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Wild Motorcycle Tales

Here's a great story from Bruce Curran. Got your own story? Send it to me.

Afghanistan by Motorbike - Part 2: The Relativity of Travel

The sun scorched the rock and sand either side of the covered road between Herat and Kandahar in the Afghan Desert. The motorcycle purred perfectly as my bike and I glided through the emptiness of the open spaces. I had just avoided a near disaster at the hands of two desert-muggers, and was contemplating my luck as something quite amazing appeared on the road ahead.

My eyes were vaguely focused within the haze of the sun's dancing rays. I began to imagine a string of English words in red paint written across the backboard of a cart rolling along ahead of me on this Russian built road. The words continued to prance before me in the heat of the morning sun, and I knew I must be hallucinating. Then clarity was upon me and there on the road were the words: "FIRST WALK AROUND THE WORLD"

My jaw dropped in recognition, and then closed again in realisation, as my mind reminded me of the many flying bugs that are acrid to swallow, especially at high speed! I braked slowly and drew nearer. I could now see two people walking beside a large grayish brown mule hitched to a cart. On the cart lay some rucksacks, and food and straw for man and beast. I drew up alongside, and the group drew to a halt.

"Hello there," I grated, as the desert dust scratched my throat. "You're not serious about that sign on the back of your cart are you?"

"I'm afraid so," spoke a dark figure with a North American accent.

My mouth dropped and closed once more. Then they unravelled their tale before me like a magic carpet.

The two friends had set out from Missouri in the Mid-Central United States, walked to the east coast, then shipped to Portugal where they bought the mule and slung their rucksacks across its back. Eventually they arrived in Istanbul in Turkey and purchased a cart to carry food and water for the oncoming desert and open country crossings so typical of this part of Asia.

After Turkey, Iran had been crossed and here they were half way through Afghanistan. They were excited because they were over half way around the world, with over two and three quarter years under their belt, and only an estimated two and a quarter years to go!

It got me thinking about how relative journeys are to the experience of other people and in a flash I realised how important an earlier experience of mine had been in my own travels.

Alec and I had left England on two identical motorcycles many months before, after four years of dreaming and two years of saving. On our third day, some three hours south of Paris, a great tragedy occurred.

Alec was caught in a vicious crosswind which tumbled him off his bike onto the toll road at 70 mph. I watched helplessly from behind as he went into a wave pattern weaving from side to side, which built momentum till he lost control completely and toppled to his side and skidded with the bike onto the central reservation, before coming to an ugly halt near his revving machine.

His bike's throttle was jammed-on and screamed in agony. But it was mechanical agony, unlike the physical pain that had instantly smothered Alec on the open road.

I noticed what a beautiful sunny afternoon it was that day in France. Eight days later Alec was on a train on his way back to England, with a rucksack on his back and a hobbling cane to hand to help him support his plastered right leg, not broken but twisted.

During those eight days I lived out my life in my little green tent perched in a field near the hospital close to the town of Joigny. My thoughts were mixed and unclear, imprecise and confused, long and short, but most of all quisitive about what I was going to do.

One minute I had been on a great adventure with my best friend, and the next I was alone and at a major crossroad. Should I go back and drift into the routines of an English lifestyle? Should I tackle the road ahead on my own and continue the planned journey through Europe, Asia and Africa? Perhaps I could just curl up in a ball and imagine nothing had happened! It was my first real meeting with myself, my first insight into the fickleness of life, and the unknown road that lies before all of us.

The mule snorted violently, and my mind returned to the present and the group before me.

"Gee! The mule's thirsty again?" mused the other North American, taller than his friend, but just as dark from the years on the road. "That's the third time in the last hour he's asked for water!"

As they went about their business, I wished them well and kick-started my bike to continue on my way. I glanced in my rear view mirror one more time, and caught a shimmering image of the group that quickly faded into a mirage of truth that lay before me on the path ahead.

The sun continued to scorch the rocks and sand either side of the covered road between Herat and Kandahar in the Afghan Desert. -- Bruce Curran

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