Itsy Bitsy Cycler

Arriving in Amsterdam April 26th untrained and unequipped for my solo cycle, I geared up to tackle my myriad deficiencies, assured that I could manage two things: loneliness and endurance. I aimed to finish with self-reliance acquired in time for my 22nd birthday on May 9th. Three days later, having purchased my first bike in 11 years, I rang home lamenting my lunacy and half-heartedly queried the returns policy. I didn’t want to cycle to Gothenburg but I needed to - my mind wasn’t sound, my reasons were.

Indecision bested, tent assembly failure followed; the 10 Euro pitch-fee therefore securing a waifish bench. My frugal rejection of maps for print-out makeweights sent swiftly aflutter scuppered my vow to cycle throughout the following night. Trudging in darkness through sheep territory, I inadvertently circled back to yesterday’s campsite. Tent-pitching still unsolvable, I took refuge in a toilet cubicle, a watershed moment given prohibitive adolescent OCD. Roused that morning and identified as a serial public-space slumberer, I was evicted by bemused staff.

With Amsterdam logjammed for Queen’s Day, Netherlands’ national party, I escaped via public transport to fast-tracked CouchSurfing accommodation in Groningen. For a reformed hermit, impending interaction was daunting - but rewarding. My host and I celebrated Queen’s Day, improvised a quick-fix tent and set me rightly routed. By dusk I’d reached the windmill-chequered German border. Ticking off towns was exhilarating while intermittent stopping for directions disrupted loneliness. One helper, amiable one-handed Dutchman Bert, fully stocked my food supplies, forestalling a proclivity to sightsee bakeries.

After a bahnhof sleepover I was early for my convoluted connection into Denmark, waiting beside the presumed bike carriage - which transpired to be at the opposite end of this train. As the carriages chugged off, I pedalled alongside, furiously banging doors, then slumped from my bike encircled by laughing onlookers. But presenting wellsprings of self-pity to Hamburg’s seemingly-bureaucratic ticket agent secured me a free replacement itinerary. One laptop loan later CouchSurfing was re-arranged. Benevolence had averted my self-sabotage.

Expansive right to roam simplified the Swedish leg, facilitating night-time motorway expeditions and emergency tent pitchings. Though I narrowly beat my birthday, it was aboard anticlimactic transportation, having being misdirected onto a single-stop train from Halmstad to Gothenburg.

Eight minutes into my 23rd year, Bert wished me happy birthday. I concluded that this year there’d be less to fear. Not with disorientation so vitalising, and people so helpful.