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Chapter 49: Still Just A Rookie


Radomsko to Płock, Poland. July 24 to 28.


I had to rest for three full days in Radomsko. Both digestive and immune system needed the downtime to recover enough for me to hit the road again. A bit of writing, some movies and many, many hours of sleep was about it for the agenda as my stomach was slowly eased into the concept of food again.


Once again I found myself in a most peculiar establishment. This time it had the looks of a small castle, or rather a fake one out of a theme park from the 80's. There were several wings and floors to the house, many of which were inaccessible, blocked with piled chairs. The furniture and hall decorations from the last century were of grand proportions, but had a cheap look and feel about them. Despite that it was late July, which I would have thought to be high season, I was one of only a few guests. As we seemed to be spread out in the building with whole sections to ourselves, it felt as though I was the only one there. The hotel was obviously from a bygone era when commerce looked much different and officials in party and military needed propped up venues for official gatherings. After all, I was behind the iron curtain.


My original plan had been to cycle through the Baltics and get to Stockholm by ferry from Tallinn, Estonia. But after cycling through Czechia without being present at all, visiting more small countries had lost its appeal. Even though I have long since dropped opinions of what foreign travels should or should not entail, there lingers a silent expectation still. I don't think I should visit sites and engage in the local whereabouts for the sake of it, but I feel bad if I don't, as if I'm not taking the opportunity and is I'm not making the country, and my time in it, justice. Or perhaps I wish I was in another mindset as a foreign surrounding remind me of a happier, more curious self that used to be excited about exploring it. In any case, the cognitive dissonance between how I wanted to feel and how I felt was made greater simply by the fact of being abroad. Reaching Sweden earlier felt right and in my situation, that was something I had to listen to.


So I changed my route. Instead of heading northeast toward Lithuania, I would cycle north for "Threecity": Gdansk, Sopot and Gdynia. From there I could take a ferry to Karlskrona in Sweden and ride the last week in my own country. I would go through uncharted territory in the south, but I knew I would not have a bad conscience for struggling to enjoy it. I would also be able to visit extended family from father's side that I had not seen in many years. In all, a soft landing to home was much welcome after a long hard journey.


Once I finally left Radomsko, I did so in new colours. Over the months on the road my looks had changed piece by piece. Turkey gave me new bags in the front, Bulgaria new gloves and red helmet. Back in Hungary I had picked up black shorts and finally replaced the rack and bags in the rear, all of which had been mended countless times. And now in Poland I finally I got a cycling shirt. Like the rest of my gear was nothing high-end, but it matched my black and red colour palette, and gave me another boost of motivation.


First stop was Łódź, pronounced "Wootch". Significant in town was Piotrowska Street, the main walking strip filled with shops, bars, cafes and restaurants. The holiday season gave it a folk-fest vibe as vendors and street performers fought for space in the open while kids ran around the legs of the adults in their best vacation mood. There also happened to be the Łódź Summer Festival amping up the volume in the night, but I couldn't quite match the energy. Instead I enjoyed a walk in the park with Moroccan expat Farah, living in the town since a few years. Among other things we discussed the concept of friendship. Although our points of view were quite opposite, mine being on the inclusive end of the spectrum and hers on the selective, we managed to make a little friendship that was ours.



Next stop, Płock, pronounced "Pootsk". My stays in Poland were mainly decided by where I could find simple accommodation and, if possible, some company to interact with. Mateusz was an avid cyclist himself, having done multiple cycling tours longer than mine despite his young age. He rode Canada coast to coast and then continued along the Pacific all the way to Mexico. He was now preparing a move to Greece as he had found a fitting social hub there to start a new life. While waiting for that he hosted cyclists like me in his family house in Płock.


Getting there was easier said than done. Turkey had given me heavy rains and strong winds on separate occasions and Serbia had brought thunder of awe. But Poland cooked up a storm where they were all combined to the point where it was hard to stay in the saddle. During my time in the country, Poland had a habit of saying "we're not going to let you go that easy", and the storm south of Płock spat it straight to my face. Rather than being discouraged, it triggered my fighting spirit as resistance and fatigue only built a greater sense of accomplishment.


In Mateusz I found myself a true cycling pal, and we roamed the town together in the light summer evening as free young men. I did not quite understand then just how hardcore Mateusz was when it came to cycling as a sport. A few weeks later when he made his move to Greece he did so by bike in five days. He averaged more than double my usual distance, some 250 kilometres per day back to back from central Poland to Thessaloniki.


It would seem that after cycling from Iraq to Sweden, I'm still just a rookie.





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