Well I'm on the ferry, and I don't think I know how I'm feeling. The only word I could honestly use is 'surreal,' but I use it too often and anyway, it doesn't really sum it up.
If this was a work of fiction, I'd be winding this story to a close with a dramatic climax of strings coming together, a few spicy morsels left till I'm all the way home just to keep you hanging on the edge of your seats as you racedown the page to find out, will i mend my ... ur... (derailleur/ brake cable/puncture) in time to get away from the (wolves/ drunk frenchman/ forest fire)? What are the frenchfolk trying to say? am i going to make the ferry? Will I be able to hold off from the (coffee/meat/trains) for long enough to keep pedalling even though I've run out of (cacao beans/ porridge/ steam)?
As thunder tears the Saint Malo sky apart and rain lashes down, I brace myself against the low, menacing theme tune and race towards my destination,even as my friends and family despair that I will never make it before winter closes its icy hold.
But this isn't fiction, and there's no way I could exhaggerate the feeling I got first catching sight of those white cliffs, gleaming in their own patch of sunlight beneath a heavy, glowering sky.
I don't think I knew I had it in me to get that warm bubbling up of pride, to be so happy about returning to the UK; these last few lonely days in France have got me counting the aspects I love about this place. My country. Hmmm.
Then, darting through Portsmouth, the drizzle tickling my face and blurring the headlights, sparkling sprawls across my vision, squinting, my cheeks squashing my eyes my grin didn't leave them enough room on my face.
I just thought I'd check, see how much the train is... I was kinda planning on hitching tomorrow, as a semi-cheating compromise, but I've got faces whirling round in my head of all the people I'm desperate to see, and for a fiver (a FIVER!) I was on the train like a flash.
Now I'm sitting here tapping my fingers jiggling my toes. Swopping from notebook to sudoku to book (I got a goodun this time, cheery :) , checking on my Graham, going to the loo and remembering I still don't need it, checking the time... again...
Should have hitched.
Apparently my apparition was seen at the Dyfi Bridge in the early hours, yesterday.
Maybe a slightly off-kilter version of me, that gave up on this whole mad thing ages ago, and flew back as soon as the festival was over and has been chilling out in Wales ever since, just slipped through the dimensional boundaries for a min and showed up where she weren't supposed to.
But that wouldn't really be Nutmeg would it.
Wednesday, 29 September 2010
Saturday, 25 September 2010
Pre-Sparrowfart on the 25th.
The past few days have gone by in a kind of blur.
Might be something to do with approaching my destination- the focus has been less on the present, the oh-so-important journey, and more on impatiently wanting to just get the there, already!
Then again, it may be something to do with the self-inflicted, self-perpetuationg solitary confinement I'm going through (sorry if I'm being melodramatic but it's 2:51 am); if I wasn't so tired from cycling all day I'd go out in the evenings.
Of course I could just take it easy- I've got all the time in the world after all, ha ha- but then I wouldn't get back so quick and that's all I want right now.
To give myself credit I have been out to a couple of bars, purely for the sake of meeting people; not knowing what to order cos I didn't really want a drink in the first place.
But they seem to be popuated by loud, closed groups of ageing americans discussing Obama's something-or-other tactics or their great neice's placement at so-and-so; or smelly french men hitting on me.
And to be honest the embarrassingly stilted conversation is more exhausting to me than the cycling.
Another reason my days seem hazy could be that 'watched pot never boils' phenomenon - now that my ferry is booked it's all I can think about and I catch myself checking the calendar on my phone a few times each day, thinking- "What, it's still today?"
This slowing of time has sent me into a rare and ironic insomnia- thanks a bunch, Universe. That really helps.
It could even be the gripping yet horribly depressing book I've got myself hooked on (another one! Every book I've touched the past ... however long, has been absolutely horrific!) I've read half this evening already.
To be honest though, it's probably cos I got myself a book of sudoku, and since then my dreams of fluoro vests, bungees and roundabouts have been overtaken by floating grids and numbers.
Not joking. This is my life now.
As I was reading afore-mentioned book (it's called 'Leaving the World' by the way- and whilst it's not quite as devastatingly horrible and disturbing as We Need To Talk About Kevin, it won't exactly make you smile either.) this evening, I was startled by a loud knocking, not on the door but on the caravan window by my bed, over the sound of rain drumming on the roof.
It was after 11 and I was confused and sleepy, but got up and opened the door to a French man trying to say something.
We quickly established I couldn't speak French and nor could he speak English, Portuguese or Spanish. (Thinking about it I should have checked Welsh.) That was about as far as the conversation progressed, though, for the next 10 minutes, while he carried on trying and trying to tell me something, or ask me for something, or something...
But the whiff of alcohol on his breath transcended the language barrier and I would have turned him away by now if it hadnt been pissing down- I wasn't sure if he was having camping+rain troubles.
I got him a lighter- no.
Bottle opener? No... but nearly...
Pen and paper. Can you draw it?
He threw up his hands in exasperation and left.
I zipped back up the awning and crawled back into bed.
Knocknocknock.
Chrissake!
He had a bottle of champagne.
"Do you want to drink this with me?
I nearly laughed in his face, in fact I might have, but I couldn't explain that the very fact that it had taken a good quarter hour to convey the universally simple message of 'want a drink?' wasn't a very good sign that conversation was going to flow particularly easily.
"Good night."
To give myself credit I have been out to a couple of bars, purely for the sake of meeting people; not knowing what to order cos I didn't really want a drink in the first place.
But they seem to be popuated by loud, closed groups of ageing americans discussing Obama's something-or-other tactics or their great neice's placement at so-and-so; or smelly french men hitting on me.
And to be honest the embarrassingly stilted conversation is more exhausting to me than the cycling.
Another reason my days seem hazy could be that 'watched pot never boils' phenomenon - now that my ferry is booked it's all I can think about and I catch myself checking the calendar on my phone a few times each day, thinking- "What, it's still today?"
This slowing of time has sent me into a rare and ironic insomnia- thanks a bunch, Universe. That really helps.
It could even be the gripping yet horribly depressing book I've got myself hooked on (another one! Every book I've touched the past ... however long, has been absolutely horrific!) I've read half this evening already.
To be honest though, it's probably cos I got myself a book of sudoku, and since then my dreams of fluoro vests, bungees and roundabouts have been overtaken by floating grids and numbers.
Not joking. This is my life now.
As I was reading afore-mentioned book (it's called 'Leaving the World' by the way- and whilst it's not quite as devastatingly horrible and disturbing as We Need To Talk About Kevin, it won't exactly make you smile either.) this evening, I was startled by a loud knocking, not on the door but on the caravan window by my bed, over the sound of rain drumming on the roof.
It was after 11 and I was confused and sleepy, but got up and opened the door to a French man trying to say something.
We quickly established I couldn't speak French and nor could he speak English, Portuguese or Spanish. (Thinking about it I should have checked Welsh.) That was about as far as the conversation progressed, though, for the next 10 minutes, while he carried on trying and trying to tell me something, or ask me for something, or something...
But the whiff of alcohol on his breath transcended the language barrier and I would have turned him away by now if it hadnt been pissing down- I wasn't sure if he was having camping+rain troubles.
I got him a lighter- no.
Bottle opener? No... but nearly...
Pen and paper. Can you draw it?
He threw up his hands in exasperation and left.
I zipped back up the awning and crawled back into bed.
Knocknocknock.
Chrissake!
He had a bottle of champagne.
"Do you want to drink this with me?
I nearly laughed in his face, in fact I might have, but I couldn't explain that the very fact that it had taken a good quarter hour to convey the universally simple message of 'want a drink?' wasn't a very good sign that conversation was going to flow particularly easily.
"Good night."
Tuesday, 21 September 2010
21st.
Well I'm back on the road, after a most welcome break, and suddenly the end of my journey seems amazingly near.
I left Montalivet a couple of days ago feeling relaxed, well rested, well fed, scrubbed and frankly, spoilt. The joy of mattress and pillows still hadn't faded after several nights, and with the nights getting colder (frost on the ground!) I decided to leave the bulk of my sleeping gear there, and try and find hostels and mobile homes from now on.
A bit of a gamble, but there's not even that many nights for it to go wrong now!
Last night I was in Brigueil la Chantre, enjoying Maarit, Charles and Bella's generous hospitality in the chateau that they have been renovating for the past 5 years, and have only just moved into!
It's absolutely stunning, really tastefully done and with plenty of little quirks like the old built-in bread oven like the one at the farm, old stone sinks and of course a turret with winding staircase, though it's only populated by owls at the moment... and all overlooking a lethargic river winding through oak hazel and alder woods.
It made me want to be a child again, and spend days playing hide-and-seek in the house and grounds with Bella the dog.
But time moves on and Graham Blue was getting itchy wheels, so now I'm in Chatellerault, where I've rented a caravan for the night (for just 4euros!). It couldn't be called scenic, or luxurious, or even particularly homely; and when the train screams past every 27 minutes it's so close the vibrations shake the mattress springs that are digging into my ribs... but like I said I've been spoiled.
I'm on my way home.
I left Montalivet a couple of days ago feeling relaxed, well rested, well fed, scrubbed and frankly, spoilt. The joy of mattress and pillows still hadn't faded after several nights, and with the nights getting colder (frost on the ground!) I decided to leave the bulk of my sleeping gear there, and try and find hostels and mobile homes from now on.
A bit of a gamble, but there's not even that many nights for it to go wrong now!
Last night I was in Brigueil la Chantre, enjoying Maarit, Charles and Bella's generous hospitality in the chateau that they have been renovating for the past 5 years, and have only just moved into!
It's absolutely stunning, really tastefully done and with plenty of little quirks like the old built-in bread oven like the one at the farm, old stone sinks and of course a turret with winding staircase, though it's only populated by owls at the moment... and all overlooking a lethargic river winding through oak hazel and alder woods.
It made me want to be a child again, and spend days playing hide-and-seek in the house and grounds with Bella the dog.
But time moves on and Graham Blue was getting itchy wheels, so now I'm in Chatellerault, where I've rented a caravan for the night (for just 4euros!). It couldn't be called scenic, or luxurious, or even particularly homely; and when the train screams past every 27 minutes it's so close the vibrations shake the mattress springs that are digging into my ribs... but like I said I've been spoiled.
I'm on my way home.
Thursday, 16 September 2010
15th or 16th.
I'm having a holiday.
I have arrived at my good friends Bob and Liz's caravan near Montalivet and am going to rest here for a few days.
Getting here was fun, when I realised how close I was I made a push for it, did nearly a hundred k but my body's feeling broken and as I was getting close I had an overwhelming desire to hitch.
OK I know I'm on my own somewhere I can't speak the language, and more to the point, I've got a bike, and I know it's cheating, etc, etc, but I hadn't seen a corner or a hill up or down for days.
The wind was hard against me and each time a lorry went past I felt like a council flat getting a coating of grittle-splatter (is that what it's called?)
In the end, the last straw was a fairly scqry experience that left me a bit shaky like near misses sometimes do.
Condensing from the distant wafts of mirage somewhere miles down the ruler-straight road came hurtling a big timber lorry. The stupid speeds I'm used to. What I wasn't anticipating was the force of the air not only making me grip the handlebars rigidly to save getting sucked under, but sinultaneously whipping one of the planks of messily stacked plywood clean off the bqck of the lorry, to come spinning, flashing as it caught the sun, in cliche'd slow-motion right over my side of the road and into the verge just meters ahead of me- narrowly missing the car in front which screeched and swerved, as did I.
The lorry rumbled on, oblivious or feigning oblivion (I'm not sure I've used oblivion in the right context there, but only a couple of you are English teachers so I'm sure the rest of you can forgive me. I remembered a capital E on english that time...)
Anyway. I stopped in the next layby for a breather, but the next lorry that came flying by literally knocked Mr. Graham Blue out of my grasp, bruising my shin and twisting my already sore wrist on his way down. We're both fine, but I hardly had to think about it- my thumb was out and that inane, harmless, helpless, non-psycho-as-possible smile was on my face like settling down into a favourite armchair.
I tried to remember not to talk to myself or Graham; whom I realize may not be recognized by the average passer-by as the intelligent being he is; and got back into my favourite game of inventing hearty excuses for why each person who so blatantly could help me out in their big pickup trucks or trailers; didn't.
A van approached with 2 hippies in, I could tell from a distance it was hopeful and I had to catch myself- "This is the one, Graham, it's an LDV!" before they got close enough to see my lips moving.
I was quite suprised when they drove straight past, without even an explanatory hand-gesture, but kept trying- inventing a wife in labour or something similarly urgent for them.
I set myself a 15 minute time limit, and only about 7 had passed when the 2 in the LDV came back, apologizing and explaining that they'd been arguing about whether I'd be too scared to get in with them or not. Ha!
Hugo and Baltazar turned out to be utterly lovely, reminding me all over why I love hitching so much. (Their english was amazing, local advice and good conversation are both things I'm always in need of!) And Hugo's house, where they were on their way to for lunch, was right at the start of the cycle-path to my destination- much further than I'd ever hoped or expected to get to.
The journey saved me about 20-30km of straight line, and gained me 2 friends and a bunch of fresh tomatoes, garlic and apples organically grown by Hugo.
Now though, I'm taking a break for a few days. I've spread out all my stuff- I can wash them and actually let them dry before I put them back on!!
I'm sleeping in a proper bed, cooking proper food, having a hot shower whenever I like and resting my body for a few days.
I'll get back online when I'm back on the road, otherwise I'll start to sound like a post-card X
I have arrived at my good friends Bob and Liz's caravan near Montalivet and am going to rest here for a few days.
Getting here was fun, when I realised how close I was I made a push for it, did nearly a hundred k but my body's feeling broken and as I was getting close I had an overwhelming desire to hitch.
OK I know I'm on my own somewhere I can't speak the language, and more to the point, I've got a bike, and I know it's cheating, etc, etc, but I hadn't seen a corner or a hill up or down for days.
The wind was hard against me and each time a lorry went past I felt like a council flat getting a coating of grittle-splatter (is that what it's called?)
In the end, the last straw was a fairly scqry experience that left me a bit shaky like near misses sometimes do.
Condensing from the distant wafts of mirage somewhere miles down the ruler-straight road came hurtling a big timber lorry. The stupid speeds I'm used to. What I wasn't anticipating was the force of the air not only making me grip the handlebars rigidly to save getting sucked under, but sinultaneously whipping one of the planks of messily stacked plywood clean off the bqck of the lorry, to come spinning, flashing as it caught the sun, in cliche'd slow-motion right over my side of the road and into the verge just meters ahead of me- narrowly missing the car in front which screeched and swerved, as did I.
The lorry rumbled on, oblivious or feigning oblivion (I'm not sure I've used oblivion in the right context there, but only a couple of you are English teachers so I'm sure the rest of you can forgive me. I remembered a capital E on english that time...)
Anyway. I stopped in the next layby for a breather, but the next lorry that came flying by literally knocked Mr. Graham Blue out of my grasp, bruising my shin and twisting my already sore wrist on his way down. We're both fine, but I hardly had to think about it- my thumb was out and that inane, harmless, helpless, non-psycho-as-possible smile was on my face like settling down into a favourite armchair.
I tried to remember not to talk to myself or Graham; whom I realize may not be recognized by the average passer-by as the intelligent being he is; and got back into my favourite game of inventing hearty excuses for why each person who so blatantly could help me out in their big pickup trucks or trailers; didn't.
A van approached with 2 hippies in, I could tell from a distance it was hopeful and I had to catch myself- "This is the one, Graham, it's an LDV!" before they got close enough to see my lips moving.
I was quite suprised when they drove straight past, without even an explanatory hand-gesture, but kept trying- inventing a wife in labour or something similarly urgent for them.
I set myself a 15 minute time limit, and only about 7 had passed when the 2 in the LDV came back, apologizing and explaining that they'd been arguing about whether I'd be too scared to get in with them or not. Ha!
Hugo and Baltazar turned out to be utterly lovely, reminding me all over why I love hitching so much. (Their english was amazing, local advice and good conversation are both things I'm always in need of!) And Hugo's house, where they were on their way to for lunch, was right at the start of the cycle-path to my destination- much further than I'd ever hoped or expected to get to.
The journey saved me about 20-30km of straight line, and gained me 2 friends and a bunch of fresh tomatoes, garlic and apples organically grown by Hugo.
Now though, I'm taking a break for a few days. I've spread out all my stuff- I can wash them and actually let them dry before I put them back on!!
I'm sleeping in a proper bed, cooking proper food, having a hot shower whenever I like and resting my body for a few days.
I'll get back online when I'm back on the road, otherwise I'll start to sound like a post-card X
Tuesday, 14 September 2010
14th, 110km.
I'm really happy to be travelling up this bit of coast. Not only is it semi-familiar, from family holidays round here when I was younger, but the cycle path is in the shade of the trees and I can see the faces of the traffic- a small detail which impoves your quality of life significantly when your main source of interaction all day is negotiating traffic.
I feel like I've been travelling alone for an age, though ti's only been a week!
Last night I celebrated with some Belgian surfers, a lovely bunch who gave me beer and crisps but didn't want any of my chocolate and had never heard of psy-trance. They were horrified by the very concept of my sleeping out in the open, "Won't you get arrested for sleeping rough?!"
Got woken up this morning to the peaceful sound of the beach-cleaning tractor, and by the time I left the beach at 8 I counted more than 40 surfers just in the little bit of sea in front of where I slept.
They were very funny, I don't see the appeal AT ALL- they do their stretches in about a qurarter of the time it takes me to do mine, and then they leg it down to the water and straight in as though they'll chicken out if they don't do it quickly.
Then, they just get knocked over time and time again into the waves.
Woo!
The roads were kind today, but the wind was not, so I clocked up 110 and now am in Parentes-en-Bom, on the shore of a lake (Yay! I do so very much like lakes) which swallowed up the sun as I ate my dinner, and is singing me a soft lullaby now. I've got a wooden jetty to sleep on, very excited!
At one point today, I passed a bus shelter with a poster that jumped out at me. It was a face constructed from multicoloured psychedelic swirls, with glowing eyes and a geometric mandala shining from its 3'd eye, with some kind of cosmic background. My psytrance detectors pricked up and I swerved round in the road, excited that there might be a party. Disappointed I found it was just advertizing hilight tribe's new album. Ach well.
Thank you all for your concern and advice with the brake cable, everyone; the lovely helpful man in Gama cycles in Vitoria assured me it was fine and gave me a spare (it's basically snapping off where it attaches to the frame; I wasn't sure if thqt meant it wouldn't have enough grip and might slip through... apparently not :) )
I feel like I've been travelling alone for an age, though ti's only been a week!
Last night I celebrated with some Belgian surfers, a lovely bunch who gave me beer and crisps but didn't want any of my chocolate and had never heard of psy-trance. They were horrified by the very concept of my sleeping out in the open, "Won't you get arrested for sleeping rough?!"
Got woken up this morning to the peaceful sound of the beach-cleaning tractor, and by the time I left the beach at 8 I counted more than 40 surfers just in the little bit of sea in front of where I slept.
They were very funny, I don't see the appeal AT ALL- they do their stretches in about a qurarter of the time it takes me to do mine, and then they leg it down to the water and straight in as though they'll chicken out if they don't do it quickly.
Then, they just get knocked over time and time again into the waves.
Woo!
The roads were kind today, but the wind was not, so I clocked up 110 and now am in Parentes-en-Bom, on the shore of a lake (Yay! I do so very much like lakes) which swallowed up the sun as I ate my dinner, and is singing me a soft lullaby now. I've got a wooden jetty to sleep on, very excited!
At one point today, I passed a bus shelter with a poster that jumped out at me. It was a face constructed from multicoloured psychedelic swirls, with glowing eyes and a geometric mandala shining from its 3'd eye, with some kind of cosmic background. My psytrance detectors pricked up and I swerved round in the road, excited that there might be a party. Disappointed I found it was just advertizing hilight tribe's new album. Ach well.
Thank you all for your concern and advice with the brake cable, everyone; the lovely helpful man in Gama cycles in Vitoria assured me it was fine and gave me a spare (it's basically snapping off where it attaches to the frame; I wasn't sure if thqt meant it wouldn't have enough grip and might slip through... apparently not :) )
Monday, 13 September 2010
13?
I never liked the idea of palm reading, it seems too fixed, if you like, unchangeable.
But hands can say a lot about someone- the flat pad on a writers thumb, the unwashable dirt ingrained in a gardeners fingerprints. The delicate soft translucency of an office worker, the strong, developed thumbs of an obsessive computer gamer, the chewed nails of... someone who bites their nails :) the dry, chapped skin of a cleaner. I've got a few extra callouses on this trip, quite exciting really!
I just visited a chocolate museum. I went past it once, turned back after an agonizing hesitation, had another at the door, decided to continue on my journey and not waste my money.
Went about half a km down the road, did a U-ey and came back. It was worth it- a bag of dark chocolate buttons upon entry from a man with chocolate-coloured eyes. A film about the processes involved in making different types of chocolate; a bit like all the best bits from Chocolat, all melted together... It didn't even matter that I didn't understand a word, I just sat there, drooling.
Some incredibly bizarre-looking contraptions for the grinding of cacao powder, the seperation of cocoa butter, the moulding of eqster eggs, the coating of truffles in cacao... I think I'd better stop now.
The cycling is good in France, as there's usually a cycle path. When there's not, the drivers seem to be split bipolarly- half want to chat out the windows, half swerve at you and screech and flail out the window to try (and succeed) to scare the buggery out of you when you're hurtling down a hill. How considerate.
I found a nice spot by the sea just after the sun had disappeared, but it was still spilling its promise for tomorrow out across the sky.
Got into college, by the way :)
But hands can say a lot about someone- the flat pad on a writers thumb, the unwashable dirt ingrained in a gardeners fingerprints. The delicate soft translucency of an office worker, the strong, developed thumbs of an obsessive computer gamer, the chewed nails of... someone who bites their nails :) the dry, chapped skin of a cleaner. I've got a few extra callouses on this trip, quite exciting really!
I just visited a chocolate museum. I went past it once, turned back after an agonizing hesitation, had another at the door, decided to continue on my journey and not waste my money.
Went about half a km down the road, did a U-ey and came back. It was worth it- a bag of dark chocolate buttons upon entry from a man with chocolate-coloured eyes. A film about the processes involved in making different types of chocolate; a bit like all the best bits from Chocolat, all melted together... It didn't even matter that I didn't understand a word, I just sat there, drooling.
Some incredibly bizarre-looking contraptions for the grinding of cacao powder, the seperation of cocoa butter, the moulding of eqster eggs, the coating of truffles in cacao... I think I'd better stop now.
The cycling is good in France, as there's usually a cycle path. When there's not, the drivers seem to be split bipolarly- half want to chat out the windows, half swerve at you and screech and flail out the window to try (and succeed) to scare the buggery out of you when you're hurtling down a hill. How considerate.
I found a nice spot by the sea just after the sun had disappeared, but it was still spilling its promise for tomorrow out across the sky.
Got into college, by the way :)
Sunday, 12 September 2010
12 Sept, evening. St Jean de Lux. 125km.
Well goodness me, what a day. It's lucky I had those 2 coffees or I would never have made it up the hill that I tackled right after my last update, on my way out of Dona. Even picturing Macsen or vqrious loved ones wouldn't have been enough, my legs needed some reliably artificial chemical messages.
But I did it, and the next one, and with some heartstopping descents of gloriously dangerous bends and squiggles, made my way to San Sebastian for lunch- a full 86km from breakfast.
I told myself I' btake a gentle afternoon, never mind if I got to France or not, but the universe said no qnd now with acheing... hands, of all things, I retire in Ciboure in a kind of bunkhouse (it's still raining).
Mind if I have a little whinge? Just to clarify, I'm really happy, pleased with myself for working so hard today, my furthest I think and mountainous too; but my god do my hands hurt! The pads in my gloves have squashed into hard little rolls, worse than no gloves at all. The whole of my palms feel bruised, my fingers, wrists and elbows ache so badly and as simple a movement as opening my water bottle or even letting go of the hanlebars sends agonizing shooting pains all the way from my fingertips to my elbow, not unlike touching an electric fence.
To add insult to... whatever it is, I can't find my arnica, which cost enough. Hmph.
Apart from that, though, I'm good :)
(Tomorrow I have a telephone interview for the massage course! I'm more excited than nervous, though I haven't really planned. Perhaps I'll try and dredge up some energy to do that now. Wish me luck...)
x
But I did it, and the next one, and with some heartstopping descents of gloriously dangerous bends and squiggles, made my way to San Sebastian for lunch- a full 86km from breakfast.
I told myself I' btake a gentle afternoon, never mind if I got to France or not, but the universe said no qnd now with acheing... hands, of all things, I retire in Ciboure in a kind of bunkhouse (it's still raining).
Mind if I have a little whinge? Just to clarify, I'm really happy, pleased with myself for working so hard today, my furthest I think and mountainous too; but my god do my hands hurt! The pads in my gloves have squashed into hard little rolls, worse than no gloves at all. The whole of my palms feel bruised, my fingers, wrists and elbows ache so badly and as simple a movement as opening my water bottle or even letting go of the hanlebars sends agonizing shooting pains all the way from my fingertips to my elbow, not unlike touching an electric fence.
To add insult to... whatever it is, I can't find my arnica, which cost enough. Hmph.
Apart from that, though, I'm good :)
(Tomorrow I have a telephone interview for the massage course! I'm more excited than nervous, though I haven't really planned. Perhaps I'll try and dredge up some energy to do that now. Wish me luck...)
x
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