The Accidental Cyclist (23 page)

The Embankment on this sunny
Sunday was surely cycle heaven. Icarus smiled as they passed young
women and girls who trailed flowing skirts on their pretty
sit-up-and-beg Kettlers and Pashleys, wicker baskets at the front
that begged for a bouquet of spring flowers, or a panting puppy.
There were parents followed by a retinue of children on
ever-diminishing bikes that seemed to have come out of one another,
a vehicular version of Russian dolls. Clearly everyone in London
who owned a bike had the same thought on this perfect day: this was
the ideal moment to get out and ride. Indeed, even those with no
bike of their own joined the procession, mounted on Boris bikes,
the city’s indestructible blue and white clunkers-for-hire that
seemed to proliferate faster than rabbits.

And everyone seemed happy and at
ease, gliding along effortlessly, as if impelled by some invisible
force. Even The Leader seemed to have caught the spirit of the
moment. If only it were always so, thought Icarus, as they turned
through Parliament Square and headed down Milbank.

The journey to Richmond was an
effortless glide through virtually traffic-free streets, and even
The Leader was surprised to arrive still feeling fresh and ready to
go further. The trio decided to enjoy a circuit of the park before
stopping for their cup of tea and slice of cake – compulsory fare
for a Sunday-morning cycle ride. And if Icarus had thought that the
Embankment had been cycling’s heaven, well, then Richmond Park must
be its Valhalla and Nirvana rolled into one, because so many riders
thronged the park’s roads and tracks that no motorist would dare
venture close. In the end even The Leader had to concede that it
was worth losing an hour’s sleep for a day out like this.

By the middle of June the joy
of spring had faded. London was hot and cloudless, the air
motionless. The only breeze to be felt was when cycling through the
streaming, stinking traffic that seemed never to move. The London
gridlock kept Icarus and the Grey Man busy. Moving about by bicycle
was the quickest way to get urgent documents from A to B. And so it
was boom time for the International Cycle Courier Company (Hackney
Branch). Icarus and the Grey Man were in a permanent sweat,
speeding from A to B, or C to D, while Justin, Jason and the others
never raised more than a faint glow as they glided gracefully
between X, Y and Z, and then back again, Y and Z being the coffee
shop and the bicycle shop, respectively, and X a moveable spot at
any given moment, depending on where Justin or Jason decided to
place it.

In all their busy-ness, Icarus
and the Grey Man quickly forgot their plans for the pilgrimage. The
Grey Man spent much of his spare time visiting auction houses on
Mrs Smith’s behalf, and eventually he found one that would auction
her carpet, for indeed, it had been verified as a genuine Persian
of some vintage. “I can’t guarantee what it will fetch,” the
auctioneer had told him, “but I’m sure that it will be a tidy
sum.”

The Leader, in the meantime,
found that he had more than enough time to brood over the project,
and so he found himself borrowing books about France and its famous
cycle race, and he read everything that he could about the country
and the race (the event, that is, not the people).

“Strange people,” he said one
evening to Icarus, who had absolutely no idea who or what he was
talking about.

“They drive on the wrong side of
the road, eat frogs’ legs and drink wine for breakfast. Do they
also cycle on the wrong side?”

“Uh huh,” replied Icarus, who
was simply too tired to engage in any conversation. France was far
from his mind. All he was thinking of – dreaming of – was bed and
sleep. The idea of the pilgrimage, a holiday, a break – call it
what you will – was a thousand miles from Icarus’s thoughts, so
that when, the next morning, his shining new passport arrived in
the post, he could not remember why he had applied for it. Quietly
he slipped the document into his bedside drawer and cycled off to
work. His state of confusion was compounded when he reached the
International Cycle Courier Company (Hackney Branch). Helen the
Despatcher called him across to her booth and told him to sit
down.

“You’ve been working here for
almost a year,” she began.

“Eleven months, two weeks and
three days,” Icarus interjected.

“Yes, exactly,” said Helen the
Despatcher, although she didn’t mean Yes exactly, but Yes, that is
exactly my point. She did not explain the distinction to Icarus,
but went on. “Eleven and a half months. And under employment laws,
health and safety and all that, you have certain rights, and we, as
employers, have certain obligations. You have the right to a
certain amount of time off.”

“Oh, I don’t need time off. I
love my work. I’d do it even if I wasn’t paid.”

“Never tell anyone that,” said
Helen the Despatcher. “And that’s not the point. Under the law you
have to take time off. From next Monday I don’t want to see you
here for four weeks. You will be paid as usual during that time, of
course.”

“You mean that I can’t work for
four weeks? What will I do?”

“You’ll take a holiday, and
that’s an order.”

“But I’ve never had a holiday. I
don’t know what I’ll do. Where can I go?”

“You’ll find something. I’ve
also told Con that he has to take leave. He’s your friend. Speak to
him.”

That evening The Leader found
Icarus sitting in the windowless basement, wallowing in the gloom
of the fading light that came through the open door.

“What’s up with you?” The Leader
asked.

“I’ve been told to take leave.
For four weeks. What am I going to do with myself for four whole
weeks?”

The basement darkened as the
figure of the Grey Man blocked out the light in the doorway. “Me
too,” were his first words. He had heard the brief conversation as
he came down the stairs.

“You too what?” asked The
Leader.

“I’ve also been told to take
leave. For four weeks.”

“What are we going to do?”
Icarus asked again.

“I’ve no idea,” said the Grey
Man. “I’ve never been forced to take leave before. And I haven’t
taken a holiday since ….” his voiced trailed off.

“Don’t you worry about a thing,”
said The Leader, “just leave it to me. By this time tomorrow I’ll
have you both organised.”

“What do you think you are?”
asked the Grey Man. “Some kind of travel agent?”

The next day The Leader was
ready and waiting for Icarus and the Grey Man as they walked into
the basement after work.

“Here,” he said, handing each of
them a printed sheet of paper. “It’s your itinerary.” He pronounced
each syllable of the word. I-TEE-NER-RARY.

“I-TEE-NARY,” said the Grey
Man.

The Leader glowered at him and
repeated it, syllable by syllable, then added: “It’s spelt
I-T-E-N-E-R-A-R-Y.”

The Grey Man was feeling tired
and tense. He wasn’t looking for an argument. But neither was he
looking forward to being told what to do by The Leader. He looked
at the sheet of paper in his hand. “DAY 1: London to Dover,” it
read.

“When is Day 1?” he asked.

“Monday,” said The Leader.

“It’ll take two or three days to
cycle to Dover,” said the Grey Man, “because I have somewhere where
I want to stop at on the way.”

“No problem,” said The Leader,
slightly annoyed, but determined to be the travel agent who
accommodates a difficult client, “I’m sure I can work that into the
schedule.” He crossed the basement to a table in a darkened corner
and switched on a lamp. On the table was a laptop computer and a
small printer. They hadn’t been there a week earlier.

Icarus and the Grey Man studied
their itinerary. Clearly The Leader had put a lot of thought and
effort into the journey. The pair would have a demanding ride
across France from north to south, avoiding the major cities, all
the way to Mont Ventoux. As a bonus, according to The Leader, twice
along the way they would intersect the Tour de France and, should
their timing be right, they would see it again for the third and
final time on the summit of the mountain where Tommy Simpson had
died. They would then travel to Marseilles to catch a train back to
London, and they should be home within their allotted four
weeks.

“You will camp along the way,”
said The Leader, serious and businesslike. He handed each of them
another sheet of paper. “Here is an estimated costing, including
ferry and train fares. If the weather turns bad you should be able
to afford a hostel or B&B now and then.”

The Grey Man’s earlier
irritation had dissipated, to be replaced by surprise and an
element of respect for The Leader’s obvious organisational
abilities. He and Icarus studied the sheets, amazed. What for them
had been but a pipe dream was presented as a concrete, costed
blueprint. They tried to find objections, impossibilities, excuses
to avoid the trip, but could find none. Finally Icarus asked The
Leader: “You’ve organised and arranged all of this for us, but what
will you do? Why don’t you join us?”

“I’ll ride with you as far as
Dover, and see you onto the ferry. Then I’ll catch a train home.
I’m not as fit as you two, and once you have to ride long distances
in France I’d slow you down. And anyway,” he said with a sweep of
the arm around the basement, “I’ve got a business to run, don’t
I?”

The Grey Man suppressed a laugh.
The Leader had, after all, come a long way from the bicycle
thieving reprobate that he and Icarus had met a year earlier.
Although they weren’t quite sure what the business actually
entailed, The Leader’s activities seemed to earn enough money to
feed and clothe him, and appeared to be legitimate, even if at
times they bordered on the shadier side of the road of commerce.
The Leader had, they could not deny, developed a remarkable ability
as a bicycle mechanic, while showing himself to have an adept sense
of organisation.

“So,” said Icarus, “it seems
that all has been decided. Now all that I have to do is to tell my
mother.”

Persuading Mrs Smith that he
was doing the right thing was never going to be easy. Icarus knew
that it was his decision to go, but he did not want his mother to
be unhappy about it. He sat in the gloom of the basement, puzzling
over how to persuade her that he was doing the right thing. “How
can I convince her?” he asked The Leader, “especially when she has
already decided that I shouldn’t go. Also, she’s still worrying
about losing the flat, even though the landlord hasn’t made any
mention of it.”

“This might help her to decide,”
said the Grey Man. He had in his hand a big white envelope and on
his face a wide smile. “I think we need to go and tell her right
now.”

The trio traipsed upstairs to
the flat, where Mrs Smith met them with some alarm. “What on earth
is going on? It’s the middle of the week – what are you all doing
here?”

With a flourish and a bow – yes,
he actually bowed – the Grey Man presented the large white envelope
to Mrs Smith. “What is this?” she asked.

“Just open it and see.”

Mrs Smith went to the kitchen
drawer and found her paper knife and sliced open the envelope. She
drew out a letter, with a cheque stapled to it. She stared at it
for some time, then said: “No, no, no. This can’t be right. It must
be a mistake, a miscalculation, an error.”

The Grey Man grasped the cheque
from her hand and studied it, concerned. “What’s wrong with it.
Isn’t this enough money to buy your flat?”

“I’m sure that it’s more than
enough. That’s what’s wrong. Surely it’s too much money. It can’t
possibly be right.”

“I can assure you that it is
right,” he laughed. “And if it’s more than enough for you to buy
your flat, then you can take yourself off on a lovely holiday.”

“A holiday? I suppose that would
be quite nice. We’ve never been on a holiday. Not a proper one.
Wouldn’t you like to take a holiday, Icarus?”

“Well, that’s what we’ve been
planning, Mum, but I think what George means is that you take
yourself off on a holiday. You can take yourself somewhere special
and treat yourself.”

Mrs Smith had always devoted
herself to her son’s well-being and happiness. Indeed, she had
carried with her, ever since his birth, the guilt that by being a
single parent she had been unable to provide the boy with all the
little luxuries of life that most middle-class children could
expect to enjoy. On the other hand, she consoled herself with the
thought that Icarus was thus spared the malign influences that such
little luxuries would expose him to.

Mrs Smith may well have objected
to Icarus’s proposed holiday were it not for the fact that it had
been couched in terms that it was a pilgrimage, even if it was a
rather secular pilgrimage. Also, she had faith in the Grey Man – or
George, as she knew him – and the fact that he seemed to take an
almost fatherly interest in Icarus’s well-being. So she decided
that, even if she did not take a holiday (you never knew when we
might need a bit of extra money, she explained) she was happy to
help and encourage man and boy (she thought of Icarus still as a
boy) in their preparations, and insisted that the pair – along with
this friend (who she was sure was now living in the basement) –
dine with her on Sunday, the eve of their departure. They could
hardly refuse, and The Leader, on receiving the invitation, was
doubly pleased when he heard that they would be dining on a leg of
lamb.

Over the next three days
Icarus, the Grey Man and The Leader spent all the time they could
preparing for the trip. The Grey Man and Icarus went shopping for
sleeping bags, bike panniers, waterproofs in case of rain,
sunscreen in case the sun shone, as well as maps, guidebooks and
spares. The Leader, meanwhile, concentrated on making sure the
bikes were in the best condition, panniers fitted, tyres pumped,
chains oiled. There was one niggle that he could not fix – a slight
wobble in Icarus’s front wheel, a consequence of his collision with
the van.