So... 3 and a half weeks to go. Knee still iffy and reminding me so every time I climb a (crunch) step, but I am going. As in: 'I am planning to begin the journey as planned via bicycle, everything that happens subsequently is as yet unknown'. Fact is, I don't care how I get there, even if that involves dumping the bike in a hedge a couple of miles outside Caen and hitching to Barcelona with a limp. The adventure is in the going.
I've put back on the 5 kg that I lost a few weeks ago. This also being to fault of Worthing (see last post). Since moving in with my beloved Keith I have turned into a hybrid of Hugh Fernley-Whittingstall, Nigella and a Stepford Wife. I am obsessed with making home-made ice cream (5 different flavours in my large silver fridge/freezer right now) and boiling hams. Worthing is like a comfort-eating Wicker Man.
Bought some new padded shorts, but sadly have acted under the delusion that my arse is a size 14. Turns out its not. Circulation in the bottom half of my legs is limited, but waist looks tiny. Bit above waist is spilling over like a chocolate fountain. I look like one of those men with tiny legs and giant, hard bellies. Like someone who really shouldn't be allowed to wear shorts.
Been out on my bike. Keith has been very encouraging, I have been a pain in the arse, concocting excuses not to go, offering sexual favours in lieu of cycling and generally moaning ('You said there'd be no more hills. What's that in front of me? A fucking hill. What's that behind me? A fucking bastard'). Yes, I said that. He is a truly wonderful and tolerant human being.
I had a practice putting my tent up in the garden. Thought it might be good to sleep in it for a night to try it out, but I'm too scared. Too scared to sleep 20 feet from my back door. Good grief, what hope do I have of sleeping in 19 different French and Spanish fields? It won't be the cycling that does me in, but my morbid fear of imaginary noises in the night. I figure that once I'm out there, I'll have no choice. Character building? Utter stupidity? Something like that.
Hey, wouldn't it be funny if I returned from a trip designed to beat my neuroses, more agoraphobic and anxious than when I went? Hilarious. At least I'll have a nice big house to hide myself away in for the next 12 years. Maybe Worthing has hidden benefits after all.
I'm Sarah Hendrickx. In May 2013, I will be attempting to cycle to Spain as part of my Edinburgh Fringe comedy show: Sarah Hendrickx: Time Traveller. There is a point to all this. Last time I went to Spain, this photo was taken. The show is also about why I look so sodding miserable.
Showing posts with label France. Show all posts
Showing posts with label France. Show all posts
Thursday, 2 May 2013
Wednesday, 17 April 2013
(Almost) scuppered by Worthing
I moved home 3 weeks ago. This seemingly unrelated event has threatened to scupper my trip.
I have moved from Brighton to Worthing. It's not Worthing's fault. No one wishes you well when you say you are leaving Brighton for Worthing. It's more like you have told them some bad news, like you've put your back out or your kitchen flooded. They presume that moving to Worthing has not been a choice, but rather a necessity resulting from some unfortunate circumstance as if the notion that anyone would move to Worthing by design is an unfathomable concept. This converation ultimately leads to the one (and possibly only) positive thing that people can muster when told that you are moving to Worthing: 'You get a lot more for your money in Worthing'. This is true. I have moved from a one bedroom, ground floor flat to a house. A whole one. With stairs. That's what you get for your money in Worthing: stairs, fucking loads of them. I haven't counted them, but at this moment I feel like I should. It's bugging me now. I really want to go and count them, but I won't because that would be giving in to the ruminations and you wouldn't know anyway as it is not really possible to indicate the passing of time in writing. I'd have to leave gaps like that to suggest that I have been elsewhere and that time has passed in my absence. Or I could be deceiving you and be tapping the space bar having never left my sofa where I am sitting with my right leg elevated and an ice pack strapped to it. Yes, see, there is a point to this: having lived a largely stair-free existence for many years, the new physicality of stair ascent and descent has revealed something new; my right knee makes a terrible crunching sound when I climb stairs and is swollen and sore after 19 days in my new house. Bollocks. I am so unfit, I need an ice pack after the return trip from the bathroom for a wee. This is not looking good.
Spookily, stairs feature quite heavily in the show itself being the cause of my mental disintegration all those years ago, so its apt that they should try and fuck me over again.
Anyway, I'm still going, gammy knee or not.
I'll be looking out for a bungalow on my return.
I have moved from Brighton to Worthing. It's not Worthing's fault. No one wishes you well when you say you are leaving Brighton for Worthing. It's more like you have told them some bad news, like you've put your back out or your kitchen flooded. They presume that moving to Worthing has not been a choice, but rather a necessity resulting from some unfortunate circumstance as if the notion that anyone would move to Worthing by design is an unfathomable concept. This converation ultimately leads to the one (and possibly only) positive thing that people can muster when told that you are moving to Worthing: 'You get a lot more for your money in Worthing'. This is true. I have moved from a one bedroom, ground floor flat to a house. A whole one. With stairs. That's what you get for your money in Worthing: stairs, fucking loads of them. I haven't counted them, but at this moment I feel like I should. It's bugging me now. I really want to go and count them, but I won't because that would be giving in to the ruminations and you wouldn't know anyway as it is not really possible to indicate the passing of time in writing. I'd have to leave gaps like that to suggest that I have been elsewhere and that time has passed in my absence. Or I could be deceiving you and be tapping the space bar having never left my sofa where I am sitting with my right leg elevated and an ice pack strapped to it. Yes, see, there is a point to this: having lived a largely stair-free existence for many years, the new physicality of stair ascent and descent has revealed something new; my right knee makes a terrible crunching sound when I climb stairs and is swollen and sore after 19 days in my new house. Bollocks. I am so unfit, I need an ice pack after the return trip from the bathroom for a wee. This is not looking good.
Spookily, stairs feature quite heavily in the show itself being the cause of my mental disintegration all those years ago, so its apt that they should try and fuck me over again.
Anyway, I'm still going, gammy knee or not.
I'll be looking out for a bungalow on my return.
Sunday, 17 March 2013
69 days...
Oh shit...
Just over 2 months to go.
Bike training has failed so far. I've been out twice, both times along Brighton seafront. Once I went west to Worthing for eat-all-you-can Chinese with my daughter, Jess and grandtwins. Second time was the next day when I went east to Saltdean for tapas lunch with pal, Karen. Neither journey involved hills, any substantial mileage or major effort (although there was a rotten headwind) and both involved stuffing my face. Not good.
Other excuses include moving house in 12 days time (not just moving house, but moving in with bloke of 9 years standing after living 56 miles apart for all that time - major), working away for most of each week living in a Travelodge and weather. None of these are particularly valid excuses. I'm starting to get a bit scared of my current physical state and the swift passing of the days towards May 27th.
On the plus side, I've lost about 4kgs. Part of this success is purely due to changing my measure from stones and pounds to kilos. I don't know what kilos mean so I am not getting fixated on certain weights that I am used to being and getting a mental block about crossing the line from one stone to another (is this just me?). Kilos mean nothing apart from the fact that I weight less of them than I used to, so I presume that to be progress.
Other contributor to diet success has been due to not eating as much food. That's the secret.
Today, on a rainy Sunday, I am planning my route. This has entailed getting a map of France, getting a pencil, drawing a straight line from Caen (ferry port) to Toulouse, a straight line from Toulouse to the sea and a wiggly line around the coast to Barcelona (which annoyingly doesn't feature on a map of France). Drawing a straight line from Caen to Barcelona would mean cycling over the top of the Pyrenees. Nuff said.
Next stage of planning involves avoiding motorways and locating campsites. I have learned that large parts of France have no campsites, probably because no one wants to stay there. On my pitifully slow bicycle, sorry, legs, I'll be spending days and days in these 'undiscovered' corners of rural France. Goody. Perhaps I will ride down the motorway after all.
Just over 2 months to go.
Bike training has failed so far. I've been out twice, both times along Brighton seafront. Once I went west to Worthing for eat-all-you-can Chinese with my daughter, Jess and grandtwins. Second time was the next day when I went east to Saltdean for tapas lunch with pal, Karen. Neither journey involved hills, any substantial mileage or major effort (although there was a rotten headwind) and both involved stuffing my face. Not good.
Other excuses include moving house in 12 days time (not just moving house, but moving in with bloke of 9 years standing after living 56 miles apart for all that time - major), working away for most of each week living in a Travelodge and weather. None of these are particularly valid excuses. I'm starting to get a bit scared of my current physical state and the swift passing of the days towards May 27th.
On the plus side, I've lost about 4kgs. Part of this success is purely due to changing my measure from stones and pounds to kilos. I don't know what kilos mean so I am not getting fixated on certain weights that I am used to being and getting a mental block about crossing the line from one stone to another (is this just me?). Kilos mean nothing apart from the fact that I weight less of them than I used to, so I presume that to be progress.
Other contributor to diet success has been due to not eating as much food. That's the secret.
Today, on a rainy Sunday, I am planning my route. This has entailed getting a map of France, getting a pencil, drawing a straight line from Caen (ferry port) to Toulouse, a straight line from Toulouse to the sea and a wiggly line around the coast to Barcelona (which annoyingly doesn't feature on a map of France). Drawing a straight line from Caen to Barcelona would mean cycling over the top of the Pyrenees. Nuff said.
Next stage of planning involves avoiding motorways and locating campsites. I have learned that large parts of France have no campsites, probably because no one wants to stay there. On my pitifully slow bicycle, sorry, legs, I'll be spending days and days in these 'undiscovered' corners of rural France. Goody. Perhaps I will ride down the motorway after all.
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