by Tim McGhie
We roll on through many countries and their huge landscapes. Vast mountain ranges and broad horizons stretch out in every direction. Yet, much of the day is spent looking a few feet in front of our handlebars. Dodging potholes, rocks and bits of tyres and other rubbish occupies much of the time of the touring cyclist. Many a daydream has been brought to an abrupt halt by jolting into a dip in the road or bouncing over a speed bump. Flat tyres are a pain in the arse and are best avoided.
One other type of roadside debris is rather more ghastly. Roadkill in varying states of decay must also be given a wide berth. Dogs, cats and birds squished on the road are seen in a far more up-close-and-personal way than in a car. From freshly squeezed intestines splayed across the road, putrid rotting slimy carcasses by the roadside or flattened crispy leather patches like a johnny-poor-man living room rug, all must be dodged accordingly.
With this in mind I have been conducting a survey of fellow cycle tourists and a clear consensus has emerged. All are alike in doing their utmost not to splash through the remains of these creatures. Instead we all steer well clear. Most give an understandable rationale to justify what most people would consider to be the right thing to do. They explain that they do not want their bike and bags covered in blood and guts. They are worried that they will begin to carry with them a horrible stench everywhere they go, not to mention the becoming a health hazard. Some go further and say that they do not want to disrespect the animal, which may have been someones pet perhaps.
I quite agree that carrying around a load of blood splattered gear is undesirable and deliberately hitting ‘cute little Rex’ would be poor form. But somewhere inside a child still lives, craving to bump over his little head and watch the brains pop out. After all didn’t we all cruise around on our bikes as kids getting into just that kind of mischief?
I put this to my contemporary bicycle tourists and many agreed that this devilish instinct died with their childhood. Have even these reckless adventurers lost the lust for simple childish pleasures? Leaving all your possessions and loved ones behind and hitting the road to seek that little-something-else that life surely offers might be an audacious bid for freedom, but perhaps we have all missed the point. The adventure might just be weighed down by the routine building anal instinct. Maybe the true adventure lies in the bold decision to revolt in the first place, and indeed to follow that instinct is a liberating thing. But why leave it there when daily rebellion might be a ticket to an entirely different kind of freedom.
So, if I meet a cycle tourist whose stench of death scares the baying dogs into a tail hugging whimper, I may have in my midst a true adventurer who refuses to deny his rebellious instincts.
Maybe popping a few skulls by the road is the way forward.
