near Zurich to Wolveg via Leuwaarden
No sooner had I put my tent down than it began to spit. a cold bitter morning, misty with a weak orange sun. All I could think of was the next town and a cafe to sit in, while the day warmed up. But its sunday, an Easter Sunday, and the town, Harlingin, is deserted. Kids sat around a burning something on the beach, rows of masts along the canal, piles of chairs outside cafes advertise “gestolten”, closed.
But there is a brass band playing hyms on a bridge, and near them, like they were a good omen, a hotel restraunt to serve me coffee. And after that the rest of the day begins.
The man just gives me the beer. They usually sell only ice cream, but he can probably tell that I need it. Its a good sign too, and 5 minutes along the route, I stop to camp. Its been a long day of straight lines and milky sunlight, beautiful canals and moored boats. Too much watching the odometer, too many gorgeous treelined lanes to photograph. I passed a woman lying across the body of her dog, freshly hit by a car. I dreamed of a plate of chips all day, but that will have to wait till tommorow.
I was especially tired, crawling into my tent, having cycled 117km on a bad nights sleep. I had nightmares the night before, about impotence induced by too many hours in the saddle, and woke often, terrified I would loose my ability to love, and have children, to my bicycle. I lay there desperately thinking dirty things to test if I still worked. But I no success, maybe there was too much pressure to perform (or not enough pressure as the case may be) so I eventually fell asleep still worried about family planning. In the morning, as often happens to men at dawn, I was reassured.
