Starting A World Tour

Part 1: England, Tamworth

Across town, there’s a blur of harsh light and muffled sound.

“Wha, where am I?” Wiggy is waking up.

He tries to move, but there’s a dull ache in his head and his muscles are limp. The ceiling above trembles, the floor below rocks, and hurried shapes wiz past.

He’s lying flat on his back on a squat and narrow bed, but this bed – it’s far too short, too narrow, and his feet feel odd, heavy— Ur, why the hell is he wearing his boots in bed? He shifts, squints, sees his large boots hanging over the end of crisp white sheets, earth and dirt clinging to them.

“Sir, please,” says an unfamiliar voice, “take it easy, you passed out and hit your head.” A blurry man appears in his peripheral.

Wiggy blinks, once, twice, and slowly the world comes into focus. There’s the rise and fall of his chest beneath a tangle of wires, the steady beep of a machine, and the flash of blue lights outside an ambulance.

And then it’s slowing down, the doors open and my worried voice greets my fiancé.

—

Wiggy arrives home as dusk descends and the streetlights flicker to life. Past the feral disaster that our lawn has become, I hurry out to hug him. Cardboard boxes and a dismantled sofa litter the grass, while our motorcycles wait there, encumbered by skip run and storage unit cargo.

Over the fence, I hear our neighbour moving cans (probably cans of plum tomatoes) into hiding holes reachable from a wheelchair. They were grateful for the food gifts but the way they lingered by their doorway and said goodbye. Why do this?

Inside, our bungalow isn’t any better. Bare walls, detritus covering the floor, boxes laid hither-dither.

“They want me back for scans.” Wiggy says as he drops into a camping chair that’s been set up to replace our dismantled sofa. The removal team are here tomorrow, we could stay up all night and still, we wouldn’t finish in time.

“This week?” I ask.

“Could be a few months, he said avoid driving, didn’t mention avoiding riding through.” Despite the trauma of today, Wiggy sounds remarkably nonchalant.

“Really?” I grumble while vacantly eye-balling our half-formed piles of possessions; stuff for the lockup, stuff for the dump, the camping equipment pile, motorcycle armour, clothing for the four seasons, cosmetics, electronics, tools, and medicine – there’s a lot of medicine.

The night’s mild, yet a bead of sweat travels down my temple and tunnel vision begins to blur the edges of the room. I’ve come to a standstill, unable to pack and craving static.

“Kelly, you okay?” Wiggy asks.

Yet, words do not come, time distorts, and it takes a lot of it to process information. Instead, I vacantly watch Wiggy, his long and athletic body encumbered by years of harsh luck and hardship, his handsome face blurring out of focus.

“Kelly?” Wiggy asks again, I do not respond so he gets up. I watch him vanish into the kitchen, and notice a large white spot growing in my central field of vision; a sign I have a low blood sugar.

I’m zoning out now, but find contentment in watching the dust. Dust disturbed from many years of rest, drifting through our living room to resettle in slow motion upon the rough asbestos floor. Asbestos, because we were told to rip up the laminate that covered it by the agent. Leave the floor as it was when Wiggy moved here many, many years ago. Crippled from a broken back, benumbed by prescription drugs, incapacitated, housebound.

Cold sweat’s clinging to my body now, my muscles are limp and my eyes have lost focus. Then Wiggy’s back, “eat,” and he’s passing me a cube of kendal mint cake. Into my mouth the white cube crumbles, I appreciate how my saliva dissolves its’ life-giving sugars. Reason returns, so does strength and rationale.

“You okay?” Wiggy asks, hand in his unkempt, dirty blond hair, the lines on his forehead furrowed, his patient blue eyes mixed with the grey of our living room.

“…No,”  I eventually grumble, my words are slurred and it takes a lot of effort to make my vocal cords move.

One week before our ferry departs, and our round-the-world motorcycle trip feels like a completely ludicrous and alien concept. So, why indeed do this? Make ourselves homeless, unemployed, blow our life’s savings, and place ourselves in potentially life compromising scenarios.

A round-the-world trip, overland by motorcycles for a type 1 diabetic and a man with nerve damage and a twisted spine. So many complications and restrictions come with our chronic disabilities, but who ever said they wished they’d travelled less while lying on their deathbed?

Part 2: England, Tamworth

“I know it may be too late, but I strongly advise you not to go,” the Doctor looks disgruntled and he’s not speaking to Wiggy about the blackout, but to me.

I’m a type 1 diabetic and the last few weeks have severely thrown my routine out of whack. It’s been 25 years now, and about 60,000 injections of lab created insulin. Without it, I’m dead, without it I can’t break down the energy in my food, instead, my body breaks down.

But we’re almost there, a final push and we’ll be on the road, setting off on a voyage to change the way we live our lives. We’ve erased our entire lives to make this dream come true. We’ve toiled to refurbish and sell my houseboat in London, my beautiful limited edition sports bike, and my knackered old trials bike. And don’t mention the time-wasting ’negotiation’ of unfulfilled promises made by my ex, quitting my comfortable remote tech job, the mods for our world-tour motorcycles, the dozens of inoculations, boxes and boxes, skip runs, giveaways, eBay, our 8×20 container unit filling up rapidly… But we’re almost ready and believe it, we’ve moved mountains to get here.

“I-, I’ve already quit my job and sold my house,“ I say.

“I can only advise you not to go,” the Doctor says blandly.

Goodness, and the last step to make this trip possible brings us here. The infamous 3-months of absence NHS prescription, issued by my local General Practitioner. See close-up of a tea-stained mug, miscellaneous paperwork, and our uncomprehending doctor… Why do this?

I regretfully pull out my phone and recite the government declaration, “The NHS does accept responsibility for supplying ongoing medication for temporary periods abroad of up to 3 months…”

There’s a moment of uncomfortable silence and then, “very well, I strongly advise you not to go, but I’ll write your prescription.”

Part 3: England, Poole

“How do’u feel?” Wiggy asks.

How do I feel? We sit at the stern of the ferry to St Malo and watch the horizon undulate, watch passengers traipse back and forth, waiting to leave. Downstairs, our motorcycles are parked in the hull, secured by a few ratchet straps.

“Tired, relieved, uneasy. I feel like it isn’t real,” I say.

I watch the boat’s railings collide with the band of sea meeting sky. The engine’s hum passes through my body, my spine flexes, and my hips rock side to side.

I feel like something bad is about to happen… but I do not say that. I lay back into my seat. With acid reflux in my belly, it helps to take a long deep breath in, hold, release. We have wind and waves today, and paper sick bags tucked into the sides of our chairs.

“And you?” I ask.

“Living the dream, I’m excited, we’re finally on the road,” Wiggy says but he looks exhausted too. “Do you remember what I said the night we met?”

My mind returns to the Adventure Travel Film Festival, silhouettes dancing against flames, long swaying shadows, dew-dappled grasses, up all night talking… and the secret Wiggy told me.

“For the first time in a long time, I feel lost.
I wonder whether I’m doing what I want and should do,
considering what I’m able to do.
Things don’t seem to be going right and I feel I need to change my path.”

Wiggy was a stranger back then and a lot has happened since that night, but the sentiment is still strong. We’ve rearranged our whole lives to make this seemingly impossible dream come true.

I’m brought back to reality as the boat’s engines rumble to life and her propellers kick into action. Passengers flock to the walkways, they cross their arms and look stoic, hair gets whipped by the breeze, camera phones come out, parents place small children on shoulders, they wave and squeak goodbyes to England’s rocky cliffs.

There’s a rippling path of wake, a curling tail showing our route back home. Then the data roaming message: “You have lost data connectivity because you left your home network”.