Where There's a Will: Hope, Grief and Endurance in a Cycle Race Across a Continent by Emily Chappell

Author:Emily Chappell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Profile Books
Published: 2019-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Twenty-four hours later I was slumped gratefully on the white cotton of a hotel bed, still feeling filthy after my shower. No amount of soap and water could reduce the prickling of sunburn on my skin, the grey tide marks that blended with my tan lines, and the cuts and sores that were appearing all over my body, especially on my face, where excessive sweating had caused spots to form around my mouth, and excessive cycling had refused to let them heal. I had developed mouth ulcers from all the sugar I’d been eating, and every time the tip of my tongue touched my front teeth I felt a sharp sting and tasted blood. My hair, which I hadn’t had the energy to wash, still held the dust and salt of the last two days.

But I was happy to be where I was, as clean and comfortable as I felt I could reasonably get at this stage. All four checkpoints were behind me, and most of the mountains, and now I would spend a few hours in this hotel room, gathering my strength for the final push. I was managing myself well. And in contrast to the previous day’s push through the gravel, I had spent this evening descending from Checkpoint Four’s 1,500m eyrie back to sea level, feeling the landscape warm and blossom around me, the air moisten and the traffic thicken as I approached Podgorica, Montenegro’s tiny capital city. Hotel Oasis was a smart five-storey building near the Albanian border, and when I arrived yet another wedding party looked like it was in the process of winding down.

There is an unavoidable tension to staying in hotel rooms when you’re racing. For starters, you’ve shelled out for a whole night, yet will only be using the room for a few hours, leaving before breakfast is served. Every time I’ve stayed in a hotel I’ve felt guilty about the money I’m wasting. Then the intention of getting what passes for a proper night’s sleep is disrupted by the conflicting need to make the most of the privacy and running water the room also offers. Cleaning body, hair and clothing takes time, and there’s the temptation to loaf about before going to bed, texting friends, checking social media. It wasn’t until the latter half of the race that I began to notice a new flavour of relaxation – that of the person who has spent every single minute of the past few days in public space, always aware that she may be observed or approached, whether she’s drinking espresso in a roadside café, peeing behind a hedge, pedalling past an indifferent policeman or lying unconscious in her bivvy bag. To sit and do nothing much, behind a locked door, knowing that there was no chance someone might notice me, watch me or come and ask what I thought I was doing, was as refreshing as the shower and the clean sheets.

So I propped myself up with all the pillows in

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