personality is entitled to assume (READ: ginger and quirky). One even introduced me to her grandfather whom we happened across on one of my moments of getting myself lost as she was leading me out of a maze on her bike.

  Until now I had used the sun to navigate quite successfully. As it rises in the east pretty well everywhere, I would head towards it in the morning and, as it sets in the west equally reliably, I would continue on with it at my back. However, the clouds were so dark today I was unable to use my shadow compass. Winding through the hills there was just no way of knowing where I was. I was really pleased when I found the little tiny road I needed and continued taking hill after hill for another 1.5 hours at which point I realised this road had taken me in a circle and I was now ten kilometres further away from my goal than when I had started.

  On my way into Krakow, the capital of Poland, I caught a bee in my teeth in such a way as would have made Mr Miyagi (from Karate Kid I, II and III) very proud. Either the bee was weak or I managed to spit it out just in time, because although it stung my lower lip which swelled a bit, the pain only lasted until I pulled in a camp site in Krakow.

  On my departure, Radim had given me a bottle of potato rum which I was able to offer to four French hippies who had set up their tent just next door to my own. As I cooked some pasta and vegetables, they had divided their dinner up on four plates. It didn’t look too appetising. They had five mushrooms each which comprised long thin stems and cone like heads, grimacing as they gulped them down. My dinner was ready and I felt obliged to share it with these guys. Surely that wasn’t enough.

  My offer was greeted by “No thanks, we’ll have our dinner later.”

  “I thought this was your dinner,” I replied gesturing to the empty plates.

  “No, they were magic mushrooms”.

  On their way here, they’d taken a detour via Amsterdam and stocked up on mushrooms and a huge quantity of marijuana which they hoped would keep them going for their two weeks of travelling.

  However, they were pulled over on an autobahn in Germany after sniffer dogs had smelt their weed. How slow must they have been travelling for a sniffer d
og to catch a whiff? Driving along at five kilometres per hour, they were probably saying to each other 'Wow, man, slow down. Let’s just chill out'.

  They spent a night in a cell, had their drugs confiscated and were then released on their not-so-merry way.

  As they enjoyed their magic mushroom moment, I savoured their talking and their laughter. The French language sounded like music as I lay watching the stars and satellites move through the sky.

  One of the boys looked at me suddenly and started giggling before erupting into full-blown laughter. In his strong French accent he alleged I looked like Wayne Rooney, the ugliest man in Premiership football. Why not Ronaldo, or Freddie Ljungberg even? I got him in a headlock but released him when I realised it must have been the hallucinogens leading him to make such insulting statements.

  As they became more spaced out, I wondered off and met a Russian who could speak German, so I proceeded to have a Russian lesson in German. Until I hit China, Russian was going to be my only conversational option as in many areas my English would be completely useless.

  * * *

  More steep gradients and smog accompanied me to my last stop in Poland before crossing into the ex-Soviet nations - Prezemyls. I was feeling smug as the big mountains were to my right and I was avoiding them until a swift right-angle headed me straight at them.

  On my arrival in Prezemyls, for the first time on the bike the sky opened and hurled rain down upon me, driving me to seek reasonably priced accommodation. Everything I owned was soaked to the bone.

  The hotels were extortionately expensive. Running into my last hotel and asking the price, I was greeted with the response that it would be 200z, or around £40, a night. I just couldn’t afford it. My face sank and I dripped out of the front door. As I picked up my bike dejectedly, the receptionist asked if I was desperate. “Yes,” I cried. He mentioned there was a dilapidated house behind the hotel that had a roof and, if I was lucky, a mattress on the floor. I was willing to give it a go. The house wasn’t in very good condition and wild dogs and cats had taken up residence, but it was dry and the walls offered some protection from the wind. I lay my sleeping bag out for a night's rest.

  Chapter 8

  A gun is pointing at my face.

  The day had started badly as I tried to leave Poland. A man had attacked me with his crutch. When I say crutch, I obviously mean one that helps a man to walk, although he didn’t seem to need it as he danced around jabbing and round-housing me.

  This border was also the first after crossing into France where I had to show my passport. The Schengen Agreement states that if someone is allowed into a country that has signed the treaty, then they can pass into any other member’s country without impediment. The Ukraine, although still in Europe, was my first country outside the agreement, but the passport inspection had still been a formality. My passport was stamped and I was told to hold onto my exit slip. Easy.

  The first difference I noticed in the Ukraine was the role of dogs in society, and with it their opinion of me. Dogs in the West are normally cute and fluffy. They like to bark at passing cyclists but only to say ‘hello’. Dogs in the Ukraine bark to let you know that they are coming after you, a point they tend to emphasise by bearing their teeth to remind you to cycle like mad.

  Two snarling dogs that seemed to want to tear the flesh from my bones had obviously planned their attack well. I was facing a war on two fronts, one dog on each flank. Unlike the Germans who had once suffered the same dilemma with the Russians to the east and the Brits to the west, I knew I had to squash one of my attackers. As the fiercer of the two made a lunge for my ankles, I swerved left and ran him over. He squealed as he passed under my wheel and I turned, feeling a little sorry for him. Reluctant to give chase on his own, the other dog slowed, allowing me to scamper away.

  Having just survived this ordeal, I was almost impaled as a ZAZ Soviet-made mini car, drove past with a javelin sticking out of the window. I imagined a massive Soviet javelin thrower like the infamous Sergey Makarov at 6”5 and fifteen stone squeezing into this tiny car to get to his training sessions on a daily basis.

  I can see along the dark barrel of the gun the finger of a blurred man whose eye is obscured by the sight.

  I arrived in L’viv, the main cultural centre of today's Ukraine. The historical heart of L'viv, with its old buildings and cobblestone roads, survived World War II and the ensuing Soviet presence largely unscathed. As I took a picture of boxes of chicks being sold, I caught the eye of a guy called Georgi who said he knew just the hostel for me. He did. Apart from the machine gun behind the counter hanging below the sign asking “Have you paid?”, it was fabulous.

  He left me to carry my bag and bike up to the hostel and met me and some of the workers from the hostel later that night.

  The cold of the metal hurts the skin on my forehead.

  L’viv has a strong nationalist movement whose members side with the EU and consider themselves of Western European rather than of Russian descent. Passing through the streets, I looked at the powerful architecture which must encourage this nationalist pride. Admiring a point where renaissance meets Art Nouveau, meets Gothic, I was stopped by someone placing the muzzle of his gun against my forehead. A soldier with a sub-automatic machine gun was barring my way. My legs went weak, my throat tightened, I couldn't speak. I'm not embarrassed to say I almost wet myself with fear. I could hear the harsh Russian voice shouting at me but my brain couldn’t decipher the words. His friends were laughing. I wasn't. He was thrusting something at me but my eyes were trained on the barrel of his gun. Again he thrust his hand towards me. I glanced down. A shot of vodka was in his hand. I looked back at the gun, then his face, then back at the vodka. He was inviting me to share a drink with him. Why didn’t he just ask?

  Georgi knew a restaurant only patronised by Ukrainians. The receptionist from the hostel ordered me vereniki, Ukrainian dumpling, and vodka was poured. Toasts were made, each with reference to my ‘unnatural’, as they called it, fear of guns. The lights flickered halfway through the meal, and went out. Power cut. I’d been assured these were common in the Ukraine. Silence ensued, only broken by the girl beside me who giggled and whispered “Now we kill a Russian”.

  It wasn't a very PC comment but I guessed relations weren't too sweet after many years of Soviet domination. The silence fell again before men bustled into the restaurant - the Ukrainian soldier and his colleagues. They shouted in Ukrainian and I make out “predatel” (traitor) and “Ruski” (Russian). They really were looking for a Russian. Can you believe it? They moved to the table adjacent to ours and interrogated a man right there, grabbing him and dragging him into a darkened side room. Two gun shots reverberated around the restaurant.

  The Ukrainians went mental, downing vodka, cheering, laughing, saluting. My mouth was open, my pupils dilated, a piece of dumpling hung from my lip, mingling with my beard. I was assured it had all been an act, but I still couldn't believe the night I had just had.

  * * *

  I left the hostel still dazed from the previous night. Standing next to a group of children playing on electric cars in the town square dominated by St. George's Cathedral, I was approached by a man with his girlfriend. Both had short dark hair and she had a number of piercings in her lip. In a traditional Ukrainian accent which Sacha Baron Cohen must have borrowed for his Borat character, he said “These children…. why they not have license?” I laughed and looked at him. He laughed back, put an arm round me, introduced himself as Stuart and his girlfriend as Miker, and said in a broad Scottish accent “Thes place is amazin’, is it nae?” I couldn’t disagree, although I wasn’t sure I definitely liked it - the architecture, the people, the history.

  At the beginning of World War II, the Russians and Germans invaded Poland and divided it into German occupied Poland, as we know it today, and Soviet Poland, now known as the Ukraine. The plight of the Jews under the Russian occupation was terrible. They, and initially a great part of the Ukrainian population, c
onsidered the German troops as liberators from two years of a genocidal Soviet regime. However they soon changed their opinions as the Nazis started mass public executions.

  The German leaders, who had thus far destroyed every city and town they had come across, ordered that L’viv be left untouched while they made it their garrison.

  After a couple of days living La Vida Loca in L'Viv, I was sitting in the hostel with Stuart and Miker, nursing pretty rotten hangovers. Rob and Till had joined us and were giggling about the size of my calves. They had deemed it impossible to cycle to the Ukraine from England, and then onto India, with legs the size of mine.

  There was another groan from Stuart as his head pounded and gut lurched. Miker said “It could be worse. We could have been drinking the local tap water.” Till and Rob laughed. “We’d be glowing if we had. It's toxic.” I looked down at my hands to see if there were any signs of them glowing. I’d been drinking the water as though it was going out of fashion. No one had told me. I had had no bad affects as yet.

  The strength of my guts was again tested when I stopped at a truckers' refuelling station which was surrounded by men twice my size and women almost as big. I had a pig kebab that had been kept in a bucket for God knows how long and cooked on an open fire, without any adverse reactions. Who's the tough guy, man of steel. rock hard, brave soldier, me?

  Apparently not.

  The next day was my first taste of camping in the wild. So far I’d managed to stick to camp sites and hostels. This time I could only see open countryside on all sides.

  I started looking for a place to pitch my tent. I pulled into a lay-by behind some trees looking for a spot. Just as I thought I’d found somewhere suitably obscured from the road and sheltered from any wind, I saw that there was a stack of beer cans in the corner and, on closer inspection, found food packages lying in the grass. It looked as though people were living in the woods and it wasn’t the normal eco stuff you might expect in the UK. I spotted a gang of men walking back over the hillside and I quickly about-turned and set off down the road again.