Prologue - wtf made me do this
The longest journey starts with a single step. That is if you want to believe Lao Tzu. In my case it was with a 16-hour flight from Amsterdam to Singapore. Though, come to think of it, my journey really started on a sunny afternoon one year earlier.
I went up to our cottage in the garden, where my wife was working, to ask her what she wanted for dinner. Rather than telling me that she had this terrible craving for seafood or red meat, she told me she no longer felt attracted to me and no longer admired me. I was in shock. Apart from not understanding how anybody could not be attracted to me, I never even knew she had admired me.
After the message had sunk in, I started pondering on what to do. We were going through a rough time. Not only had I just lost my job, my wife’s father had also recently died. And to top it off, we were five adults living in too small a house, which led to tension and disorder.
I decided I needed to take a break from everything. Go on a pilgrimage. I had just read the book ‘Emo’s travel’ about a Dutch bishop who walked to Rome in 1212. He needed the pope’s help to solve a dispute. I decided that what is good for Emo, is certainly good for me. I would walk to Rome!
I started planning. But I soon discovered that walking to Rome would take quite a lot of time. Apart from that, I have flat feet and a shot ankle. Walking was a bad idea. I could go by car, plane or train, but that would defeat the purpose. I would go by bicycle. That makes sense being Dutch.
I bought a secondhand bicycle. A Trek X-700, which in Lourdes I baptised Rosinante and started training. I figured that if I were able to ride 60 kilometers a day I could easily reach Rome in six weeks with time to spare. I did not realise that adding twenty kilo’s of luggage would make some difference.
Early June I set off. In the beginning I suffered a lot of misfortune. Everything that could break broke. I didn’t have a clue about cycling long distances. The tires of my bike were too soft. I had bought a gel padding for my saddle against saddle pain, only to start peeing blood after a few days. Never ride on a soft saddle!
But after about two weeks I started settling in. Riding all day became easier and I really enjoyed not worrying about anything, except where to sleep the next night and what to eat. I was zen. When I reached the Mediterranean I decided I couldn’t be bothered to carry my bike home on a Flix-bus from Rome. Instead of turning left to Italy, I turned right towards Spain. From there I would cycle back to the north of France, where my wife would pick me up. I cycled 2700 kilometers and very much enjoyed it. I couldn’t wait to do it again.
I had hoped that my absence had given my wife time to miss me, and realise that our marriage was worth fighting for. Unfortunately that was not the case. To cut a long story short: we got a divorce and sold our house. One year later I am on a plane that will take me to Singapore. From there I will ride my shiny new bicycle back to Amsterdam.
Day 1 - High in the sky and Singapore
As soon as the ‘fasten your seatbelt’ sign is off. I check my telephone. I put some tags on my bike and luggage in case they might be lost or stolen. To my horror I see my bike moving away into the distance, still standing on the edge of the runway. Nothing I can do about it now.
There’s a stopover in Doha. We arrived late, so I had to rush to my connecting flight to Singapore. There was no time to ask at the Qatar Airways desk about my bike. But the stewardess assures me that sometimes bulkier items are flown directly to Singapore and that I needn’t worry.
Once airborne I check my app again and see my luggage being left behind in Doha. Being an optimist, I was happy that I wouldn’t have to carry so much on my transfer to the house I rented in Johor Bahru in Malaysia.
Upon arrival in Singapore I take my time and first get some Singapore dollars and have something to eat at the Burger King. Much to my surprise I see the huge box carrying my bicycle and my luggage waiting when I arrive at the luggage belt. So much for Samsung Air tags. I collect everything and rush through customs. By now it’s almost midnight.
At the taxistand I am told that taxi’s can’t take me across the border into Malaysia. The border is as far as they go. I find a friendly taxi driver who knows the ideal spot close to the border where I can put my bike together. By the time I get there it’s one o’ clock in the morning.
From where I am assembling my bicycle, it was still one kilometer to the border. Soon, six customs officers and police officers joined the commuters in observing my activities. They found it extremely interesting and were very impressed that someone my age was cycling such a long distance. When I was finally ready to cross the scary bridge to Malaysia, it turned out they had alerted their colleagues. Where it was dangerous (about every 100 meters), police officers were cheerfully waving at me and stopping traffic. I couldn’t have wished for a better start.