All good things

In retrospect, threads were becoming unwound.

A pain had developed in my right knee. The beauty of the surroundings muted by thoughts of a return to England for a friends wedding. Then news came that crossings at the Thai-Burma border had been suspended.

Listlessness reigned as the forward momentum that a bicycle craves stalled toward inertia.

I stood by a Wat scuffing stones and smoking. Decision eluding me. If in doubt keep on going had been my mantra but I lingered still. A bright hello interrupted my leaden musings as Thawi, a young monk, introduced himself and we got to chatting. On hearing my quandary he explained that it was simple. 'You can cross into Burma at Tachiliek' and offered to give me a lift to Chiang Mai. Just like that, the clouds cleared and the way forward was clear again. No need to retrace pedal strokes. Follow the stream, don't swim against it.

All that was left was to secure my faithful steed to his. 

 It was a hot ride but that soon changed as on return to Chaing Mai the heavens opened. 

I decided to venture out to plan next steps at the internet café I had used on my last visit. 

While there this happy little guy came scampering across the computer desk. Unconcerned by the danger that the lay about it.

Route planned and excited for the road north I climbed aboard my unburdened bike and made for the shelter of my hostel.

 

Bedraggled I waited to turn onto the busy Bunreuang Rit road that rings Chiang Mai old town. In the dark rainy night headlights twinkled. A gap in the traffic came, I crossed the lanes and reached the far side of the road. Then I felt a jolt behind me.

Coming to, laid out on the road, adrenaline surged as cars whizzed. I jumped to my feet, fearful that my bike might be crushed and reached to pull it to the curb with my left hand. Pain flared and blackness fell.

And evidently so did I. Returning to consciousness again I found myself ringed by good Samaritans. Thankfully the moped driver who had hit me was also ok and now stood in the group checking on me. My effort to rise and brush off the mishap and embarrassment were gently dismissed as I was encouraged to lay back on the cold wet roadside.

It turned out I had picked fortuitous spot just a few hundred metres from the city hospital. Soon paramedics were kindly strapping me onto a stretcher. Groggily I fixated on the fate of my bicycle and plaintively asked that it come with me in the ambulance. A request they generously and surprisingly accepted.

Some stiff shots of morphine later I was feeling wider eyed and much more relaxed. 

A doctor visited to explain that I had dislocated my collar bone but beyond cuts and abrasions I was otherwise in rude health.

As I lay in my hospital bed in the wee hours of the morning reassured by the presence of my bicycle in the hall I distinctly remember thinking dreamily about how I would ride the next day with just one arm to grip the handlebars. 

It wasn't to be. 

Surgery was advised and so as I walked from the hospital. Slowly pushing my bicycle towards my hostel I made my peace with the fact the journey was over. The next few days were spent organising a return home. Packing the bike up one handed was tricky, as was washing myself, but with some persistence and a rag on a stick I found a way. My final day was enlivened by a bizarre trip to the Thai Police station where I met the moped rider, signed some incomprehensible documents and watched as the poor moped driver handed over some cash to the officer. 

Before long I reached the airport and was ushered into a wheel chair. On reaching security and passing my bar-bag through the metal detector alarms rang. I had failed to stow my Leatherman tool. Whether it was the morphine, the pain, or the ongoing realisation that I had lost my way, my life for the last 3 years; the prospect of losing this tool that had been with me all those miles was too much. Emotional, I refused to part with it. Making a scene and refusing to go through. Seeing my upset, the incredibly understanding Thai security guards calmed me down and offered to take the knife and put it in my bag. As a child on a family holiday I remember having a toy sword taken from me at an airport and despite assurances that it would be waiting for me when I got off the plane: it was not. But history did not repeat itself. True to his word and going far above and beyond in the face of my tantrum, the Leatherman was somehow returned to my luggage. Just the last of the uncountable good deeds and kindnesses that I have been recipient of on this trip. Either the world is full of good people or I have been miraculously lucky.

Before I knew it I was landing in Heathrow and back in Essex. Putting the bike in the shed. Packing away the tent. Waking-up and not having to pack all my worldly belongings into panniers. Having access to a fridge. It felt very odd.

The surgery went smoothly

And I was soon able to catch up on all the things I had missed most.

Family.

And friends. 

And it all started to feel a bit less odd.