winning streaks. I never could gamble. I like to work things out in advance, but it bothers me to think of what I might have been missing. I've done too much hacking away against the grain of life. Without all that solemn effort, maybe, I could have gone further, faster, easier.
Remember what my headmaster said thirty years ago, that tar-stained old walrus. 'Simon, you think too much.'
Thinking's like a black tunnel. Once you're in it you have to think your way through to the other end. At least I think so.
The Libyan immigration man, if that's who he is, has a limp shot gun folded over his arm and hunting boots laced up round his trouser cuffs. He appears happy. He has several duplicated forms in Arabic, and points to where I should sign. I am being processed into Libya like a monkey, by sign language. I put my name to everything without question.
He takes my passport. 'Helf, he says. Helt? Oh, health. His first and only English word. I produce my vaccination certificates, grinning (like a monkey) and pass on. There's a lot of hanging about. Nobody will speak to me in a language I understand. The customs chief is in a shiny silver Italian suit, with a carton of Marlboros under his arm. He touches a few of my dusty things fastidiously.
'Visky?' he says. And that's his English word for the day. The Infidel Monkey shakes his head and enters Libya. It is not that they cannot speak anything but Arabic. They will not. It is part of the Libyan crusade for Islam. We are not always kind to our foreigners and it is a sobering experience to have the tables turned. In the good old days, I suppose, one would have spoken English at the top of one's voice until the natives just naturally gave way, but then we had Queen Victoria to fall back on.
On my left, a few miles of sand dunes and then the sea, blue fading to grey. On my right, desert, and nothing but desert. The map says there are fifteen hundred miles of it to Nigeria as the crow flies, if a crow could. Above, the sky is clear in all directions. Ahead the road is an impeccable two-lane tarmac. A mild wind raises a curtain of dust over the desert, nothing awkward, just enough to blurr the outlines of a few camels. There is no trace of a human presence anywhere. I stop to taste the emptiness, listen to the silence, like the hiss of a blank tape playing. It's a bit awesome. Although I could easily do the hundred miles to Tripoli before nightfall, I know that I must sleep out in a real desert tonight.
The city-bred boy in me is frightened, and all the usual alarm signals go off in my head. Can I ride on this stuff? What will happen if I sink into it? Is it safe? Who might come by in the night? A tingling mixture of fear and anticipation, waiting to combine into something like joy. Once the decision is made it's easy. I choose a spot among some dunes on the seaward side and prop up the bike thanks to a metal disc welded on to the end of the swing stand, one good idea that did get carried out. Then the tent. Where? Which way? How anchored? Every action is part of a routine to be studied and perfected. How many times will I be doing this? Hundreds? It is worth getting it right. I use the bike to anchor one side of the tent, and find a boulder for the other side. What about the fly sheet? Will it rain? It seems impossible. The sky is clear from horizon to horizon, but still, just in case . . . Then in goes the bedding: The flying jacket folded inside out makes a great pillow. So it goes on. As I move round the bike I try to notice everything about it, chain tension, tyre tread, anything coming loose, falling off, trying to build up a picture of it as it should be so that any change rings a warning bell. . . and sure enough there's a rocker box cap loose. I can see the thread.
Those bloody things. What a fucking awful design. Fifteen seconds of profanity to make their ears burn in Meriden. Must remember to tighten it, with jointing compound. No! Do it now. You'll forget. And while
Remember what my headmaster said thirty years ago, that tar-stained old walrus. 'Simon, you think too much.'
Thinking's like a black tunnel. Once you're in it you have to think your way through to the other end. At least I think so.
The Libyan immigration man, if that's who he is, has a limp shot gun folded over his arm and hunting boots laced up round his trouser cuffs. He appears happy. He has several duplicated forms in Arabic, and points to where I should sign. I am being processed into Libya like a monkey, by sign language. I put my name to everything without question.
He takes my passport. 'Helf, he says. Helt? Oh, health. His first and only English word. I produce my vaccination certificates, grinning (like a monkey) and pass on. There's a lot of hanging about. Nobody will speak to me in a language I understand. The customs chief is in a shiny silver Italian suit, with a carton of Marlboros under his arm. He touches a few of my dusty things fastidiously.
'Visky?' he says. And that's his English word for the day. The Infidel Monkey shakes his head and enters Libya. It is not that they cannot speak anything but Arabic. They will not. It is part of the Libyan crusade for Islam. We are not always kind to our foreigners and it is a sobering experience to have the tables turned. In the good old days, I suppose, one would have spoken English at the top of one's voice until the natives just naturally gave way, but then we had Queen Victoria to fall back on.
On my left, a few miles of sand dunes and then the sea, blue fading to grey. On my right, desert, and nothing but desert. The map says there are fifteen hundred miles of it to Nigeria as the crow flies, if a crow could. Above, the sky is clear in all directions. Ahead the road is an impeccable two-lane tarmac. A mild wind raises a curtain of dust over the desert, nothing awkward, just enough to blurr the outlines of a few camels. There is no trace of a human presence anywhere. I stop to taste the emptiness, listen to the silence, like the hiss of a blank tape playing. It's a bit awesome. Although I could easily do the hundred miles to Tripoli before nightfall, I know that I must sleep out in a real desert tonight.
The city-bred boy in me is frightened, and all the usual alarm signals go off in my head. Can I ride on this stuff? What will happen if I sink into it? Is it safe? Who might come by in the night? A tingling mixture of fear and anticipation, waiting to combine into something like joy. Once the decision is made it's easy. I choose a spot among some dunes on the seaward side and prop up the bike thanks to a metal disc welded on to the end of the swing stand, one good idea that did get carried out. Then the tent. Where? Which way? How anchored? Every action is part of a routine to be studied and perfected. How many times will I be doing this? Hundreds? It is worth getting it right. I use the bike to anchor one side of the tent, and find a boulder for the other side. What about the fly sheet? Will it rain? It seems impossible. The sky is clear from horizon to horizon, but still, just in case . . . Then in goes the bedding: The flying jacket folded inside out makes a great pillow. So it goes on. As I move round the bike I try to notice everything about it, chain tension, tyre tread, anything coming loose, falling off, trying to build up a picture of it as it should be so that any change rings a warning bell. . . and sure enough there's a rocker box cap loose. I can see the thread.
Those bloody things. What a fucking awful design. Fifteen seconds of profanity to make their ears burn in Meriden. Must remember to tighten it, with jointing compound. No! Do it now. You'll forget. And while
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