Dilman

We lean our bikes against the window of the kebab shop and plonk ourselves at a small table near the door. A young couple sat at the counter chatting and smoking glance over but ignore us. A quartet of older women and a man sat at a table in the corner look over with inquisitiveness mixed with what appears to be disdain. I’m too tired to tell. I can’t remember the last time we slept in a bed or had a decent wash. Last night we were in Italy and slept on some benches next to a cycle path. We’d missed a proper meal due to some faff trying to find a way around a race banned road, which we ended up riding a few kilometres of anyway as we found our alternative blocked by a washed away bridge. Eventually last night’s dinner consisted of peanuts and M&M’s and a can of Fanta. Since then we’ve ridden from Italy into Austria and a chunk of distance towards Slovakia, some 250 kilometres including a 1600 metre mountain pass. Oh yeah, we had a shower at CP2 a couple of days ago, but since then we’ve ridden in unbelievable heat. We must look and smell dreadful.

It’s about 8pm and it’s starting to get dark. We’re in a town called Zeltweg. The plan is to eat and rest for a short while before continuing as far as possible by midnight and then bivvy for a few hours. Having lost time in the first four or five days due to me being ill we are now trying to make up some time by riding longer days with short sleeps. We’re behind where we know we could and should be. We need to drag ourselves up the road as far as possible tonight. We order some drinks and scan the menu for whatever takes our fancy – chicken wings with rice and a kebab for Jo, potato salad and chicken wings and rice for me. The owner of the shop looks at us in some bemusement. He says that the wings and rice is a big meal as are the other things we’ve ordered. We say this is OK. We’re really hungry and this needs to keep us going through the night.

As the food arrives the owner gestures us towards a table in the opposite corner, “It’s larger, more room for all the food.” We shift ourselves across to the bench seating around the table and settle into our food in determined silence. Damn, I’m hungry. Did we stop for lunch today? I remember pastries and fruit and yoghurt in the car park of a Lidl just after we crossed the border from Italy. And there were ice creams near the bottom of the mountain pass when we both felt a bit bonky. Was that it?  Ah hang on there was that disappointing sandwich thing next to the lake near Villach. I continue to shovel food into my face. The ladies at the table next to us glance over now and again with what now seems like a mix of pity and disgust. They can probably smell us from this distance. Some other locals walk into the shop and order beers and sit at the counter and chat, occasionally looking over at the two filthy cyclists shoving food into their faces.

A middle-aged guy strolls over and asks us where we’ve been. We start to explain about the race, that we’ve ridden from Belgium via Italy since last Friday night, that we’re heading for Slovakia. He looks at us askance, Italy? Slovakia? He relays this information to the others at the bar. There is chatter amongst the locals but little interest other than from the owner. He asks how far we are riding each day, we say around 250km. There is a look of shock and then laughter. He says he couldn’t ride a bike one kilometre. They look at us as if we’re idiots. They could very well be right. We start to think about leaving and riding on.

There’s a flash of lightning outside and a crack of thunder, it starts to hammer down with rain. Proper roads turning to rivers amounts of rain. Maybe we won’t leave just yet. The owner says wait, we can stay as long as we need. The go-between guy wanders back and forth asking about the race and where in Slovakia we are heading. I say we’re aiming for Bratislava by tomorrow and then on to the High Tatras mountains. The women on the next table leave. I open the race tracker on my phone and show the go-between and owner the route of the race, zoom in on our dots at his shop, “This is us”. We see that Jonah (#tcrno5cap81) is out in the storm on the road we came along earlier. Bloody hell I wouldn’t want to be out there. It wasn’t a particularly busy road but cars and lorries tanked along it. I think back but don’t recall seeing any obvious cover until you got to the first of the villages a little way south of where we are now. We see his dot move when I hit refresh. I hope he finds shelter soon, maybe the kebab shop we passed a few kilometres before finding the one we’re in now. Perhaps he’ll make it as far as here and spot our bikes outside. We last saw Jonah at breakfast at 7ish this morning in a bar nestled in the mountains in Italy. The time before that was a few days ago as we raced to make CP2 before it officially closed. It’s a bit of a blur but maybe it was him that shouted “Bravo!” as I neared the top of Monte Grappa. He’d headed up the climb as we camped out for the night at the base. Perhaps he had bivvied at the top and he had passed me on his descent the next morning. His dot seems to have stopped in the previous village. I hope that the kebab shop there is still open for him.

The go-between is starting to weird us out. Something doesn’t feel quite right. We unsuccessfully try to avoid his interest and he tells us the rain won’t stop, we won’t be able to ride again tonight. We remain polite but wish he’d leave us in peace. He wanders back to the others but then appears in front of us again. He says he has a flat he is renovating around the corner, there’s water but no toilet, we’re welcome to use it, he can get the key for us. We shuffle uncomfortably and glance at each other. I notice the owner looking over at the go-between, away from his conversation with those at the bar, and says “Don’t worry, you can stay here for as long as you like.” His look tells me that we should definitely decline the offer of the flat. We explain it is against the rules of the race to accept outside help, that we must remain self-sufficient. The owner repeats that we can stay as long as we like and gives us two bottles of water. I lie back on the bench seat…

The next thing I know is I am being covered with a blanket and Jo is laughing. I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep but I sit up and can see everyone is smirking. Apparently I’ve been snoring for a while. Oh well, there are worse ways for an Englishman to embarrass himself in a foreign kebab shop whilst on ‘holiday’. The rain seems to have eased but not stopped. Jo says the road is still flooded. We discuss what to do. The only sensible option seems to sit it out for a bit longer and hope it stops soon. I have no idea what time it is but it’s getting late. Some of the locals drift out of the door. The go-between has also left. We start chatting to the owner some more, we tell him which countries we have ridden through and where we plan to ride, crossing Europe through ten countries. He tells us he is a Kurd from Lebanon and lived in Leicester and worked as a plasterer for a couple of years before moving to Austria. He gestures towards the sky beyond the ceiling of his shop and says, “We all live under one roof,” before repeating we can stay in the shop for as long as we need. We thank him but say we need to leave soon. The last of the locals leave. It’s nearly midnight, the shop should be closing. The rain has eased. We ready ourselves to leave. He hands us further bottles of water so we can fill our bidons, and says again we don’t need to leave, we can stay. He says he can lock us in the shop, we can help ourselves to drinks from the fridge, to call him when we are ready to leave and he will come back and unlock the shop. We thank him again but explain that it’s against the rules of the race and that we need to keep heading for Slovakia. I don’t care if it’s against the rules I would happily stay but I know that if we did we’d want to be back on the road by 3am and it wouldn’t be fair to call him at that time of the day, particularly when it’s clear he’s stayed open longer than normal because of us. We thank him for his kindness and generosity and finally make our introductions. He says to call him Dilman and hands me a menu pointing at his name. “I’m Gavin and this is Jo, thank you again. You have been very kind,” adding with a smile “sorry for falling asleep and snoring”. He points at the number on the menu and tells us to call him if we need to. He is clearly worried about us going out into the night. I tuck the menu in my pocket. We thank him again.

We ride away from the shop in the damp but at least it has stopped raining. We look for somewhere to bivvy so Jo can get some sleep. We scope out a church on the road out of town and look across the road at the trolley park outside the front of a supermarket. We decide to get a bit further out of town but then pass a pizzeria with a covered veranda out front with tables and benches. There’s a wall around it so us and the bikes will be hidden. Perfect. We push the bikes up a step and lean them against a table and start to unclip our bivvy kit. The door to the restaurant opens and a young guy stands there in his pants looking at us wondering what the hell we’re doing. Crap.

“Er, we were just going to rest here for a while, is it OK to sleep here for two hours?” I ask, hopefully. He says, quite resolutely “No.” Shit. Then he says, “You can’t sleep here…”, and taps his chest with his hand, “it is wrong in the heart, you sleep inside.” I look at Jo. We’ve already declined one offer of unbelievable generosity this evening, it seems churlish to turn down another. Having woken up this poor guy thinking he was being burgled it would be ridiculous to say no thanks and ride off. We say outside is OK as we only need a couple of hours and will leave very early. We’re too tired to try and explain the race and the rules. I doubt very much he cares, he’s probably just glad he’s opened the door to two idiot cyclists and not someone about to turn his restaurant over. He repeats “No, inside” and shows me the push bar lock on the door. We can shut the door behind us when we leave and it will lock itself. We push our bikes inside and apologise for waking him. He shows us where the toilet is and drags a mattress down and lays in on the floor. He points to some cushions piled up on a chair and says we can make another bed from those. He points to the fridge and the tap and says we can help ourselves to drinks. We thank him and apologise again. He disappears to bed. We make ourselves comfortable and I set an alarm for 3.30am.

 

9 thoughts on “Dilman

  1. Just one snippet, yet sounds very representative of the race. Well done for your efforts. Reading the posts of some who have returned home earlier than they would have liked is providing quite the insight into the many hardship and toils of this race, amongst the moments of kindness and beauty.

    1. yeah, i heard many similar stories. plus every day there were small gestures of kindness from people. there’s another piece i’m writing at the moment, plus a whole heap of photos to post. all together it should give a good account of the race from my perspective. Jo has written a beautiful and very honest account over on road.cc

      1. Read Jo’s post and was genuinely frightened by the undertaking. Great and scary to see the guts of the race in all its honest gory and glory, mostly the former, which fades with time I guess, slowly replaced by the latter. A tough old ride. Looking forward to the photos and words, have enjoyed following your odyssey. Can’t begin to comprehend the emotion.

      2. i remember the laughing and the “oh my god, this is incredible” moments far more than the tough bits, and am sure in the overall they outweighed the bad stuff. even the long draggy just need to get there sections had their moments. i think sometimes it’s harder to convey those feelings. it was an incredible experience and i’m almost certain i’ll try again as there’s part of me that needs to finish. my overwhelming feeling about it all is a positive one.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s