Since the beginning, the delay between events and me writing about them has slowly but steadily grown to the point where a whole month and more could have passed from the experience to the expression. After the time covered by this chapter that gap grew even more as my writing productivity halted. It is understandable that I have not been able to keep up with myself, yet it has made it increasingly difficult to remember the finer details of impressions, interactions and emotions. But the major parts of this episode, was written right after it happened. I simply couldn't let it be reduced and rearranged by a fallible memory.
In hindsight, perspectives have been gained on what happened within and without. The months alone on the road had made social interactions hyphenated. The weeks of planning to make the meeting likely fanned that flame. And while there was much regret at the time, I didn't truly consider what unknown consequences would follow had I acted differently. None of this changes that it started the most important, the most powerful and the most difficult time on the journey, and possibly of my life.
Budapest, Hungary to Vienna, Austria. July 9 to 17.
Continuing from chapter 45...
The plan was for us to cycle from Budapest to Vienna along the Danube river. We would follow Eurovelo 6, part of a EU-funded network of cycling paths on the continent. The flat and well-traveled route was a good fit for her as a new tour cyclist, and it seemed most neat to follow a river, stopping in smaller towns with start and finish in two major cities known for beauty. And it was a perfect choice, it truly was. I can do nothing but recommend Eurovelo in general and this section in particular. It was not perfectly prepared and signaled everywhere, but we always found our way back to it and riding on dedicated cycling roads was truly a bliss after loads of heavy traffic throughout my journey from the Middle East.
There had been some cooking from my part while cycling solo, saving leftovers in boxes for lunch the following day. When staying with local people I had helped out in the kitchen as much as I was allowed, which often meant nothing. But now with a cycling buddy, we always made sure to have access to kitchen where we stayed, and cooking became a central part of our teamwork and companionship. On this otherwise grand but lonely journey, preparing meals together was a heartfelt reminder of the simple pleasures in life.
The wholesome and homely atmosphere made the lost potential of a future all the more difficult. We laughed loudly over internal jokes not suitable for the public and consumed 50 eggs in a week's time. We indulged in the childish humour of staying in Hungarian town "Kisbajcs" - literally meaning pee-poo to Swedes - and stopping for a beer in a Slovakian village Horný Bar. With no other person had I ever had such natural partnership where things felt so easy, so much like home - a concept I had almost forgotten what it felt like until I felt it again with her.
For every moment of joy, there come one of dread as separation anxiety grew. That It was all to end soon. That no matter the bliss of the moment, she would reject me. That I, in a different time, had unknowingly sealed my own fate. That it was all too late, only a brief whisper of happiness before she would return to a new home and a new love, whereas I would tread alone, having neither.
Perhaps it goes without saying, but it needs saying no less: this is my truth. Hers would surely read much different. I wish that story, too, could be heard alongside this one, but unfortunately it is not so. Nothing is to be hold against her, not then, not now. The fact that I had no one to be angry with, save myself, did not help my struggle one bit.
While the pain I was bringing onto myself was unbearable, worse still was the knowledge that I had previously brought this on others. Heartbreaks cannot be avoided if the love is real and strong, but I hadn't quite understood the torment of being trapped close to someone you love, who loves you back, and still has chosen something or someone else. The healing process cannot start until the source of the damage is removed. Cutting the connection is less like ripping the band-aid, more like pulling the knife from the wound. Remembering myself twisting that knife, believing I made the blow softer, is even today a brutal truth to accept.
Apart from the ever-spinning head the pain was felt like a growing void in the chest, like an inflating vacuum-filled balloon. I often hear women encourage men to let more ,emotions out, as if we are actively keeping them inside. As the pain grew stronger throughout the week I wanted nothing more than to release the pressure, but the seals were shut. nothing would come out but words, and sometimes not even that. For better or worse, my body is not build to burst with emotions, rather to hold ground in spite of them. It was fighting with itself as I was eaten inside out.
I have long been proud of my ability to connect with eyes, to lock on a gaze for added intensity. I've had no fear over what that kind of vulnerability could do to myself. But on our final day in Vienna, I could barely look at her anymore. The pain was too great, stabbing my heart with every look. We said final goodbyes in the Stadtpark, and I knew that the platonic friend that I had once thought she would become, in fact, could never be.
I aimed as far as I could to Brno in Czechia 130 kilometres away. Eventually roadworks led me away from the paved path and over the fields. The wheel tracks were too old and the grass too high to give solid support, and the treading got heavier and heavier as the speed came down to a crawl. And then, as my legs pushed in the thickness, the lump in my chest started to move upwards. I kept going as if to help it up and out the last bit.
There, alone in the middle of a cornfield somewhere in Austria, with no one but the wind and my bike as company, I could finally cry.
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