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Newcastle upon Tyne The wind rustled the fly, so I put one earplug in my pillow-side-up ear. Still dark, Sharon woke me and whispered, "We should go. I hear people going through the gate." I looked at my watch. Five am. Couldn't be, I thought, even for gung ho British walkers this was a tad early. I rose to look. Sheep passed by. Each stopped and rubbed its flank against the wooden post, causing the gate to rock open and bang each time it closed. We quietly struck our tent and tiptoed past our oblivious sleeping comrades. Yesterday, they had started in Newcastle from the three pm ferry and cycled seventy-four kilometers of steeply rolling seventeen percent hills to arrive here. First days were killers. Forty-nine kilometers from Housestead we breakfasted in Throckley's country park at an oak bench overlooking the River Tyne. Now the mist had dissipated several dog walkers cavorted along the paths. A horse rider clad in jodhpur breeches, black boots and a furry ear-flapped cap cantered by. The park information center gave us a map showing bike paths and routes. We went to the Superstore to stock up on groceries for the trip to Norway. We had a whopping £6 to spend. We made a list of what we needed most and then I went in and scrounged the shelves for cheapest prices. While Sharon packed the meager goods, I cleaned out my pullover's pocket. I discovered £30, forgotten since our trip to London. Sharon went back in to buy a lot more groceries, and not the cheapest brands this time. We followed the bike path along the river. It was horrendous. Smashed glass was everywhere. A system of pipes installed to keep motorized vehicles off the path made it a devil of a time to pass through on a loaded touring bike. At each gate we dismounted and maneuvered the bikes artfully back and forth half-a-dozen times before getting past the bars. To add to our frustration the bars were in the worst locations--usually downhill. We had to brake extremely hard to stop before being hurled over the barrier that supposedly protected us. The inept non-street named bike map proved impossible to determine where we were. A taxi driver turned off the main road and gave us directions. "Just stay as close to the river as possible until you see the ferry signs." We followed his instructions and thought we had dead ended several times, but always managed to wiggle our way through. We rode along wharves; through a marina; skirted the water's edge past downtown; through a construction site, where the workers sat on the path eating lunch. One bloke told Sharon to run over his fellow workers as they lounged on the pathway. The Newcastle ferry terminal in North Shields was twenty-five kilometers from where we ate breakfast. Arriving at the ferry terminal Sharon's meter read exactly seventy-four kilometers. We still had time and money (a rare combination), so we went to buy a new tire for Sharon. We found a bike shop but it was closed--a long time Wednesday afternoon tradition we learned. No one could answer how the afternoon closing started or why it persisted to this day. I managed to spend all my coins in a mall buying fudge, carrot cake and an assortment of miscellaneous items. We ended up with two £5 notes. |
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