Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3
Oh you complete so and soes, what do you mean bus replacement service? This is the first bloody stop!

Bugger your sodding (insert obscenities at will as this comment goes on for rather a while). For the benefit of those unfamiliar with UK rail services, every so often there are Injuniring Werks on UK rail lines, and these involve the use of bus drivers to cover short lengths of rail. The idea of the drivers stretched out across the sleepers may be enticing, but unfortunately it ain’t the case. The usual reply to “Can I fit my bike on?” is simply “You can fuck right off, you’re not bringing that fucking thing on my bus!”

I decide to go by way of Clapham, ignoring the ticket restrictions, and of course the guard has a word.

“This ticket is not valid on this route”

“Your train wasn’t valid on the line cause it was a bus and the driver refused carriage”

“Er…oh. Change at Reading, then”

Off at Reading, change again at what they call Mordor Central, where the lifts were broken, and some five hours after setting off end up at Shrewsbury, the festival town. That is when I realise what I have forgotten.

It is in the nature of cycle touring that one always forgets something, and this time it is water bottles. The morning cuppa, the emergency pee bottle, all depend on the magic receptacle. Dammit. I hit the site intending to book in and go looking for bottles, and then I roll up to the ticket tent and the woman says “Ta, lass” and I want to die now, right now. If I can be seen as me, that easily, that early…dammit, once more, I will not be hiding in my tent. At least, not until the first laugh.

I ride round the site past the stables to the “quiet area” next to the dance tent, and pitch up. Straight onto the bike again, lighter this time, and I flash my wristband as I leave the site. Back past the station, up a little hill, and happy day, a bike shop. Two cheap bottles and a “Thanks, Miss” and I am almost delirious with excitement and gratification as I hurry back for my first cuppa as a domestic goddess.

I never fail to be astonished at the size of the tents you find here; I like enough room to sleep, some space to fit my luggage and mandolin or fiddle in, There is a real buzz in being able to lie in one’s bag and brew up looking out over the world, which I can now manage with my new receptacles. And thanks to a little grocery store I can have bacon sandwiches…..

There is a huge tunnel tent near me, with a super galaxy touring bike outside. The day continues to get better when the rider comes over to offer me a cuppa and call me “miss”

I am having a moment of revelation and self-doubt. I am a girl, but the world and my birth certificate say otherwise. If complete strangers are “fooled” on the strength of a bra…..or, is it getting dark?

Can I say “I am a girl” too many times, or will I be seen as obsessive? I AM obsessive; I have a dream, a desire that dominates my life. I sometimes…often…shit, all the time feel that if I cannot meet those needs, then I must die. I really thought that not long ago, but my shrink, my friend, Sally Flint, showed me that the world goes on and I must try to do the same...

I want to talk about NOW. My Jack Wolfskin tent is up, sleeping bag shook out, brew on, and I have changed out of the lycra. For the first time in public, I am in a dress. It is mid-calf, and I have a sweatshirt over the top, but it is a dress. I wonder, as I struggle out of my tent and it gets caught up under my knees, who the hell came up with such a silly garment, but then I stand up and feel the wind around my calves and look down to see the way the dress fits around my unstrapped breasts, and realise that it is now or never. There is a ceilidh at eight o’clock and…..

I wonder whether I should go back out to the supermarket. After all, if I get some booze I should be able to cope, or perhaps I could just stay in my tent and get wrecked. Best to avoid the public?

Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I jump a mile, as if he was charged. Apparently, he has been talking to me for a minute or so and I have ignored him. Bill is in the large tunnel tent, the one with the bike.

“Are you OK? We are feeding in a bit, then off to the dance, the Oysterband and then Dick Gaughan. If you would like to eat with us, we have plenty”

Ever had one of those moments? Ever felt your legs failing you? Ever found any doubts about your sexuality rendered null and void by a smile? Bill did that to me. I would say “full stop, end of story” except that, obviously, I am hoping that the story goes on a bit further. It was like stepping off the bottom of a staircase in the dark and finding out there was one more step than you thought. You fall freely for just a nanosecond, and then you hit the ground with a bigger thump than you intended. I wrote earlier that I wasn’t even thinking of A Bloke, just of being treated as I had dreamt of. I had no idea what I was, my hinges still seized, and suddenly that knowledge was pushed right into the front of my mind. If Bill was a man, then by god I liked men.