Cathy Birchall & Bernard Smith

APRIL 2013 – Newsletter #8

Bernard & Cathy — Wed, 03 Apr 2013 00:22:52 +0000

MEMORIES AND MEMORABILIA:
THE WAY THINGS WERE.

Sitting by the side of the road in the pouring rain I can hear Cathy laughing. But worse than that, much worse, is the fact I can hear the words “I told you so” coming through loud and clear. Damn and triple damn. Nothing beats being confronted with her seer-like inevitability in the truth of past words.

Staring at a now defunct Bertha who has decided to eat her clutch on the very day we have been reunited, her voice rings in my ears. Damn, damn, and damn again. Is that woman ever wrong? After all, she’d told me. Oh yes she had, and many times before in fact. Across the years her warnings about ‘old’ bikes breaking down had reminded me, dare I say reprimanded me, about all such things. Yet here I am now staring at my – just bought back – defunct 22 year old bike.

Looking up I see the night sky with its perpetual rain falling from the coldness. Both start to penetrate as I sit on the pavement wondering about fate and grief strewn roads. At times like this you can only ever begin to wonder when things will start to go right. And tonight isn’t that time. Not here. Not now.

The red paintwork shines from the street lights as my mind projects past places and people onto its surfaces. Roads and experiences appear with memories of good times, bad times, and all shades in between flickering on the long familiar lines indelibly stamped into the both of us. Meanwhile cars stream past in their hurry to be somewhere else.

In times gone by breaking down across the world always involved a certainty somebody would stop. Once that happened, as it always did, then would begin comical language pantomimes in order to explain whatever the problem was; from charging systems to starters, from blown exhausts and oil leaks to wiring problems. Here the only company I have is the rain and the loneliness; neither are about to end any time soon.

As I meander through such thoughts others start to slowly appear, creeping into my mental space as a welcome intrusion against the building melancholy I can feel. The familiar laughter in my head slowly changes into something different, something else. It becomes a smile. And it is a big smile, an understanding smile; indeed it seems such a humorous and rueful smile that soon it is mirrored on my own face as I sit looking at it. It is the same one I know and fell in love with so many years ago. Then suddenly, for some reason, I understand. She’s forgiven me.

As I had sat berating myself for my actions it came to me she would accept the need to, just this once, turn back time. After a lifetime of never living backwards, of never going back to where I had been, I now find myself breaking my own rules by buying Bertha again. Damn what am I doing? You fool. You idiot. You’re looking for something you can never have. Her.

I know, I know, but……..

Sitting in the cold and pouring rain the image of that smile is so strong it spreads through me with warmth, taking me to another place where the world is right and makes sense. In that existence, that difference, that altered state, the hours begin to tick by in their passing, waiting for a truck to take two back to where three had once set out another life-time ago. Home.

As I look deeper into the smile I soon realise something else. Strange as it may seem, I can hear it. It’s funny what the image of a smile can do as the rain continues to bounce noisily off my helmet as the two sounds begin to compete. Sitting still in those sounds and images, my world subtly alters, is nudged onto a different path, a different trajectory, changing in a heartbeat to become something else, somewhere else. Suddenly no longer do I sit here alone in the rain and the dark. For when somebody smiles at you, everything changes in your world.

The sense of cold and tiredness begin to recede into the distance as the hassles and problems melt away in the face of that growing image and sound in my mind. Clinging on to it, no longer do I find myself alone on a wet pavement with a broken down, just reunited, Bertha. Staring at that smile in its entirety, I find myself immune from the harsh coldness and wet, from the inconvenience of broken machinery and all such trivial frustrations. For surely are they trivial things as everything will work out. It always does. All you have to do is to be strong enough to wait.

I know those words ‘strong enough to wait’ as soon as they enter my mind. The sounds of them circulate and resound inside my head in their familiarity. I know them well as she had told me those very same words many times over recent history; always assuring me that times do get better in a way that she knew all too well. It’s the way it is.

As I sit within that smiling image the hours drift past until our journey home can begin again. I know it will at some point, I just have to wait. But for now, let me stay in that smile for a little longer please. For you see there is a magic here and I don’t want to lose it. Please. Just for a little while longer. I’ll be good, very good. Cross my heart and hope to die…………

The breakdown truck eventually turns up hours later and the spell is broken as the bright glare of the headlights sweep across me, dissipating my images into the nearby darkness of the night. Sadness and a deep sense of melancholy envelop me as they slip away, fading back into the recesses of my mind. Suddenly I am acutely aware of the cold and wet; intensely so. Trying to stand, my body betrays its age and reactions to the hours that have all too briefly passed sitting still, so still, in case the experience is shattered by movement, any movement at all.

Please. No. Don’t go…..stay…..

With hazard lights flashing, a tired driver jumps down onto the road and his silent messages expect a haranguing at the long, long, rain soaked delay which had passed within my own internal warmth. He looks puzzled when his profuse apology is met with:

“It’s ok. It’s only time. And I have plenty of it.”

Shaking his head against the rain, he straps Bertha down onto the trailer and the white lines of our eventual onward movement pass by with the wet noise beating against the windshield as his life is recounted.

Telling me of his love of cars, the years of driving motorways, of working long hours because he can, the time and miles just float by. Being on his own, with no one to go home to, no one to share his life with, he works long hours and falls asleep on couches watching late night TV, anything at all really to fill the hours. Just like me.

In that place, both his and mine, we know time is very different and does not operate in the way that it once did within the usual world of familiar certainties. You see, for time to have any meaning there has to be a purpose to it. It is an essential ingredient which, once removed, reduces what is left merely to something that passes; like a breeze which is here and then gone, leaving nothing of value in its wake.

When you do have that sense of purpose however, there is something magical in its sharing with another person. It is the relevance of that loss of reason that strikes at the very heart of people’s existence as it takes all from within you; removing it, erasing what should have, or might have been. What is left behind consists of only the constant whispering losses of all your hopes and dreams which have unexpectedly gone. It happens so completely, so suddenly, that it leaves a vastness inside you which echoes with profound sadness.

Over time people talk of rediscovery, of somehow finding purpose again from within the ashes of the past and the bleakness of the future. In that search between those two places, it has to embody all that you were, or all that you might be, in some distant future which you can neither see nor understand. Involving statements of new beginnings of something, somewhere along the line you call your life, it finds you waiting within days where time still exists. That part, at least, is true.

For you see the clock still turns, the sun still rises and sets in long familiar ways, even the cuckoo clock inhabiting our house still loudly and diligently announces the passing of the hours. The passing is also evident on the wall calendar showing different numbers and changing months so you can be sure time is passing. In this way everything continues going on around you with people still laughing and smiling but, for you, there is no real meaning at all really. People tell me it isthis way, will feel this way, will be this way, for some ‘time’. And so we return to an artificial construct. Time. And its passing. Like a breeze. Leaving you untouched.

The wise people amongst us tell me that when you have this sense of drifting you have to hammer ‘something’ into shape to extract meaning from the ‘time’ that you are no longer engaging in. You don’t know what that ‘something’ is you’re supposed to find, merely that it exists somewhere and you have to find it at some point. Only then, it seems, do people reappear from where they stand staring into the broken mirrors of their lives.

This too is what she had once described to me of her ‘before Bernard’ time. For you see she knew intimately these feelings in the same intense way that they now inhabit me; where a life as you understood it simply ceases to be. Like a light going out instantly, completely, irrevocably, it leaves you alone in the intense darkness of uncertainty.

And so it was that Bertha has been summoned for me to descend into the labyrinth of the garage to try to give value to time once more, at least in a small sense. Perhaps it is only in a childish sense, involving nothing more than the wish for a small part of a thing that once was; ‘time’ will tell. But it is a start and in many ways it is ten thousand times more than existed before. In the fullness of the future who knows where such roads lead. Life can be mysterious like that.

And so now we are set to spend forever days in each others company rediscovering where we once existed in unison. It is a place where every sound and bolt will be familiar to my ears, to my fingers. It is a place where sockets or spanners, fasteners or ties, will be reached for without thought in their long familiarity with what my eyes tell me.

You see I have also found that within the never ending days you can stem tears with dedicated concentration on a single task. By breathing out hard in that concentration all tears can be compressed into silence. The true problem begins, however, when you have to breathe in again.

Now when that happens, I set out to rediscover a smile I once heard while sitting alone in the dark and the pouring rain as time passed me by.

Perhaps if I keep looking hard enough I will find that same magic again …………..

Hasta luego.

Bernard Smith.

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MARCH 2013 – Newsletter #7

Bernard & Cathy — Sat, 09 Mar 2013 15:02:50 +0000

Sometimes it is hard to know what to write at certain times in our lives. You see as I sit staring at the page nothing seems right in either order or content. Indeed, it feels as if the very meaning of the words are lost in their truest sense. But I know it is just me, really, sitting here staring at this page wondering what to say, or whether to even write at all.

As I was thinking these thoughts I remembered the messages and emails, letters and personal contacts, coming from all over the world. As they arrived Cathy and I had read them across both time and distance. It was this memory that finally made the decision to write what you are now reading.

In the writing I also know and remember how Cathy so loved hearing from people who understood and appreciated why we wrote our story in the first place. To understand our reasons you really have to live – more than anywhere else – in a place of marginalised people. For it is true that many people’s daily lives and stories are often discounted. It is what happens in the face of the prevailing stereotypes of what people think of as being ‘blindness’; when a person’s very ‘worth’ is measured, weighed, and found wanting by the inclusion of the term blindness itself.

With that fact in mind our eventual book evolved into part autobiographical travelogue, part education, and part motorcycling story. Much as with any form of disability there were barriers to overcome in the writing and these barriers still exist to this day. Being extremely pervasive, they will probably always be there. However, we knew and accepted this fact at the outset as to do anything else would have been naive. Now while we both may have been many things in our lives, neither of us were that. Thus we knew it would be hard to be heard simply because of Cathy’s blindness and we also knew how, inevitably, the blindness would stop some people from even considering her story. After all, what could a blind woman possibly contribute to our understanding of the world and its peoples?

That background being said, in many ways the real beginning of this newsletter sits within the book eventually published; ‘Touching the World: A Blind woman, Two Wheels and 25,000 Miles’. The title words to us summed up not only Cathy’s experiences but also so many people’s reactions when they met us. For truly did Cathy’s enthusiasm and optimism touch many of the people we came across in our travelling of the world on our old bike.

It was also on those pages of our story where the seeds of these words were actually planted in the epilogue, although we didn’t know this at the time. For it was within that section, at that time, where I talked of Cathy’s diagnosis with cancer within weeks of our return to the UK. When that diagnosis descended upon us, we fell from the heights of exhilaration to the depths of despondency in one fell swoop.

Sadly through the subsequent three and a half years, with all it’s twists and turns, the illness proved to be insurmountable. Despite an iron resolve and a determination that would put many of us to shame, Cathy could not overcome this illness. So it was that my Cathy died in Warrington on 31st January 2013.

Sadly it was an ending we had known about for some time although we never broadcast nor openly discussed it. This was true even when we did the occasional appearance around ‘the book’ or ‘the trip’. Much like many people caught up in a terminal illness, the concentric circles of information started with immediate family members before spreading outwards, much like ripples in a pond. It is also true that we never sought to hide Cathy’s condition but then neither did we talk about it. It became very much an ‘as and when’ situation.

Often the telling of the news revolved around having to refuse personal appearances, book signings, requests for articles, or interviews and all such like. With the mainstream media we met nothing but understanding and kindness while turning down requests to even film our wedding; arranged by friends and family in a most beautiful day and coinciding with the end of Cathy’s daily radiotherapy.

These polite but firm refusals were initially met with puzzlement as it is generally true we live in a world where people chase their own sense of self importance. The puzzlement would last until we adopted the ‘as and when’ procedure; the telling of Cathy’s status. Then they would understand. After all, some things are just too personal to share in this way and our marriage was one such event given our circumstances.

Throughout all of this period we were totally and resolutely supported by our publisher as we turned away from publicity in the face of what was happening to us. For that we both could only ever thank him.

Cathy’s projected timescales also triggered the publication date of ‘Touching the World’ being brought forward. This occurred as we all wanted the concrete proof of the achievement to be placed in her hands while it was still possible. When that day came, as it did, then she knew that one part of our long journey together was complete. Happily, she also had a final chance to revisit it all over again when the audio book was released.

It was also around this very time that a person commented about the way we were counting our married days together; how it ‘must be love’. As I said at the time, and subsequently at the Memoriam Service held on the 13th February 2013;

“Imagine somewhere deep inside you where another universe exists. It is a place so far beyond your own understanding or comprehension that you can only stare at it wonder. In that place Cathy is my sun and moon, she is my sky and stars, she is the very air I breathed.”

As you may understand, I miss her within that place where Cathy and I existed with, and for, each other. She was me and I was her. She was much loved and she could feel it within our everyday lives. We both did. It was the way it was with us.

Sometimes in my darkest hours I try to remember how lucky I have been. You see in our time together we did so much. Not only did we laugh hard and love truly, but we cherished each other.

This feeling evolved from within our past lives where we were both forged by loss. Some of will know, and perhaps understand, how these forces inevitably shape you in profound ways; making you into something, and somebody, else. If you are lucky you will emerge from such times appreciating each day, each person, and each experience. Therefore, we both knew the value of each and every day along with what we had together.

I was also lucky in another way.

You see, eventually, we had 189 days to say goodbye. It sounds so long looking at the number of days but it was not. Nor could it ever have been long enough. This is the way it is, the way it feels in the profound sadness of our parting. Within each of those 189 precious days not one occurred where the smell of fresh flowers did not fill the air in our home.

For you see, my Cathy loved flowers.
As I did her.
My life. My love. My heart.
Hasta luego.

Bernard Smith

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Jane in the forest – Go Ape

Nepal river rafting.

Cathy Birchall (Smith)

Ireland – my sister’s wedding.

The Athenian Hovel where everything was banned.

Chile and meeting a distant relation of Biscuit.

Smiling as always

The Flowers of Peru

ARTICLE FOR JUPITER’S TRAVELLERS – My Father’s Voice

Bernard & Cathy — Mon, 26 Mar 2012 07:35:23 +0000

The Ted Simon Foundation \ All \ My Father’s Voice

Extract from Jupiter’s Travellers

During their round-the-world motorcycle journey in 2009, Bernard Smith and Cathy Birchall (co-authors of the forthcoming “Touching the World: A Blind Woman, Two Wheels, and 25,000 Miles”) made a detour through Kanchanaburi Province in Thailand to seek out the infamous Bridge over the River Kwai. In this touching memoir, Bernard reflects on the emotional impact of the experience and of their journey together.

Silence or emotion? Emotion or silence? Looking about me, I wonder which came first. Did the silence sweep away my barriers or did emotions steal in like silent assassins waiting for the vulnerable? Me. Standing motionless, I don’t know. Sometimes it is like that, the not knowing. Times ago, I thought I knew and understood so much.

I suppose those youthful years involved a different person living in a different mental place where everything was so much more certain. Not any more. After so long away from that time, life is now much simpler, so much less complicated in trying to define the world in blacks and whites. Now life resides in fields of greys with so many perhaps and maybes liberally scattered throughout them. Indeed, everything is simpler.

With so many miles of road and life having passed me by, now there is an acceptance of ‘not knowing’ very much at all. Strangely, it is comforting to appreciate how little I understand; it leaves me with so much more to learn, so much more to experience. However, the only thing I do know is that I can no longer read. Not now. The words will not come.

Standing wrestling with eyes dissolving the world into a watery mist, bleariness spreads across the landscape, like rain sticking to a visor to obscure the road ahead. From fluency to stuttering in merely seconds. God, was it only that long? It felt longer. Far longer. The sun fills the quietness with heat as thoughts cascade through my mind. Like a waterfall rushing onwards, forever onwards, without relent, falling without pause, streams of images flood me with emotion. I look sideways to where she stands in the same stillness.

Seeing her, I know this is something she is good at, the waiting. Blindness has made it so and the journey has honed her skills to another level, another dimension. After a lifetime of waiting for something, for someone, it all seems so effortless to her. In the waiting for this, the waiting for that, the circumstances are immaterial as it is the way of blind people. Waiting. Always waiting. For something.

However, there is no need for me to explain my silence as she stands within my melancholy shadow. She knows.

The gravel voice, the creeping hesitations, the slow cracking sound, all will have been like a gun shot to her; betraying me, in one way or another. This is another thing she is good at, this ‘knowing’. Through her bright blue sightless eyes, it still surprises me how good she is at it; how the years have taught her to see beneath the layers people cover themselves in like Russian matryoshka dolls. Unpacking each one carefully, our woven protections have been peeled away slowly, cautiously. Now we stand revealed in our in-between mental places where layers used to be in a journey stripping both of us of our secrets. Thus, she knows. And I do not mind. Importantly. No longer do I hide from her as I once did. Trust can do that to you. Trust makes everything safe, secure, certain.

A voice interrupts, calling from the long gone years of the past.

“Big boys don’t cry.”

My father’s voice sits inside my head, clear and distinct, as if standing beside me, here and now in this place. I remember so many times over the years, of emotions ripping tranquillity away with seemingly innocuous events as others laughed, or consoled, depending on persuasion.

“Big boys don’t cry.”

Meaningless words that never helped but only ever hindered.

Sometimes it hurts to stare out into the world as you pass through it. It truly hurts. There is no place to hide, no cloak to wrap yourself in to protect you from what you are feeling. Not really. It is the way it is when you are open to it, truly aware of it. By completely embracing it in the way it is – not merely in the way it seems or in reflections of how others may portray it – then the world should move you. If not? Then know something is missing; fundamentals have been lost along the way that stop tears of sadness from falling.

You see a magic exists in the small things of life if you can only see them through the clutter. Innocuous things for many people perhaps, tiny fragments of experiences building layers of meaning beyond the simplicity to what we see, what we experience, what we feel. It happens with a smile of an unknown face, a handshake, the sound of a breeze whispering through foreign leaves. It is in the way clouds seem to drift differently overhead depending on where you are. Perhaps you will see it buried deep within a child’s smile or a hundred kindnesses of strangers. Moving through different lands, the two aliens on the big red spaceship from Mars have both felt it. Now they both understand the openness required to engage in its totality. In its truth.

I look downwards to see the cause of my own openness, my own honesty contained in the here and now.

Sideways they stretch in rows standing in mute testimony to my response. Hundreds of them stand silent, sentinel like, reaching upwards from the ground in their greyness. In the bright blue sky in this different land, they propel me back across thousands of miles to places I know in my homeland. Then my eyes find the cause, the true cause of the encroachment of my stuttering silence. The rows.

“A soldier of the 1939 – 1945 War. Known unto God.”

So many rows. So many unknowns.

It’s not much to ask for, is it? Just a name. To be remembered by. To be called by. After all, it is our mark and all that remains when memories fade away after the brief span within which we breathe our lives. But when there is no name… From the earlier fluent reading to stuttering silence as suddenly, inexplicably, another shot of realisation overwhelms me. They are me and I am them. The only separation between us exists in the chances of time and birth. Meanwhile my companion stands patiently waiting for me to begin again. When I can.

Names begin to flow in memories brought alive here and now in this place as another realisation jolts me. Like an anticipated shock, it still sways my world with understanding; I have passed through more than twice their span while still worrying about the briefness of it. Now on my own downside of time’s passing curve there is little for me to regret in reality. Not now. Not here.Gazing along the nearby places made special for the memory of the briefness of their time, each is carefully marked with flowers of brilliant reds, vibrant yellows, and mournful maroons. Carefully maintained amongst the green pristine rows in this far off place, I wonder at the serene, poignant, beauty of it.Meanwhile the famous bridge sits a distance away and I ponder our presence, the meaning of it. Looking for something else to explain my thoughts, my emotions, it sits out of reach tantalising me. I know a ‘must see’ mentality had driven the bike northwards towards this place, like a tourist needing a fix to feel better about our own life, our own existence. Misery tourists? Is that it really? Is that what I’m doing here? Have I really been reduced down to this level of experience, this level of need? Shaking my head to clear these troubled thoughts, I don’t think so. But then again, I have been forever cursed with thinking too much.

Too much imagination, too many fanciful ideas, too many meandering daydreams setting me off somewhere else, always somewhere else in my own mental world. Ever since my childhood so many people have always said so, therefore it must be. Perhaps. Returning my gaze to the ground, I wonder if they are lonely, or have found peace. Another one of those random thoughts breaking off from the cascade as eyes stare off into the misty distance.

A life lost for every railway sleeper laid?

120,000 of them sit on the 415 kilometres of the Thai-Burma railway. 120,000 sorrows join into streams of tears falling silently across time to where I stand adding my own to them. They are all I have to offer, they are all I have to give. Neither shame nor consciousness do I feel in giving them. Silently joining the unending flow, the same quietness eventually soothes me, like a balm wrapping itself around a wound, calming in its presence.

My voice eases back from where it withdrew, from where it hid away deep inside me within the winding sadness. More names and more places emerge from the silent sentinels standing guard. Each special. Each unique. Each remembered. One thousand seven hundred of them sitting in perfect rows, under perfect blue skies, in perfect silence as I look at all that is left of what once was.

Standing here and now in this place where words failed and emotions overwhelmed, I recognise another truth in its entirety.

Today, two hearts shared the same understanding.

Big boys don’t cry?

Yes, they do.

Bernard Smith

MARCH 2012 – Newsletter #6

Bernard & Cathy — Wed, 21 Mar 2012 16:58:22 +0000

Greetings and a big shout of hello to wherever you are. It is with great pleasure that we are now able to announce the impending print publication of Touching the World and the story of the first blind person to circle the world by motorcycle.

While our tale will reveal the many struggles, highs, lows, victories and defeats, along with the sorry tales of numerous mechanical breakdowns, we believe the story also acknowledges something else. The ‘else’ concerns an aspect that is often missed, omitted, or plain ignored in life’s rush onwards for many people. In this, I speak of the entire mass of lovely people who, everyday, help others in a hundred different ways all across the globe.

By its inclusion in our tale, some of those real everyday people now sit engrained in words of permanence by their acts of kindness towards two strangers in foreign lands. We hope we did them justice in the telling of their part, of the time they came across a blind woman so far away from home.

More generally by setting out to write of our journey, we wanted the tale to be a link in a long chain stretching back across the decades to those who have gone before, and to those who will inevitably follow. Perhaps many people will read of our miles together on an old motorcycle and then sit and dream. With luck, some of their dreams will become reality as you never know where that will take you. Life itself can be wonderfully mysterious sometimes, as we ourselves have found out.

While we are undoubtedly excited, scared, and everything in between due to the fact it is no small thing to bare yourself on a printed page, the two of us do hold onto an important fact; it has come about through the support of so many different people. Whether it was while passing through the world or on our return home, this will always remain true. Sometimes this assistance ranged from practical suggestions but also, and never forgotten, it also came about through words of encouragement to keep going. Nowhere was this truer than hearing simple words and sentiments during the loneliness of the writing and Cathy’s long treatment for cancer.

Foremost amongst those people offering encouragement were members of The Ted Simon Foundation of which we proudly bare the title of Jupiter’s Travellers . Through the input of Ted himself along with Dan Walsh, Iain Harper, Lorraine Chittock, Sam Manicom, and the two Leprechauns (Norman and Maggie McGowan), all played various roles at some time along the literary way. To them we offer our grateful thanks.

There have also been so many other people offering encouragement in numerous different ways through arenas such as Facebook and Twitter. Again, our gratitude goes out to each one of you. In this statement, we also include those people linked to us by email alone. Sometimes it was such a simple thing like an email pinging into our inbox – asking about the book’s progress – that spurred us onwards when our spirits were low. Anybody who has ever produced 220,000 words will know how lonely life can be as you sit peering at your own hopes and fears on a computer screen for others to read eventually. Scary stuff, truly.

Special thanks must also go to Rollo Turner from Panther Publications. You see it is true that on our journey around this world we did meet people who completely understood what we were trying to do while others mouthed those silent questions involving ‘why?’ Rollo is one of those people who just ‘got it’. This fact alone made everything else so much simpler as sometimes faith can provide a wonderful impetus all by itself.

When you get to read our story I hope you enjoy the tale of, I believe, a very special and inspirational blind woman. Never doubt as you read it however, that it is because of many of you that we got there in the end; no matter how big or small a part you played. After all, you should never underestimate the power of a thoughtful word to rekindle belief.

And What Next?

The book is now due out in September and we are currently working with Panther Publishing to make the story accessible and available in Audio and e-book format. Anybody who has known us over the years will understand that, for us, anything else would be against the very objectives we set out to achieve in 2008; to make the world accessible to a blind person. If our subsequent words allow others to ‘Touch the World’ on the canvas of their minds then both of us will be truly satisfied.
Safe journeys to you all no matter where you are in the world. I hope we will get to meet somewhere, sometime, along the road.

As a final thought – A journalist once told the journey was madness to even attempt.

I can now raise a glass to a little madness…………

Best wishes

Bernard

Publication of ‘Touching the World: A Blind Woman, Two Wheels and 25,000 Miles’ is due in September 2012 Softback (156 x 234mm or 6 x 9in approx). Recommended Retail Price £12.99, 384 pages approx, some 20 colour illustrations, ISBN 978-0-9564975-8-1. UK postage included in the price when purchased from Panther Publishing, please add £3 p&p for Europe, £8 for the Rest of the World. You can also find the title online at Amazon, and Waterstones or through any bookshop by using the ISBN number above.

Watch this space for further details concerning the the future publication of:

Touching the World: A Blind Woman, Two Wheels and 25,000 Miles.

If you have been forwarded this Newsletter by a friend then you can sign up for it directly at www.worldtour.org.uk.

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JANUARY 2012 – Newsletter #5

Bernard & Cathy — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 12:52:44 +0000

January 2012 – Newsletter #5

Greetings to all fellow lunatics and escaped ones, whether current, former, about to, or to people who maintain the dream in the recesses of their minds…………..

Hello to everybody and a festive glass to you all on entering the brave new world of 2012.

Many people over recent weeks have contacted us through such mediums as email, Facebook, Twitter, and our website. While coming from different directions, all these contacts shared common questions; where are we up to with the book, what is the news, when can we get hold of it? Several even offered bribes of varying degrees for an electronic version and an advance read. Perhaps everybody has a price and it truly is down to numbers………. only joking……….really…….

Anyway, the manuscript of our journey has lately been reincarnated, reinvented, dare I say ‘savaged’ down a further 40,000 words. Like a fine wine it has matured, morphed, neigh been reborn into a revised but long familiar being. Worry not however. The three-part story we set out to tell so long ago is still present and separated by commas alone in A Blind Woman, Two Wheels, and 25,000 Miles. Through the honing, refining, and editing we hope it is stronger than ever for all the effort.

Background

We did initially finish the manuscript last August but at this point Cathy tied me up in a darkened cupboard until the Ted Simon Foundation launch. Feeding me occasional morsels to quell rebellion and keep me quiet, she thought it wise to do so until we were ‘unveiled’ as Jupiter’s Travellers. Thus, she reasoned, a new journey could begin towards publication. Clutching a rough compass point, we set off.

In the meantime, we have received sterling work from Iain Harper of Heartwood Digital in the rebuilding of our website. Added to this part of his role within the Foundation, Lorraine (woof, woof) Chittock, Sam (The Man) Manicom, Ted (Evergreen) Simon along with Mr Dan (Sprocket) Walsh have all dutifully laboured in various ways – without the use of the Foundation wheel barrow; somebody hid it. We also continued to receive tremendous encouragement from Rollo Turner of Panther Publishing who offered insightful comments, along with a sympathetic ear for our ramblings.

The upshot of it all was that a severely sharpened pencil cut deep into the original 220,000 words that mushroomed from 2008 when we hit the road. Successive edits in 2011 have lowered the word count to reveal 212, 208, 198, 193, and then 181. The final resting place came to be 172,000 words. At this point, I surrendered.

Offering to fall on a brand new HB bought especially for the purpose from WH, thankfully all declined this offer, apart from Cathy who is still thinking about it.

Currently where are we up to?

It is true that we are immensely grateful for all the help, advice, and assistance from everybody mentioned so far. This is particularly true of the Ted Simon Foundation who took on this role voluntarily. Through their help, the world of Adventure Motorcycling will be richer for ALL the various stories that will eventually appear about real people doing real things; often never before reported.

I say that as when you understand the struggle people such as Sam Manicom and Norman McGowanhave endured to bring us their stories – and many others as well – it can only be of benefit to us all that such published authors have thrown their lot into correcting this situation.

Right now – Cathy and I still await that mythical place called ‘publication.’ It ’tis a secret place, mightily protected to keep people out unless they have received a special invite. To our naïve eyes it appears a bit like Iran …….. but without the headscarf rule. We have our fingers crossed.

After all somebody has to go first for the Foundation …… waving the standard for all those untold stories.

For now, our best wishes to you all. We hope to be able to bring you the definitive answer to the on-going saga of ‘The Publication’ by this time next month.

Best wishes and safe journeys to you all.

Bernard and Cathy

What next?

Watch this space for further details concerning the the future publication of:

A Blind Woman, Two Wheels and 25,000 Miles.

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DECEMBER 2011 – Newsletter #4

Bernard & Cathy — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 16:15:40 +0000

Current News

A recent set of thoughts triggered this newsletter as light bulbs went off like little Christmas trees in my head after a ‘conversation’ on a social networking site. Each twinkle involved an understanding of something I had learned, experienced, or been fortunate to achieve on circling the world. In fact, all those little twinkling lights really revolved around the true meaning of many things; including overland travel.

You see, it is a fact that some of us have been LUCKY to set out across the world on a motorcycle. Notice the word ‘lucky’ as I mean the word in its entirety. It comes after 30+ years of waiting to complete such a journey and, as such, I believe it is an apt word choice. Never do I forget it. I was lucky. I still am.

Thus, in anonymity, Cathy and I climbed on an old R100RT and 26,385 miles later, we came back slightly less so as she became the first blind person to do such a thing. While this is true, it is funny how life events can quickly slam everything into perspective as within six weeks of arriving home Cathy received a diagnosis of cancer. In one fell swoop, I moved from helping her ride elephants in Nepal to injecting her with drugs to combat the sickness of chemotherapy. Such is life involving the ‘real’ world.

Importantly throughout recent times she has remained positive, always putting her best foot forward to get on with life. As such, she is an inspiration for people who think they have a hard life, or have been somehow ‘robbed’ because they cannot have something for nothing.

Meanwhile she thanks the world for the things she enjoys; being ‘lucky’ in so many small ways. In her own words she has done, experienced, and loved so much compared to many people and she knows she has been lucky to ride the world. After all, people can spend a lifetime yearning for the same thing – as I once did – and a million others would be thankful for such an experience.

People say a long road journey can change you in fundamental, irreversible, ways and we know that it does. Things are never quite the same again as superfluous layers of reality are lost somewhere along the way. Somehow, it left us feeling as Bertha’s panniers; carrying so little, but holding everything needed. In many ways, we have become those panniers with the loss of ‘things’, forever replaced with ‘experiences’. The people we once were are gone.

For me, if I had returned still worrying about ‘stuff’ I would have failed to understand something fundamental about life as I watched children play in the dust of India. The same personal failure would have been apparent as we visited schools for the blind in Delhi, and organisations from France to Australia. Talking to people who lost their sight in Nepal because of malnutrition would have passed me by somehow if I still worried about ‘things.’ So you see, at this time of year I believe there are important aspects of life. Then there are ‘things’.

I will leave you with a small extract of writing involving a very simple message for the true meaning of this time of year and for everyday in your life from this point onwards. You see, to me, everything else is just wind:

“If you are sitting reading this tale of two ordinary people just like you then there is something you should always remember and hold dear to you. You never know when it will all end. It can be so sudden and so unexpected that there is no warning, no further time to say the things you have never said to those around you. This second, right now, is your opportunity to put this newsletter down and correct that omission. Take it now. You may never have another chance. Life is like that.”

To all the people who are ‘out there’ on the road on motorcycles we wish you a wonderful world full of experiences, safe roads, and comfortable places to sleep. We offer these simple wishes because they are the only things you truly need. To everybody else who continues to dream of such journeys we wish you every success in achieving it.

A very happy Christmas to you all and our very best for the New Year.

What next?

Watch this space for further details concerning the the future publication of:

A Blind Woman, Two Wheels and 25,000 Miles.

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NOVEMBER 2011 – Newsletter #3

Bernard & Cathy — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 13:56:35 +0000

Current News

Well isn’t it surprising how time goes past? It doesn’t seem a month since the last newsletter and yet here we are again!

Over the last month we have stayed busy ‘fettling’ our manuscript for the book with the help of none other than the motorcyling author Ted Simon. Many other well known writers have also added their thoughts as further suggestions came from Rollo of Panther Publishing. Our greatful thanks to everybody for their assistance and thoughts.

The main upshot of all this wealth of experience is that the big cutting pen has been swept across some pages. On others a small whittling knife has been applied. Thus, 32,000 words have gone. Often they disappeared with a heavy heart we must admit; memories ending up on the – metaphorical – cutting room floor.That being said, it is often true the meat tastes sweeter when the fat has been trimmed and it is seasoned to perfection – as we hope this turns out to be when it hits the shelves.

Our sincere thanks also to the many people who’ve been in touch asking about the publication date. It keeps us going to know so many people are interested in our story. We will keep you abreast of developments as and when they occur.All being well the final draft of the book will be finished in the forthcoming weeks and we can move on from living backwards. When you are locked into the past it is hard to project into the future as you live in times gone by. Fortunately we have been hugely aided by the fact that these past times are close enough to retain a freshness in thought, word, and deed. It is also true we have a nine inch deep pile of journals, thousands of protographs and hundreds of hours of video footage and audio diary entries to assist us!

What next?

Like all things in life this question sits in the lap of the Gods. From written word to the finished product is something akin to the cup and the lip but our fingers are crossed everything will continue to proceed in the way it appears to be going.

Many people have asked about the nature of our two wheeled transport these days and yes it is true, another bike did join the stable of Bernard’s alternative Universe of ‘The Garage’. Sitting resplendent in all her glory is Gertie, an F800GS. The picture above shows her resting a fevered brow in Andalucia last summer; sheltering from the ferocious sun which reminded us of days gone by passing through the Atacama or Arizona Deserts.

A long time was spent looking at a range of bikes with Bernard muttering ‘I’ll never pick the thing up if it goes over’, as it became his definitive measurement of success as sales personnel tried, unsuccessfully, to sell him the latest – and biggest – bikes on the market.

From a personal perspective it is super comfortable – with my Air Hawk set – and it positively growls along very nicely thank you.

To date it has covered 12,000 miles with the service personnel saying ‘You can’t have done that much already surely’ much to Bernard’s amusement! It’s funny how the wheels of time turn as the bike is a direct link backwards to when we rode the world as an extract from the book notes:

“By now a new bike sits in the garage and it is a link to our journey through Nepal. Here you will read of our meeting with another rider and his BMW F800GS. Smaller and lighter than the 1200s, it rode lightly over terrible terrain and I knew this was to be my next bike. Originally, I had thought to use one for the trip itself but it had only just been released onto the market (in 2008). Truly did I agonise until deciding, ultimately, to trust the bike I knew and understood.”

Now, however, she sits waiting for her own great adventure. It stretches out in the distance before the three of us. Waiting. Promising. Whispering in our ears………………….

Watch this space for further details concerning the the future publication of:

A Blind Woman, Two Wheels and 25,000 Miles.

To follow some of the Radio and TV publicity please see our You Tube channel at the following link.

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OCTOBER 2011 – Newsletter #2

Bernard & Cathy — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 15:16:37 +0000

Current News

And so the news is out and no longer are people all over the place going, ‘nudge, nudge’, or ‘who do you think it is?’ Yes, it is now official. Bernard has been selected by the Ted Simon Foundation as a Jupiter’s Traveller. In essence the foundation was set up to encourage;

‘…….those who adventure into the world to go the extra mile and transform their experiences into something of value for the world to share.’

You see it is true that many fantastic people have done wonderful things out there in the world but few generate anything lasting in terms of sharing their experiences. The Foundation hopes to change that by giving advice and wedges to jam into various media doors to enable people to get a hearing about their projects.

What next?

In the meantime, Bernard and Cathy’s work has been ongoing in transforming aspects of their web site to improve access for people with any form of print impairment. By providing audio versions of things like this newsletter they are working towards providing accessible forms AT THE SAME TIME as standard print versions. You can follow progress on the site under the new tab labelled ‘AUDIO’ in the near future.

Due to motorcyclists love of ‘be-stickering’ their bikes with places they have visited or links they find interesting, work has also started on producing a sticker which is hoped will be available by publication time.

Biker FM

Bernard and Cathy will also be appearing on BikerFM on Wednesday 16th November from 10pm onwards. They will talk about their unique trip and the stresses and strains involved in making Cathy the first blind person to circle the world by motorcycle. Along with their music choices for the show, there will also be a live phone-in for people to pose their own questions about their journey and future plans.You can find the station by selecting the Biker FM icon on the right hand side of this page.Watch this space for further details concerning the the future publication of:

A Blind Woman, Two Wheels and 25,000 Miles.

To follow some of the Radio and TV publicity please see our You Tube channel at the following link.

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SEPTEMBER 2011 – Newsletter #1

Bernard & Cathy — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 11:44:34 +0000

A Blind Woman, Two Wheels and 25,000 Miles.

If you dare to dream.

In the beginning

It’s hard to know sometimes where to begin as this may well be somewhere other than at the start. So it is with this newsletter in many ways.

We say this as we fell off the circuit for a little while on our return from a journey which saw us covering 26,385 miles through 5 continents and 31 countries on an 18 year old motorcycle. Due to the fact that no blind person had ever done such a thing before there was a hollerbaloo of media coverage which kept us going for some time. Much like you would expect, it died down after our, relative, fifteen minutes of fame and we went back to our lives to begin writing the book which had always been planned. Unfortunately, much like life itself sometimes, fate intervened in the best laid plans of mice, men, Bernard and Cathy. Perhaps an extract from the book is the best to be said on the matter:

‘It was as I was struggling to adapt back to ‘normal’ life in those early weeks that Cathy was diagnosed with cancer. From this point onwards my own petty struggle ended. If you have ever cared for someone with a life-threatening illness then you will know, without hesitation, what this means as you throw yourself into whatever is required. Over the subsequent months the illness and treatment she had to endure all made riding the world seem insignificant and unimportant’.

Thus everything to do with the journey faded away for quite some time while other battles were fought within our own emotional fortresses.

Now what?

With Cathy slowly returning back to health after nearly two years of treatment we eventually returned to writing the book we had always planned since the very beginning. Along with this aspect came a hundred other things which were still outstanding including sorting through thousands of photographs and hundreds of hours of video along with updating the website. It is only now thus are we able to fully engage in what was achieved.

What Next?

With our return to ‘normality’ and the foray out into social networks such as Facebook and Twitter, we received a lot of support from the many people who became aware of what we had done prior to Cathy’s illness, As the book started to take shape many people also said kind things about its content and from this we drew considerable support. It got to the point where Bernard took early retirement to concentrate on finishing the manuscript and this was completed a few months back. The early feedback from several well known authors in the field has been more than positive and to date it is being well received by publishers. At the moment we are considering options about which way we can take the book forward.

For all those blind and partially sighted people who followed us through the world we say thank you and for everyone who contacted us over time we say welcome to our full return.

Our very best wishes to you all and aways remember: If you dare to dream.

Watch this space for further details concerning the the future publication of:

A Blind Woman, Two Wheels and 25,000 Miles.

To follow some of the Radio and TV publicity please see our You Tube channel at the following link.

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USA and Going Home.

Bernard & Cathy — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 20:57:32 +0000

A short ride later we stand under hot showers sweeping the coldness from our bones in a hotel as bike suits drip water leaving a stream unwinding across the floor. As the pools gather it starts to dawn on us. In a few days we will be home. Home? It no longer feels the same. It is somewhere else than we are used to. It is where we want to be and do not want to be, both at the same time. A confusing kaleidoscope of emotions and images wash through us as a short ride to Los Angeles, just down the road, indicates The End. In a few days we will be back in the UK. It feels disconcerting, strange, and unreal. As these feelings flit through me one factor stands out clearly. Over the last few days my thoughts have increasingly turned to Biscuit, my guide dog. Phone calls have winged their way across the Atlantic to set in motion the timing for an event which leaves me feeling nervous.

The worry involves meeting her again after so long. With these thoughts come the doubts over how she will react. Will she remember? Will she have become so attached to the home and people she has known for the last year I am, somehow, ‘unwelcome’ in a vaguely doggie sort of way? The thoughts leave me unsettled and uncomfortable. I push them aside as there is little I can do. Only time will tell.

Over the following days we discover motorcycle insurance is easier to arrange everywhere apart from the most developed country in the world. To be fair, it is easy if you are a Mexican citizen doing a bit of nipping across the border in a pickup truck. This is even true if the vehicle would be instantly condemned as unsafe by anybody apart from a blind police officer.

Meanwhile for a UK (taxed and tested) motorcycle it proves to be something akin to trying to find an instant solution to the worldwide financial meltdown which rages across the planet leaving ordinary people battered and bruised. The subsequent days pass as we traverse American motor regulations. Hours and hours pass hunting for the elusive piece of paper which will forestall us being hauled off the bike by a mirror-sun-glass wearing, gun totting, deeply tanned Highway Patrol Officer. We role play the:

‘Insurance Officer? Do we really need it? Is there some way I can pay you for it here and now?’ (nudge, nudge, wink, wink).

We discuss at great length whether American Law Enforcement Officers collect for their children’s school uniforms in the same way as their Costa Rican brothers, or the Thai Police in their search for retirement funds? In the end we discount such an approach. After three days we solve the problem by paying a ridiculous amount for one month’s insurance (at three times what it would cost an American for a year). Sometimes we long for the countries where insurance is an optional extra as they seem to get by fine without it.

Over our time we discover why America is the obesity capital of the world with planet sized plates being delivered to our tables overflowing with food before we eventually settle on the ‘Over-55’s meal’ as even the children’s menus prove too much for our stomachs.

“Do you want to Super size it?” people ask.

“Could you possibly downsize it please?” Bernard responds while they laugh at our bewilderment with the dustbin lid portions and “Good God man that’s not a drink, it’s a swimming pool” at his first encounter with an American Coke. Meanwhile people waddle back to the dispensers to top up the small buckets as we struggle through the smallest cups they have. Watching some of the people around us Bernard tells me he is putting on weight just being in the same room as them. We make a quick mental note to stock up on cholesterol bashing tablets at the earliest opportunity. We may well need them to keep our arteries circulating precious life fluids.

Wandering into a petrol station looking for maps Bernard tells me that, yes it is true, everything is bigger in America. In nothing like a hushed tone he tells me of the Extra Large condoms in every colour and size imaginable (apart from small and extra-small he points out). My admonishment of the information he is gleefully, and loudly, imparting to me (in a busy garage) leaves him with his innocent little boy voice. He points out he is only describing the display. “America truly is the land of the car. Something for the drive home Sir?” he giggles as we leave the garage quickly with the heat rising in my face.

We sink into the morass of trying to arrange the shipping of Bertha back to London and after ten hours of phone calls and emails it transpires 9-11 has left this country with a serious aversion to shipping things by air. Freighting from such places as Kathmandu we had, naively, assumed the land of the free and the brave would not represent a problem. Particularly, we had thought, when we were shipping an English bike home to the land of green hills and three lions. How wrong we were.

One company wants to put Bertha in a truck and subject her to a four day drive to New York (3000 or so miles) as they say The Los Angeles Customs Officers are unable to stay awake for anything longer than five minutes. The spluttering which greeted the 2500 dollar price tag convinced them it was not exactly what we, or our diminished wallets, had in mind. Across several conversations with Air Freight Companies we also find out the “Not Needed” Carnet (according to US Customs at the border) is indeed necessary if you want to export the vehicle from the USA.

Bertha heads back to the border with this information where the morning is spent office hunting through puzzled officials who are completely puzzled by what we need. During our wanderings we, accidentally, stumble on the reason why a wall of noise is so important to Harley Riders all over the world. It turns out to be an essential Health and Safety feature, according to one officer, with his two-wheeled house parked nearby:

“A car driver can say they didn’t see you when they pull out, but they sure as hell can’t say they didn’t hear you! The louder the better.”

Ah, that explains it then. It seems Harley riders have discovered the answer to a universal sentence which exists in all languages, that of ‘Sorry, I didn’t see you.’

By the time you hear this you are, generally, laying on the ground pulling gravel out of your navel. Lying in a crumpled heap you often press the slow motion replay of the last few minutes before you hit the ground to explain what happened. “How could they not see me?” you ask yourself. Now you know. They didn’t hear you.

Eventually we find our way to the office of Chief Larkins who, thankfully, understands completely. He duly fills everything in while promising to inform his unit that a foreign motorcycle, in order to be exported from the states, does indeed need a completed carnet to smooth the process.

Over the days we meet Vietnam War Veterans, salesmen clutching laptops and people from all over the USA as we wait for the great shipping debate to be resolved. They shake their heads (and our hands) while proclaiming it to be ‘amazing’ and ‘unbelievable’ what we have done; on our own “out there alone” as they put it. Many cannot believe we are having such problems getting home as our enforced stay at the hotel is, by now, demonstrating. Our puzzlement is rising as we can understand the reticence of flying stuff into the states, but not out? Unless, of course, the states are protecting everybody else from a rampaging 20 year old bike with two ageing passengers? Perhaps it’s because we haven’t told them Bernard’s socks are now clean, ready, willing and able?

The land of the free is the worst so far in terms of getting simple things done as our frustration rises at the level of bureaucracy. In Istanbul, Kathmandu, Kuala Lumpur, and Sydney we completed everything inside three days and often it was all solved within a single day. Here it has taken three days to solve a ‘simple’ thing like insurance and it seems a week will pass before we arrive back in the UK.

Killing time, and frustration, we spend lots of ‘quarters’ scrubbing and degreasing Bertha at a local car wash until she looks pristine. Not since she was given a good going over by four Bangladeshi lads in Kuala Lumpur has she looked so well.

Four days pass by before we leave Nogales resplendent with our shiny motorcycle and clutching our new insurance certificate. The shipper we eventually talk to in LA is expecting us in two days time. We cannot wait to cover the 500 miles.

Mentally finished we find the last few days have ground through our system, dragging, never ending. Strange feelings wash over us as we get back on the bike. It is an effort and not what we want to do anymore. We do. But we don’t. Irreconcilable emotions drag our psychology around the mental space inside our heads as we start the final leg. One final barrier stands before us. The Arizona Desert.

After riding through India, Pakistan and the heat of Australia we thought nothing could be hotter than the Atacama Desert in Chile. Then came Arizona. A whole new planetary experience of heat sat waiting for us.

Imagine turning on your hairdryer at maximum heat while holding it close to your face, and every other part of your body. Then imagine turning the heat blast up to 70 miles per hour. Crank up the thought into standing behind a 747 jet engine taking off while you idly smear factor 50 sun cream on any exposed part. Double whatever you are thinking about heat. Now you have something approaching Arizona. It made the Atacama Desert in Chile look like the North Pole.

The heat builds and builds and when you think it cannot possibly get any hotter, more degrees are notched up. The gauge on the dashboard gives up its unequal struggle with accurate information at 50 degrees as the sun hammers down under a clear blue sky. It has run out of puff. No more. Thank you very much. The End. It sits straining against the stop with not a flicker of downwards movement. You have no perception of sweat, no sensation of little rivulets marching downwards due to gravity. If it does break into the open it is instantly gone. Dangerously so.

We pull over at every opportunity to take on board fluids. It doesn’t matter if it is only thirty minutes later when another small petrol station, café or bucket of liquid appears. We stop. At one such place the staff cannot believe we are riding during the day. It seems most bikers travel at night and avail themselves of the ‘specials’ which we see as discounted rates on Motel billboards between 5am and 5pm. So it is that people sleep during the day and travel at night to escape the heat.

“We’re British, we ride in all weathers” Bernard laughs – when he has enough saliva to get the words out. The staff shake their heads and say “Man, you gotta be careful out there. People don’t travel during the day!”

“We’re fine thanks, could we have 345 bottles of cold water please”.

Bertha cools down under whatever shade we can find as you can burn your hand on any metal part it comes in contact with. Even the seat is ferociously hot when you first climb back on. Within 15 minutes of starting off again you feel thirsty. The new water we buy and take with us rapidly becomes too hot to drink as it gentle simmers away in the sun. At every stop Bernard reaches for the sun cream, insisting it is applied to any part it can reach in terms of exposed flesh.

I can feel the sun’s power against my body and the term ferocious does not do it justice. It is beyond ferocious and completely on another planetary scale as the miles pass by. 350 miles later we’ve had enough. Our heads are bursting and little people are inside my skull stabbing their way out from the confines with sharp axes. It comes in nauseous waves. Gratefully we pull into a motel and stumble off the bike dizzily with people gathering and saying “My God, you’ve ridden through the day?”

“Yep” was the croaked word which comes out of Bernard’s throat before two bottles of cold water lubricated him enough to talk properly.

Standing in the shade our body temperatures cool down as further drinks are downed while we hide from the sun and talk in the way of motorcyclists all over the world. People wander past, stop, and then spend time with us. It is based on the common ‘bond’ which exists, irrespective of language, religion or any other national difference. It’s what turns a complete stranger into a new friend. Two wheels.

Later on Bernard peers at me over the top of his plate of food which appears on the table in front of us at ‘Denny’s Diner’. We toast the crossing of the hottest place on earth we have ever encountered. The day would have left Lucifer reaching for his sun shades and looking to turn the thermostat down several notches. We pass out on a bed which envelopes us in its marshmallow softness and drift off to sleep talking of our feelings of how tomorrow will be the last day Bertha will be ridden on foreign soil.

Chomping our way through the continental breakfast in an empty café the next morning it is obvious people have deserted the hotel before the sun came up. We had pondered rising in the dead of night – like everybody else – to take advantage of the coolness but we are not good at early starts. The only time we availed ourselves of this option was in India and it was driven by pure fright and the need to get out of towns before the level of chaos reached Armageddon-like proportions.

Climbing on the bike we soon settle into the normal routine of petrol stops and liquid intakes. Pulling off the highway we stop in Pine Springs. White washed and painted picket fences greet us, War memorials and people lazily ambling along under the brightness. It is all so quiet, so ‘homely’, that it reminds us of picture postcard images of America, even down to the empty roads and ‘have a nice day’ responses. The air settles into noisy stillness with the only sound being the occasional vehicle as we fill Bertha up for her final tank of ‘gas’.

“Where yawl from?” comes from behind the counter in a rich American accent.

“The UK” we answer in unison like two book ends.

“My son went to the UK for 18 months, couldn’t understand a word he said for months when he came back” the female attendant replied laughing.

“His father used to tell him how funny it sounded when he spoke.”

“Do we sound ok?” Bernard asks with a hint of humour in his voice.

“Yawl sound like Brits on the TV, so it’s ok”.

People stand listening as we talk of America, Britain and our journey home as we stand under the air conditioning unit cooling down. I feel sure there must be steam coming from the two of us as we hog the cold downdraft.

“Yawl have a nice day” they chorus in unison as we pay for more bottles of water and head back towards the highway.

The hours pass amongst signs which denote the lines drawn on a long go map denoting where American Indian Tribes could live after centuries of wandering where they liked. A few square miles in small geographic squares (as it must have seemed to them) while huge juggernauts now roll past the rocky and boulder strewn mountainous landscape. We pull past signs which wave in the direction of San Diego. Others loudly proclaim an altitude of 4000 feet while we reminisce of a small Peruvian girl sat on Bertha as we froze above the clouds and waited for the road to open. Small things. Memories of people and places stream through us more now as The End beckons us forward.

Five hours later we plough through 8 lanes of traffic as Los Angeles appears. Signs for John Wayne Airport flash past as people drive at a furious rate, on our left, on our right, but all in their own lanes and with scrupulous discipline. Everything travels quicker than we are used but we settle into the flow, finding our way to meet Rene the agent with whom we have talked while we sat in Nogales looking for a way home.

Reaching the office and climbing off the bike we stand in silence as we realise this is it. The End.

“I can’t believe we’ve made it” Bernard sighs as he reaches for a cigarette.

“Thanks to you” I reply quietly “Thanks to you.”

“I never thought I’d be able to do it” he went on. “With the roads, hassles, borders, language problems, breakdowns and everything else. It seems weird to know we’ve done it and we did it by ourselves.” He stands silent apart from the inhale of nicotine.

I squeezed his arm gently.

Rene sits behind his desk and we arrange to come back a few hours later to start the paperwork for the final freight of the journey. The way home.

The Hotel we book into is within walking distance and once we shower and grab a quick bite to eat Bertha is unloaded of all our bits and pieces. It is a well tried and tested procedure as cameras, laptop and various other bits and pieces are consigned to the two pieces of hand luggage for the trip home. Our heads are saying ‘Home soon’.

Two hours later Rene comes out of his office and he is clearly stunned when he sees Bertha. After travelling for two days to get here the first thing he says is:

“I can send the bike, but nothing else”.

“Yeah, I know, we’ll sort out tickets for our flight” Bernard answers puzzled.

“No, you don’t understand, no personal possessions can go with the bike” he goes on.

We stand in silence.

“What do you mean personal possessions?” Bernard asks slowly.

“Everything but the bike” he answers.

“You mean the panniers and back box?”

“Can’t go with the bike unless they are empty.”

“You’re joking!”

“No, since 9-11. Customs will not clear all this stuff to fly in cargo.”

“Clothes?” Bernard asks

“With you” Rene responds.

“Bike helmets?”

“With you”

“Tools?”

“With you”

“Bloody hell.”

“It’s also far bigger than I thought” Rene measures from floor to top of windshield.

“The price will have to alter.”

Bernard cuts:

“The measurements I gave you are the shipping measurements.”

“Can’t be done” our (nearly) new found friend wisely pronounces.

“It’s been done several times in the last twelve months” Bernard goes on, “The windshield comes off, the front wheel is dropped, the back box comes off and is packed left side and strapped onto the foot peg. I’ve done this several times.”

“Can’t be done at those measurements” Rene dismisses the idea as he measures back to front without listening to what Bernard is saying.

“I’ve just told you it has been done, several times” Bernard insists, “It flew from Istanbul to Pakistan, from Nepal to Thailand, from Malaysia to Australia, from Australia to Chile, from Colombia to Panama. But anyway, that’s not the point right now, how do we get our gear home?”

“Excess luggage” Rene suggests “it cannot go as cargo even as a separate shipment. If it’s personal possessions then they have to fly with you”.

By now the conversation is telling us that Rene was not at all interested in providing any solutions or real ideas. He seems to have completely gone off the idea of shipping the bike anyway.

“New York?” Bernard suggests?

“Same as here, it’s nationwide” shatters that idea despite the ‘we’ll put the bike in a truck and move her to New York’ shipper we spoke to in Nogales as everything is ‘easier’ than in LA.

We let the enormity of the information settle in as Bernard’s vision of his pipe and slippers starts to fade. Saturday night premier leaguer football fades along with warm beer and cold rain. The reunion with Biscuit my guide dog is growing fainter as we stand silently. I know Bernard’s brain is furiously searching through options.

“We need some time to think about it Rene”.

Bernard lights a cigarette as Rene disappears back into this office leaving us to ponder. The sun beats down as we stand in the car park and go though our options.

Perhaps we could buy several huge suitcases and pay the excess luggage charges? We work out it would take three or four large cases to ship everything. With the weight of our gear we discount this as it would be prohibitively expensive. Should we ditch everything we posses and empty the bike completely? Not an option really. Back to Mexico and fly from Mexico City? On towards Canada?

We talk about Canada and Bernard thinks it would be considerably easier in many ways (roads, language and costs). Importantly, it suites his mentality. It will be going forwards. Never backwards. He knows about the Toronto option and tells me it is possible to fly overnight; in the USA it will take nearly two weeks to get Bertha home.

Several cigarettes later it is 4.30pm and the options are disappearing one at a time until we are left with only one viable alternative. Drive to Toronto.

“How far is it?” I ask dreading the answer.

“About 2,500 miles” he quietly states after checking the maps.

“God” I mumble “how long do you think to it will take us to get there?”

Bernard ponders.

“On these roads? We could do it in five to seven days. All being well, probably five if we do 500 miles each day. Ten or twelve hour days at an average of 50 taking into account stops, petrol, food and no breakdowns.”

We go back into the office and tell Rene we surrender to the post 9-11 paranoia which has paralysed common sense. We are off to Toronto. He appears a little phased we have chosen to drive to Canada. By our calculations, which we share with him, even accounting for seven additional days of food, petrol, accommodation it will still be cheaper than shipping from LA. He completely losses what little interest he had in us and turns back to his computer monitor wishing us ‘good luck’.

Back at the hotel we sit stunned as our mood drops onto the floor and burrows southwards looking for the end of the psychological freefall we both feel.

Bernard:

I walk up and down the stairs carrying everything back down to the bike, repacking everything into familiar places while dazed. It might sound strange to people reading this. You have to understand neither of us have ‘enjoyed’ the recent weeks hammering through countries. The clock is beating us into submission and all we see is petrol stations, white lines and hotels. There is no real ‘enjoyment’ anymore. It’s true that many people get a real kick out of doing 500 mile or even 1000 mile days. The ‘mileage junkies’ as I call them. They get a ‘buzz’ out of doing mileage for the sake of mileage itself. To me it’s not what motorcycling is about. I’m not criticizing this type of riding, I’m truly not, but it is not for me unless I have to ride like this. To Cathy and me, countries are about people and if all you do is fly past them you may as well not be there. It’s not about watching the milometer notch up tenths of a mile all day. The days have always been about the stops and the people you meet on every occasion. It’s a combination of The Road, The People, and The Differences experienced every day. One out of three does not work for me. A road is a road is a road. Without the other two factors as well, there is little point in continuing. We are now on completely the wrong side of America and the whole country has to be crossed within 7 days to stand any chance of getting home within a reasonable time-frame before we return to work.

Eventually the bike is packed and it is only then we realise the Hotel is organized around all things Japanese. We were so focused on organising the bike and ourselves for departure we had not noticed all the bowing attached to levels of social status. Neither had we noticed the blaring TV in reception full of appropriate programmes for people’s ‘home-away-from-home’ experience. We sit in the restaurant and it dawns on us The Torrance Hotel serves nothing but raw fish, seaweed and Tofu. To be fair, there are a lot of different raw fish dishes but none of them quite hit the spot for us. We make a hasty retreat from the chop sticks and little bowls. Blind people and chop sticks? I don’t think so!

The hotel staff very kindly lay on a car for us when we ask where food can be gathered for two intrepid travellers which do not give off aromatic odours of the sea. It whisks us to a very posh, and expensive, Delhi bar called Jerry’s where burger and chips set us back a month’s food budget in Central America. I always know we are in a city when the increase of asthmatic gasping from across the table tells me the bill has arrived.

In the morning Bernard tries to cheer me up by a constant battery of humour. It does not work. I know he is trying to make the best of it as he does not want to drive another 2500 miles and is as floored as I am. We had never even considered the ‘personal’ possessions aspect and it smacks of the typical over-reactive response to a specific problem. It makes no sense to me when I consider in Colombia they searched every nook and cranny of the bike before pronouncing us ‘fit to fly’. At airports, customs posts, borders, and lines between zones all over the world some degree of investigation into our possessions occurred. In America they just said no. Perhaps we are missing something which a good search of our goods, or thoughts, would reveal. Perhaps we are just depressed.

Los Angeles stretches before us like coiled loops of spaghetti and it is daunting to have eight lanes of traffic whizzing past on both sides as we start the long journey North. Huge semi’s thunder past as we gently work our way through the myriad of roads, underpasses, overpasses, on-ramps and off-ramps. It takes 45 minutes before we see the light of day and the outskirts of the city.

Heading north the I91 comes and goes, transforming into the I605 which takes us NE before the East Bound I210 joins the Northbound I15. We start to feel better as the day passes and remembered lines of songs come through my helmet from him in front as he snatches me from my melancholy thoughts.

“Always look on the bright side of life” is sung with much gusto complete with (deliberate) out of tune whistling to accompany the snippets of the famous “Life of Bryan” film. Before I stop laughing it changes to Billy Ocean’s “When the going gets tough” complete with hummed saxophone solos and deep chesty rumblings as words are exaggeratedly conveyed through the speakers to my ear drums. I cannot help but feel better as the miles mount. We start to talk our way through how many people would willingly change places with our ‘disaster’ of having to ride across America at the drop of a hat. Then off he goes again with wildly exaggerated voices and snippets of songs all demonstrating ‘Can do’ mentalities, over coming adversity and every shade in between the theme of ‘we can do this.’ The world feels that little bit brighter as the miles mount up.

The 25,000 square mile Mojave Desert appears in front of us. Even though it contains the lowest and hottest place in North America (Death Valley) it does not feel as hot as Arizona. No doubt this is helped by the fact we are several weeks ahead of the over 50 degree temperatures which can be reached. The one thing we do know is it is highly unlikely we will need our umbrella to shelter us from rain as the gentle pitter-patter only occurs to the volume of 10 inches a year.

Descriptions flow through my helmet consisting of words such as ‘Burnt’, ‘Desolate’ and every shade of beige colour imaginable. Signs for the Mojave National Preserve pass us by on our quest for mileage as we hustle through the landscape in our new ‘mileage junkie’ mentality.

The Mojave river tracks us on our right and suddenly out in the middle of this burnt landscape Las Vegas appears and we are driving down Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra drive. From beige and gold to green in an instant as if some invisible line has been drawn across the road. Hotels and casinos flank us as we cut straight through the middle of the city. Caesar’s Palace with its Romanesque façade appears and I tell Bernard of the Formula one race track which meanders its way around the grounds. As we trundle through the gaudy town of glitz and tinsel we lament the fact we do not even have the time to let our jaws drop at the OTT buildings. People come from around the world to sample the delights of the city, the razzmatazz, the shows, while we power through it as quick as possible. It is not a destination for us, it is in our way and we have to leave it behind us.

The Moapa Indian Reservation and the small town of Mesquite look more our type of stop if we had the time but we have to eat miles through California,even as the signs for Death Valley appear before us. I can hear the grinding of teeth coming from the front as we pass it by rather than stopping and taking the detour into the most inhospitable place on earth, or so people say. We pull over at a rest area and a man leans out a car saying:

“I thought it was a joke!” pointing to the logo on the panniers which declare “A Blind Woman, Two Wheels and 25,000 Miles”.

“Then I saw the two of you!” he goes on and asks where we are from, where we are heading. He whistles loudly and asks “Had an mechanicals?” as we reel off all the things which have gone wrong across the months. He laughs and comments “Nothing serious then!” We too laugh and have to agree. Nothing serious then. Keeping it all in perspective, it is true. All the mechanicals have been fixable, although tedious regarding time lost in getting the parts.

He smiles and records the web address on the side of the bike as we stand talking in the sun sipping our ice-cold drinks under the blue canopy of the sky. “I’ll check you two out when I get home for sure” as he shakes our hands and sets off back onto the highway. We wander around the rest area and look back to where Bertha draws crowds of people all snapping away at her with their cameras. They clamber off coaches, out of cars and everything in-between to stretch their legs. We hunt shade and settle in the coolness as people stand talking about the bike 60 feet away.

Hours later we pull out of another petrol station where a Sikh attendant is so pleased we know about Amritsar and the Vatican-like centre of the Sikh Religion, the Golden Temple. He tells us of his six months in the UK before he was driven out by the cold and the rain, of how he found himself twelve miles outside of Cedar City in Utah and of the passing of the years as the only Sikh in town. We part as friends and wish each other well even though we have only just met.

Several hundred yards down the road Bertha makes horrible noises from her gearbox and our hearts fall under the weight of the noise. It sounds serious and a potential hammer blow to our schedule with all the heavy mechanical grinding which pours out to our ears; like several parts smashing around in a kitchen blender. The sun beats down as Bernard investigates. Screw drivers are placed to ears and then placed to engine casings to amplify the sound. I too listen, perched on one knee in the dust to hear the whirling, grinding mechanical noises which indicate mayhem about to occur. When the clutch is pulled it stops and Bertha chugs, rocking happily but all this tells us is it is either clutch or gearbox. We ponder and decide to head for Cedar city and stop for the night.

Bernard listens to the noise, the deep metallic rumbling which penetrates above all else as we set off. It stops when the engine is under load and everything sounds normal by the time we pull into a hotel. It is puzzling and worrying at the same time. We keep our fingers crossed it is some mysterious gremlin which has worked its way through. We are not hopeful however as, usually, sounds like this indicate some terminal cataclysmic outcome in terms of whirling mechanical bits.

The next morning Bertha does not have any form of mechanical indigestion; despite the previous day. There seems little else to do but keep our fingers crossed and go on.

The drizzle descends as temperatures fall with a blanket of greyness above us much like an English summer sky. It is not what we are used to. The black clouds threaten a torrential downpour in the dry season of Utah and the local radio stations all agree with our forecast. Rain. However, it was gratifying the America weather forecasters are about as accurate as their British counterparts, including ourselves. It never materialises but merely threatens without ever succeeding.

Breathtaking scenery passes by as canyon after canyon appear with red rock ravines baring the scars of the stone cutting machines which have forged a path through the landscape. Beautiful rock formations appear left and right and Bertha moves in response to my swivel headed rider who seeks to find new superlatives and descriptions for each and every outcrop. Like ‘collapsed packs of playing cards’ is my favourite description of one mountain which shows huge slabs of rock hundreds of feet high tilting crazily in the nothingness of the tinder landscape. Massive rock outcrops with folded and pleated cloth-like shapes, tops of Lego block formations complete with missing pieces where they have collapsed down onto the fold below are described in ever increasing descriptive ingenuity. Small canyons along the route merge into huge areas with magical names such as ‘Devils Canyon’ stretching far off into the distance.

The sky clears and we peel of a layer of waterproofs as the temperature rises on perfect roads which go past at 70mph. Our mood is elevated as now we have come through where we lived for the miles since leaving Los Angeles. Now we are back into ‘the zone’. Even Bertha joins in and does not grumble, or rumble, or cause any missed heartbeats with sounds of chaos from the gearbox. We consign it to the our mental list of ‘another puzzle for another day’. The Gods of Motorcycling seem to be smiling on us. Long may they continue to do so. Please make it so.

Other motorcycles start to appear. Goldwings and Harleys are the bike of choice and you can see them miles before they become distinct due to the layers of chrome which shines from the sun. Glinting in the distance they flash past in the opposite direction with waves and flashing headlights from their riders. When they travel in the same direction they pull along side us and passengers take pictures of the two Brits trying to get home. We wave back and smile in their direction and when the picture is taken with a twist of the throttle they leave us to meander onwards.

Petrol stops are now hurried affairs and we do not hang around. We need to be always further ahead than we are. We stop in Utah where an attendant tells us that Colorado is about 40 miles ahead but ‘there is nothing there but jack-rabbits.’ Everybody laughs. People in New York had said there was nothing in Arizona but rattle-snakes and Lizards. As we settle back onto the bike we recall how each state in Australia said the same about their neighbours. Further a-field Turkey was ‘dangerous’ (according to the Greeks), Pakistan was even more so (according to the Turkish). By the time we arrived in Pakistan people were saying India was to be the next hot bed of lawlessness. And so it went on around the world as people warned us about the next country or made jokes about their neighbours.

Soon Utah is a memory as Colorado leaves us entranced with its beauty. It finds Bernard, unusually, struggling for words. From collapsed mountains to winding gorges with vertical walls either side of us, the Colorado river rushes past on our right throughout the day.

A huge sudden Bertha wobble is accompanied by a loud yelp which leaves me deafened as Bernard tells me he has taken an Exocet missile in the face at 80mph. He pulls over rapidly in a howl of screeching tyres, nearly leaving me sitting on his shoulders. Leaping off the bike he examines his already swelling face in the wing-mirror while retrieving a long barb complete with nether region still attached. The rest of the critter is probably lying on the road several miles back groaning “I can’t feel my legs, where’s my legs?”

Meanwhile Bernard hops from foot to foot in the way of men all over the world as he seeks to convince me that ‘yes, it does hurt.’ He rips off his helmet to survey the damage.

“Imagine how the poor insect feels” I consoled him in my feminine way. ” Worse than you no doubt”

He is not mollified really but content with the fact that running into an English head was the last thing it ever did. “That’ll teach the bugger” he mutters while peering in the mirror and describing how his face is swelling up even as he looks at it.

“You’ll be fine, you still look good to me, have a cigarette and lets get going.”

Sympathy? No, not really.

“I’m deformed!” he grumbles at me. “I look like the elephant man and it’s hardly consoling that a blind woman tells me I look fine is it?” After two cigarettes he feels better. We set off again once he squeezes his huge, so he tells me, floppy head back into his helmet.

We knew America was big but it seems endless as we push ourselves across the miles. We cross state lines and see signs for capitals which involve distances bigger than many of the countries we have passed through.

The weather is glorious and it does not have the blast furnace waves sitting in the wind waiting to mug all the hydration out of you. Day two of the ‘race across the landscape’ sees 542 miles of the map covered in 10 hours inclusive of stops. Over the two days 1000 of the 2500 have disappeared behind us.

Five hundred miles becomes our signature tune with snatches of the Proclaimer’s song occurring throughout the day. With covering such mileages every day we become aware of a mental and physical shift; your aches and pains fade away as the mileage increases. It is like going through a barrier. One minute it hurts and then it does not. We talk to people at gas stations who ask where we have come from. We name some distant town and they come back with “God it’s hard enough to drive a car for 500 miles, never mind a bike” while a second person joins in with “Never driven 500 miles in a day in my entire life!”

People always notice the foreign number plate first when we stop, and then the white stick. Assumptions follow quickly; we have flown into the states and are touring around on holiday. Bemused is the best word which describes their response when they ask, pointing to the stickers on Bertha, “Have you really come through all those to get here?”

Each sticker tells its own story.

“That’s a real long way! Well done to the both of you.”

Colorado becomes the land of snatches of John Denver songs wafting through my ear pieces. ‘Rocky Mountain High’ changes to ‘Grandma’s Feather Bed’ which merges into ‘Fly Away’ in his optimistic voice as the landscape drifts past with an urgency which even Bertha feels; she smothers all sound of grumbling for another time and another place. We tilt and glide our way through the mountains as the Colorado river washes past in its muddy brown way down the hills we follow.

Signs for Aspen appear but there is no snow on the slopes and we coast to a halt at Copper Creek. It is cold and I am shivering. Pulling into an out of season resort Bernard baulks at the 150 dollars plus taxes (of course) for a room for the night and so we move onto Frisco. Here he jokes with the Moldavian receptionist of how 100 dollars is expensive for a snow less skiing hotel.

“Normally it is $190” she jokes back with him in all seriousness.

When we find the room has two single beds instead of the regulation huge double the reception comes to a stop and the staff all laugh when he points out:

“We actually like each other so why would we want two single beds? When we hate each other we’ll have two beds. For now one will be enough!”

Standing outside unpacking Bertha a family come over and talk while asking our thoughts about George Bush. Bernard, the diplomat, says he doesn’t know the man and so he couldn’t comment on him as a person. They grudgingly agree before saying they have had enough of “Eight years of his bull-shit.”

Bernard amuses them with the question every Pakistani asked when we crossed the country “What are your thoughts of George Bush?”

“He has half a brain and his dad had the other half” he always responded.

Often when it had been translated laughter welled from the armed people around us. The people of Pakistan liked the answer. Importantly it forestalled any problems which may have occurred by way of our seeming to agree with the decision of the President of the USA to fire missiles into the North of their country. “When in Rome” Bernard would mutter in his diplomatic way when difficult questions came at him in situations he would define as making us ‘vulnerable’.

Leaving our snow-less ski resort, Colorado fades in the wing mirrors as we cross into Nebraska before the state line into Iowa appears and profound scenic changes occur as the mountains lead to prairies. Miles and miles of green flat landscapes and across which the wind whistles and buffets us as miles continue to mount up. The wind is not the gusting battering type but a constant resistance rather than the sideways hammer blows of times and countries gone by.

We pass, and are passed by, so many Gold Wings and Harleys we lose count. Often they are fully kitted out with everything which can be squeezed on a bike. A wave of music accompanies them through the on-board speakers as passengers recline is luxurious comfort in plush chairs complete with arm rests. Behind them twin aerials attached to suitcase size back boxes flutter the American stars and stripes in the wind. Many of them tow massive trailers behind their 1500 cc six cylinder bikes on the lawn-like smoothness and perfectly straight highways.

Three wheeled trikes are everywhere glistening in the sun with brightly glossed paint jobs and murals of figures clutching huge swords or macabre Halloween type montages. Canary yellows, cobalt blues, deep reds all seem to be the preferred colours of choice with everything on the bike designed around the paint scheme. We look scruffy compared to the glistening and glossy ‘cover paint job weekly’ machines which thunder past us. They trail their left hand out, slightly behind their body in greeting. We wave back in true Brit fashion like two excited teenagers; which we have become recently. After all it is not everyday you get to cross the states is it? We had forgotten this simple fact in our urge to get home. We had lost the faith which declared ‘enjoy each day as it comes’.

The land of consideration and politeness (as America now seems to us) extends to hotels and streets. People often leap out of our way apologising if they have not recognised my blindness within a fraction of a nanosecond. Before we even get to the kerb, the appearance of the white cane leads cars to just stop in the middle of the road. Patiently they wait while we cross and Bernard’s hand crosses to his heart in thanks. They nod back to him as if to say “no problem”. Many times over the days we wander from hotels to cafes, meeting the same patient consideration; even if the traffic lights are on green for them to proceed.

Hotel rooms are spacious and where ever we stay voluminous beds and perfect facilities abound.

Wandering through a local Wal-Mart we move from an isle containing baby goods into one which has enough ammunition to start world war three. Boxes and boxes of every calibre conceivable, or so it seems to us being two gun-shy Brits. High powered catapults, cross bows and automatic air rifles sit next to the camping equipment.

“Bloody Hell” Bernard exclaims “They worry about speeding but sell enough stuff here to start a war!”

It tickles him when he reads a sign by the boxes of ammunition which declares:

“In order to be fair to all our customers, each may only buy six cartons per day.”

By-the-way, each carton contains 100 bullets. Ah well, that’s ok then. Six hundred today, six hundred tomorrow and so on. Should be enough? What do you reckon honey?

America is sneaking up on us and we are really starting to like it.

The people are so friendly when we get out of the anonymous cities. Stopping for petrol we drink coffee while old men talk to us about hunting, fishing and all things family. The weather, grandchildren and cars all figure prominently in the conversations. Huge cartons of drinks are consumed as plates of food the size of Everest gradually become whittled down before dessert is ordered. How they find space for it all is beyond us.

Generally we use three tanks of petrol a day with speeds of 70-80 mph. Twelve dollars a time as 500 miles comes and goes. Our average speed maintains at 60 and sometimes India and the twelve hour days it took to cover 100 miles seem so long ago. When we think of over an hour to cover 6km in Colombia it is another world as the landscape now whizzes past. Another time, another place.

The Iowa wind disappears along with the prairie dust as we pass the boyhood home of Buffalo Bill Cody in the valley of the Wapsipinicon River. I-80 runs not far past the farmhouse which was built in 1847 by his father (Isaac) and Bernard’s teeth can clearly be heard gnashing again at not being able to stop.

Bernard…

After reading about him as a child and seeing so many stories, films and books it was sad we did not have the time to even stop. We put it down for one of things for ‘next time’ as we both surely feel there will be such an occasion. The bug is well and truly in place nowadays. It will be impossible to go back to what we once were. ‘Next time’ has become our motto and it keeps us going when so much passes by on the side of the road. So many opportunities lost. Next time.

The wind blows for virtually the whole day as Iowa changes to Illinois.

In Illinois we pass signs for magical song titles such as Rock Island which spawned the Lonnie Donegan song in 1955. It didn’t matter to Bernard the song is about the Chicago, Rock Island and Pacific Railroad; some distance from where we are. Blasts of remembered words come through the headphones as we travel:

The Rock Island
Line is a mighty good road
The Rock Island Line is the road to ride
The Rock Island Line is a mighty good road
If you want to ride you gotta ride it like you find it
Get your ticket at the station for the Rock Island Line

Every road or sign post seems to trigger a lyric from some song of his past. It doesn’t seem the same somehow in the USA compared to the UK. Imagine the latest band in the UK singing about Warrington, or some small place in the Lake District, the land of eternal water dropping from the sky (well, it is the LAKE Distinct after all). Somehow, we don’t think it would have the same world-wide appeal as singing about New York, New York or Galveston (ok, can you hear the songs in your head?)

We pass signs for Indianapolis as Illinois becomes Indiana and we fly past the location where the famous 500 mile race is held. Huge warning signs insist you pay head to the simple message; if you hit a road worker ‘you go straight to jail for up to 14 years, without ever passing go’. The same severe penalties exist in Australia and people certainly seem to respond to the imposed speed limits!

Petrol stops lead to the handing over of 2.60USD per gallon (about £1.65) and everything is done with credit cards, apart from us as we use cash. Bernard trundles off to stand in the queue, hands over 20USD, comes back, fills up, and then goes back to stand in the queue again to collect the change. It seems such a nuisance after every other country where you just fill up and then pay.

Bertha hums her way along through the days with no sign of the worrying noises and she sits rock steady on her Michelin tyres, discovered by accident in Turkey when they were the only ones we could find. Fabulous things they are and renewed again in Australia. They have coped with everything from India gravel to Ecuadorian mud.

The newly installed 80 USD Radar scanner sits in the dashboard beeping away at signals of Mr Plod’s presence with his mobile speed cameras hiding in the bushes or amongst the myriad of advertising hoardings. The strength of the radar signal determines how loudly it screams and thus how close the ‘problem’ to you is lurking. In the UK they are illegal to use although they are not illegal to buy? Now there’s British logic for you! It’s like saying you can look but not touch, or you can buy a beer but you have to leave it unopened. Yeah right!

The proclaimed thinking of this illegality is it will encourage lawlessness, speeding and general mayhem amongst the car using public of the UK. With average road speeds falling in the UK to the point where pushbikes pass you on both sides due to the congestion it doesn’t really stand up, at least according to my head scratching friend in front. So the law was introduced to stop people behaving like hooligans, barrelling around corners on two wheels while knitting or texting on a mobile phone as they steer with their knees. Bernard meanwhile finds it makes him more aware of the speed rather than less. Personally he thinks it’s unfair the Police can have all the latest toys, hiding behind bushes before leaping out like closet commandos to collect even more taxes for the UK Government. All is fair in love and war, he comments. When we return to England he declares that, of course, he will uninstall the unit to comply with the law. Of Course I believe him. Nearly.

The rain comes in downpours the further north we go and the roads become puddles as we enter Michigan where rivers of water are fired at us by passing cars in sheets of spray. Bertha signals her protest. She stops charging. Again. The voltmeter sits stubbornly on 12v instead of 14.5. So we find ourselves back to Malaysian riding; gear changes instead of brakes, sparing the lights and indicators with the road a grey mush of sheet rain.

Today is our last day before crossing the border to Canada and we are infuriated that, with a single day’s riding to go, another mechanical problem occurs. Splashing our way onwards we nervously ponder the voltmeter readings across the 300 miles still to cover to the Canadian border. When we stop for breaks the engine is left running as each and every press of the starter motor drops the reading by ½ a volt. Every volt is now precious and it leads to hours of careful riding before the bridge spanning the border at Port Heron appears. Canada sits just out of reach over the St. Clair river, at least until we hand over the 1.50 toll charge to enter our 31^st , and final, country.

The toll booth attendant smiles and tells us the border formalities are over the bridge which we slowly trundle across finding, yes it is true, the Canadian formalities are there but not the American. We need Bertha stamping out of America and so, after a little negotiation, we are allowed to turn around and head back across the bridge again (paying another toll) to re-enter America which, technically, we have never left.

The queues are huge to enter the states and Bernard ‘innocently’ heads for an empty lane which declares itself to be the ‘Nexus’ rapid entry route. The customs official is not impressed at us using the ‘pre-paid and pre-cleared’ vehicle lane. “Awfully sorry officer” he innocently answers “But the sign posting is unclear and we, you may have guessed, are not even from this side of the world, never mind the bridge!”

Radio signals squawk between the booth and control room before we are let through and directed to a secure customs post. We are descended on by several officers before the wheels have stopped turning. Surrounded on all sides Bernard asks them to step back so I can climb off the bike without the risk of kicking a federal officer. They step back warily but then everybody instantly changes when the white stick appears. In a single stroke we are downgraded from a grade one international threat to two ‘Brits’ on a bike and one of them blind to boot! Carefully and gently shepherding us into the offices Bernard is relieved of Bertha’s keys as ‘it’s standard practice’.

The keys jangle their way to a board full of keys which belong to the dozens of people being questioned about wanting to enter the good old USA. We slowly shuffle forward to meet more officers. When we explain what has happened, including the several bridge crossings, they start laughing and joking with us; receiving us like long lost friends. All the normal questions we have been asked hundreds of times accompany the completing and stamping of forms as we work our way through Bertha’s official exit paperwork. Other people nearby, meanwhile, are not so lucky as they are grilled over hot coals and have their finger nails pulled out. Not really, but some intense questioning is going on in harder toned voices. It is obvious some answers are not well received by the border officials and the people are not going anywhere at the moment.

More officers join the conversation with the two Brits in bike gear as all the formalities are completed before we are lead back to Bertha. Black uniformed border staff mill around us (complete with mirrored sun-glasses) as we are brought back to the compound and keys are returned. We hold our breath as the starter is pressed and she slowly turns over before firing up. Across the bridge we again pay the 1.50 USD to go back to Canada where the officials laugh and joke about our crossing and re-crossing the bridge. They direct us to the immigration offices for another round of paper bashing which are all completed with the minimum of fuss.

Bertha shows 11volts as she starts first time but we know the end is coming in terms of starting on the button. We have perhaps two or three more attempts before the engine will slowly groan over like the asthmatic old lady she is fast becoming. Not for the first time my friend laments the lack of a kick starter on a motorcycle. “A bike without a kick starter is as much use as a chocolate fireguard” he groans as we wonder whether motorcycle headlights are required to be left on in Canada. We set off with no headlight showing and the ready ability, if we are pulled over, to act like two innocent Brits abroad, with me ready to wave my white stick to get the sympathy vote.

Heading for Toronto airport we manage to find a hotel just as systems are shutting down due to the lack of voltage to run them as the battery flattens. Within earshot (!) of the flight paths it is close enough and within easy commuting of the final gateway to home. With some prompting from me Bernard asks the receptionist whether there is a ‘senior’ (over 50) rate.

“You certainly don’t look it!” she answers as we confirm that, yes, our decrepitness is a sign of advanced age and nothing at all to do with completing over 25,000 miles perched on a motorcycle for a year.

The room she shows us to is cavernous and as I orientate, the door opens and closes as Bernard trundles in and out. Wash bags, clothes, computers and anything else we might need are unloaded as we plan our final assault on, hopefully, getting home before we qualify for the advanced ‘severe old age’ discount. We take a taxi to find a solar charger as poor Bertha’s battery has descended into ‘I’m not starting as I’ve had enough and you cannot make me.’ An hour later we are back at the hotel clutching our life giving panel with assorted leads. We pray Bertha will fire up the following day and she does us proud as the sun works its magic by the morning.

Phone calls lead us to Air Canada and eight hours after we turn up all the paperwork is done. Bertha comes in at 330 kg weight, a very nice ‘Dangerous Goods’ certificate is extracted from a lovely man who even came in on the National Holiday of Canada Day to sign off the bike. The petrol tank is checked, battery looked at and he talks Health and Safety to Bernard.

After all the joys of shipping a bike by air so many times on the journey it is apparent we are all talking the same language and he declares himself happy. Our constant companion (the Carnet) is stamped up by a customs officer who tells us how he has always wanted to take his Harley around the world. “It’s never too late to give it a go” Bernard replies “All it takes is the will to do it.” We shake hands and he comments “Jesus, you make it all sound so easy” as he asks about the journey and how we have solved this and that problem.

“It is easy” Bernard replies “If you really want to do it.”

Pakistani and Croatian security staff wander over to talk to us as we ready Bertha for her final flight and they ask how we found their countries. Holding my breath I wait for Bernard to say something like “Head East from England” but he resisted his inclinations and tells them how much we loved them. The Croatian has not been home for many years and he is interested in how his fledgling homeland is developing after the darkness of the war which split families and people along ethnic and religious lines. We tell him of all the hotels and how it is obviously a tourist haven for Italians to nip over the water which separates the two countries. “And Pakistan?” the second officer asks quietly. Of all the countries we have visited this is the one which presents the most questions from all over the world as people thought us mad even going there. Bernard responds:

“We loved Pakistan, we truly did. The people were lovely and everybody, and I mean everybody, was so helpful.”

The officer is pleased with our thoughts on his home country. His voice gave his feelings away. Pleasure, pure pleasure came through very clearly as we talked about where, how and when we had passed through this troubled country. We told him how we wished the Pakistani people and the country nothing but peace for the future and good things; echoed by his Croatian colleague. With a nice touch Bernard finished with the Islamic term “Inshallah” or ‘God Willing’. It is our wish for the ordinary people of Pakistan and for people everywhere in times of trouble.

Three hours later we are standing at Toronto airport trying to work out how to pay for the 11.30pm flight with our credit and debit cards locked out by the UK banks again; the fourth time on the trip so far despite telling them where and when we will be anywhere in the world! “It’s for your own good” they keep telling us before leaving us stranded in India, Chile, Australia and now while trying to get home.

In the end we complete an extremely complicated transaction (losing a lot in the process) with a Bureau De Change. It was probably in the Bureau’s best interests to help us out otherwise I’m sure Bernard would have destroyed their ATM with his frustration. 11.20pm finds us sitting on the Air India flight to London and heaving a sign of relief and we settle in for the way home, weeks late and with a malfunctioning bike (again). We start to reflect on The End. So much has happened to us. Good times, bad times, and every shade in-between float along our thoughts as the plane rises into the sky. It has been a journey of start, stop, go, start, stop go. Periods of both intense activity and inactivity as we looked for ways forward. Ways to keep moving onwards.

We recall shivering for three weeks in Eastern Turkey waiting for the Iranian Visa Refusal saga (Yes, No, Yes) to be resolved and of how my 50+ friend had, somehow, become a threat to Iranian National Security. From bank lock outs (4), to breakdowns (5), with each stop and delay causing the leaking of time and money. The haemorrhaging of finances struck us even harder as the pound went into freefall and the international financial meltdown hit the world. It often left Bernard holding his head in his hands as 20% of our budget disappeared in exchange rates while he ruminated on the chance of it happening right now; after two years of planning and 30 years of waiting.

My thoughts shift between shocking roads through to all the wonderful people we came into contact with. We sometimes marvel, no that’s the wrong word, we are more ‘incredulous’ over how two people can traverse the planet on a twenty year old bike, and seemingly so simply. Barriers which appeared before us were broken down as we encountered them.

As we sat in the UK and planned the journey we wanted to spread the thought that many things are possible if you have the will to face an adventure. Within this journey it cannot be anything else but true that you have to face your own fears, hopes and beliefs. It is also true there can be no sense of adventure without risk. They do not appear by sitting in the comfort of security. If you stay in this zone then it can never show how a blind person, with the right assistance, can be capable of fantastical adventures. The same is true whether disabilities are involved or not. Through it all, the assistance I received from the man on my left (who is now fast sleep) is incalculable.

It is so far beyond most people’s perception of what it involved (and even my own at times) that it must pass largely unnoticed. It is the way he prefers it to be as he shrugs off what has been accomplished. He set out to fulfil a life-long dream, to see if he could do ‘it’. He wanted to find out if he was made of the ‘right stuff’. Now he knows. He is that. Along with much, much more. Only a very small number of people would have ever contemplated this joint venture and many people questioned his sanity for taking a blind woman on such a journey. He shrugged his shoulders when he was asked and merely said “Why not?”

Over the miles we were to become two people blended into one and even as he stressed about being able to fix the bike or his ability to ride the roads we encountered, never once did any thought cross my mind than ‘confidence’. It is a rare state of mind indeed given everything we have encountered.

Nepal - Chitwan National Park riding elephants on Christmas day 2009

In all the time we spent together, the 24 hours a day for a year, the greatest compliment we can remember is of how people noticed we liked each other. And more. Much more. Bernard has always said that liking somebody is not the same as loving them. You can love without liking and you can like without loving. We are truly fortunate in that we have both sides of the coin. A year has reinforced these thoughts even more.

My mind replays images as I sit beside my sleeping co-conspirator, feelings and emotions flowing through my mind which sees me climbing elephants in the jungles of Nepal, stroking tigers in Thailand and cuddling Koalas in Australia.

It relives meeting wonderful people from all around the world, many of whom work with blind and partially sighted people and often under difficult circumstances. From Bruno of Swiss Guide Dogs, to George Abraham in India, from ‘Seeing Hands’ in Nepal to Vision in Australia. They all appear in my mind.

Across the miles places have become linked to the everyday people we have spent time with, from Slobodan in Montenegro to Hector in Peru with his ‘Meester Smith’ greetings. Glen in Australia reappears in my head along with the three hours he sat in the dust of the Nullabor as Bertha was repaired. I think of his upset at the end when he realised I was blind. I wanted to hug him and tell him it was alright. Voices echo through my mind in memory of so many of them. Strangers who became friends with our brief passing through their lives. Indians, Pakistanis, Greeks, and people from all over the world settle onto a Scottish wagon driver called Gordon whose advice we heard many times in our heads when we were lost; ‘follow the wagons’.

My legs relive harsh mountain climbs and my body feels events across the world as images continue to flow. The jolt of bad roads, the feel of the bright sun, the dryness of my mouth, the feel of the wind, the noise, the worry, the ecstasy, the fear. All collide in a welter of emotions as I replay and work through what it all means. If that is ever possible.

Our friend Bertha is battered and misbehaving although, basically, she is intact as we wing Eastwards for the seven hour flight. Over the miles only once did we fall off. For that we are truly grateful as we walked away without injury. We have stood amongst the clouds in the mountains of Peru at 15,000 feet while struggling to breathe. Shivering in the snow and gasping in the heat we endured each and every day with humour while travelling roads which have been mud, gravel, rock and tarmac, sometimes all at the same time. Clattering and rattling across landscapes for which Bertha was never built, objects were dodged be they cattle, Kangaroos, chasing dogs or trees which had fallen blocking our way. We have encountered routes blocked due to protests, turmoil, and political instabilities the likes of which we have never before experienced. It is a small wonder many people try to come to our own homeland when you understand how they struggle to live their daily lives while others wonder how they get the latest gadget or ‘life accessory’.

While life is undoubtedly hard for many people in the countries we have passed through we met nothing but kindness across our travels. Even the poorest countries and, in many ways, the poorer the people the greater had been the welcome. It seems to be a universal truth.

The kindness often started at borders where guards helped us through unfamiliar processes while Bernard stressed. The acts of kindness extended to riot police who opened their ranks in a small town in Malaysia to let us through as the protesting crowd fell silent and watched us pass; opening to let us make our way through the events we became caught up in. Little things making big memories. When times were hard or we were frightened we persevered, as people often do. Yes we were both frightened at times and Bernard will readily admit to it as “Only a fool is not afraid, it’s what keeps us alive.” “Let’s get this thing done” was his saying, his motto, his mantra when things we did not want to do, had to be done. Over our time on the road I recall many such sayings as things became physically, psychologically or emotionally more difficult. Other mantras such as “Control the fear or it will control you” is another long remembered voice urging me to tough it out as we crossed India while his own hands shook long after the bike had stopped. He would shout at himself sometimes before setting off again, trying to keep us in one piece, keeping us alive through each day.

Only twice did he have a crises in his own abilities; once in the darkness of Lahore in Pakistan and then again on the road to Gorrakphur as we choked on the white dust and chaos of India. Both these times are burned into his, and our, brains. Such is the way when your self-belief and self-image is teetering on the edge of a precipice; you hang on by your fingernails as you cannot afford to fall. Other people, me, depended on him. He knew that. Times like this, and others, left me like a frightened rabbit for weeks later and it shaped how we both dealt with our fears. Mantras ruled at times as we had little help but only each others support. It was enough. We learned this to be true as we moved on through both time and distance.

My thoughts drift to my late husband Peter, of what he would make of me now. In all probability he would not recognise the person I have become, both with this journey and the passing of time and life across those lonely years. I like to believe he is sitting somewhere saying ‘Good on you Cath, live life, make each day count’ and I have tried to do just that. Nowhere has this been more true than over the last year. If you are reading this then there is something you should remember. You should hold this final thought dear to you.

You never know when it will all end.

It can be so suddenly, unexpectedly, that there is no warning, with no further time to say the things you have, perhaps, never said to those around you. This second, right now, is your opportunity to put the book down and correct that omission. Take it now. You may not have another chance.

The hours pass by in all these thoughts of the 26,385 miles we have covered. Thoughts of life, love, and the people I have known and met. The plane hums and banks across the Atlantic, taking me towards my Guide Dog Biscuit and everything else that life has to offer me in the years ahead. The knowledge that, truly, each day does count is a precious gift which some people understand with startling clarity. They know the days are not infinite but must end eventually, much like our journey through this fantastic world on our friend Bertha.

My reverie is disturbed when I feel him stirring beside me as he slowly wakes, taking in where he is. My hand reaches and our fingers gently squeeze to say hello.

We are going home.

Cathy Birchall & Bernard Smith

APRIL 2013 – Newsletter #8

MEMORIES AND MEMORABILIA: THE WAY THINGS WERE.

MARCH 2013 – Newsletter #7

ARTICLE FOR JUPITER’S TRAVELLERS – My Father’s Voice

Extract from Jupiter’s Travellers

MARCH 2012 – Newsletter #6

And What Next?

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JANUARY 2012 – Newsletter #5

January 2012 – Newsletter #5

Background

Currently where are we up to?

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DECEMBER 2011 – Newsletter #4

Current News

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NOVEMBER 2011 – Newsletter #3

Current News

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OCTOBER 2011 – Newsletter #2

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Biker FM

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Copyright © *|2011|A Blind Woman, Two Wheels and 25,000 Miles, All rights reserved.

SEPTEMBER 2011 – Newsletter #1

In the beginning

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USA and Going Home.

MEMORIES AND MEMORABILIA:
THE WAY THINGS WERE.

Copyright © |2011|A Blind Woman, Two Wheels and 25,000 Miles, All rights reserved.*