The tumult and the shouting dies;
The captains and the kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget.
Rudyard Kipling: Recessional
Suddenly, I feel old. I’ve tried in so many ways to resist it, but I seem to be running out of steam. To some extent, one is carried along on the crest of a wave. Oh how good it feels when an old-looking fellow in a backpackers makes a remark like: “We fifty year-olds…”. When I ask him how old he thinks I am, he says: “Same as I am; about fifty”, and then he nearly falls off his chair when I reveal that I am sixty-one. To be honest, that strokes my ego.
All very well, but then he doesn’t see how exhausted I am the following morning after loading my bike. He doesn’t see me battle to swing my leg over the seat. He doesn’t see the pain I experience when a bee flies up the sleeve of my jacket and stings me on the wrist. He doesn’t see how exhausted I am when I arrive home at ten-thirty in the night after riding 800 kilometres on a boiling hot day.
It’s fairly easy to keep up appearances (ask any politician).
It’s not so easy to lie to oneself (unless you are a politician).
The truth is that I am tired and I am sore. My hands ache, my wrists ache, my neck aches, my back aches, my right knee aches, my right ankle just plain hurts, my right foot aches. I carried my tent and sleeping bag with me for the duration of a three-week trip, but not once could I bring myself to sleep on the ground. Instead, I stayed in Backpackers and B & Bs.
My grandiose dreams of riding the bike around Africa, or even just as far as Rwanda, seem to be fading. I—who have been quoting Tennyson’s Ulysses since I was in my teens—am now confronted with the challenge of actually trying…
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It’s not as easy as it sounds.
Xameb the Bushman, when asked how old he was, said: “I am as old as my disappointments in life and as young as my naughtiest thought”. Yes, I think know what he means.
Well, that’s what I thought two weeks ago. Now, sixteen days later, I have cleaned my bike, done the washing, and had a good rest. I have experienced the frustration of being back at work, and I have—once again—driven in traffic. Suddenly, my outlook on life has changed, and I long to get out on the road again. I look forward to not knowing where I’ll spend the night. I even think that sleeping on the ground might be quite fun; it certainly has been in the past. I feel like packing my bike and heading out again… now.
’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
Tennyson: Ulysses