Scars with a story

I am scarred, bruised and a little bit achy today. It’s been caused by a combination of activities on boats and bikes, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Were you one of those children whose knees were always bleeding or scabbed? I was. I also remember standing by the sink on numerous occasions and that awful sting when someone tries to dab them with a paper towel. Most people grow out of this. But my legs and arms chart a tale of adventures over the years, which have included a long white scar on my arm from being caught on the anchor chain of a yacht, an angry red mark on my shin from a mini cycling accident and more recently another deep scar on the other shin from tripping on ancient stone steps in Cyprus.

There have been a lot of these kinds of incidents over the years. The most memorable or dramatic from my childhood was on a cycling expedition in Kent with my brother and some friends. We were hurtling down narrow winding lanes, screaming with excitement, when suddenly a Tjunction appeared in front of us and my breaks failed to stop me. I flew off the bike and wound up with my chin impaled on a barbed wire fence and quite a lot of blood around. After being lifted off the fence, dusted down and told to ‘man-up’, I cycled slowly home and went to find my mother at the bottom of the garden. She was doing something with vegetables and I was looking for sympathy and shock. I told her the dramatic tale. She chuckled, barely glanced at my rapidly healing chin, and said it didn’t look too bad. This must be where I get my sympathetic maternal approach.

Last weekend I tested out my sailing skills in a little dinghy, which turned out to be great fun but very slippery. After sliding around in the bottom of the boat as I tried to tack the bruises were accumulating and then on a rather unplanned speedy arrival at the shore I tried to jump out neatly and grab the boat before it hit the side. After slipping on the mud and rocks as I slid out and spectacularly failing to stop the boat, I found both my knees were bleeding when I stumbled ashore.

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Yesterday two of us cycled round the path on the edge of the island. It was bumpy and very narrow at places – there was even a section a bit like a velodrome where we had to cycle fast to stay upright on a concrete bank which sloped away to the water. I thought like an Olympian, looked straight ahead and kept peddling fast. I hadn’t fallen off for several miles until we reached a gate by a marina where we had to push the bikes for a few metres. After inspecting the boats for sale I got back on as the gravel path widened and within a few seconds the wheels skidded from beneath me and I was lying on the ground with the bike on top of me. My cycle buddy was standing a few feet away holding his bike and laughing. “I saw the gravel and decided to get off,” he said… More matching scars and scrapes on my shins to join the bruises and scabs on my knees.

Now what shall I do today to make my arms blend in… mowing the lawn or cutting trees?

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If I had a truck

I want that truck… This is what was going through my mind as I embarked on an afternoon bike ride to the seaside yesterday. So much for enjoying the lovely green scenes in the fields as we pedalled past, or having time to look at flowers by the roadside and even watch some hungry sheep tucking into massive bales of hay in the middle of a dusty pasture. I was mainly engaged in ‘truck envy’. 

First I noticed one overtaking me as I pedalled hard against the wind, consoling myself with the thought that coming back would be easier. It was a lovely red pick-up truck with loads of space in the back for surf boards, bikes and ‘stuff’. Once I started thinking about trucks, it seemed like every other car that past us on the road was a truck. And they came in all the colours of the rainbow. Why was it that everyone in Cyprus seemed to have a truck except me?  After cycling through a village, I glanced to my left and saw a yard packed with cars for sale – high up on display was…you guessed it, a big blue truck.

Most of the journey was then engaged in thoughts of… if we had a truck.

If we had a truck… we could easily go off road across the maze of tracks to some of the most beautiful, remote areas of the island. Throw a tent and camping gear in the back and we would be all ready for any kind of adventure.

If we had a truck… there would be no problem moving anything anywhere – we could buy a BBQ or a dish washer and take it back from the shop, pick up friends with large suitcases from the airport and just throw them (the suitcases!) in the back, even pick up driftwood and logs for the fire without any worries of ‘spoiling the car.’

All good things come to an end and so my truck day-dreams were curtailed by my fellow cyclist stopping short to complain about the hardness of his saddle and wondering if his padded lycra shorts were on the right way round. This led to some chuckling as bottoms were examined, and reassured that everything was in the right place, we set off again. On arrival at the beach, we dismounted slightly unsteadily and sat on a bench overlooking a rocky bay where waves were crashing on the golden sands. We re-energised with bananas and water and contemplated the cycle back. The route home was uphill at first and after a particularly taxing hill the Major pulled in – I thought to considerately wait for me – but he was shaking his head gravely and it turned out there was a flat tyre which couldn’t be fixed. It was quickly decided I would cycle back as fast as I could and fetch the car to recover him and the bike, while he walked the bike until I reached him.

On the cycle back my thoughts inevitably turned to…if we had a truck. Of course, recovering the bike would be no problem, it would just get bundled into the back and there would be no need to search for ropes or bike racks in the shed. As the pedals turned and my thighs began to burn, I wondered why I was so keen on trucks. It wasn’t just ‘Top Gear’ and their proof that they couldn’t be destroyed, it was in my blood. I was brought up with vans and Land Rovers and even took my driving test on the family long wheel-base Land Rover, much to the amusement of the examiner. Tough cars that have big wheels, four wheel drive, low gears and the height to let you look down on the traffic and the scenery is what I like in a vehicle. Never mind the odd scrape against a gatepost, or bumps in the road – we have a truck. We can go anywhere! Give us a boat, a caravan or just a trailer and we can hitch up and set off, no problem. Hills? We eat them for breakfast. Mud and rivers? We can ride through them.

Beyond all this sheer practicality, I have a plan. The plan really requires a truck. Ssh, don’t tell anyone, but I am hatching a plan to drive back from Cyprus overland through Europe, via a ferry to the mainland. Here is my trump card in the argument of why we definitely need a truck. The truck would be rugged and able to go anywhere, it would enable us to take excess baggage,camping gear, and even animals or a small canoe back to the Uk easily. Besides all this, a truck would make the journey fun, so how could we even contemplate making this overland adventure without a truck?

Back home the tiny Toyota was waiting patiently in the drive. It isn’t a truck and it never will be, but if I had a truck