Bombay to Beijing by Bicycle by Russell McGilton Page A

bubbles floating around the top. No wonder they call beer ‘piss’ where I come from.
    I held it to my mouth.
    I can’t be serious!
    But I was. I closed my eyes and, with a sigh and a gulp, took in the hot ‘Golden Nectar’ … then spat it straight out!
    ‘Corr!’
    But I was determined to give it a go. I knocked it back once more and grimaced again. I washed my mouth out with a fresh bottle of water.
    Within minutes my stomach settled. I stretched out on my tarp and relaxed. I heard a Jeep approaching in the distance. And in my stomach I felt something else approaching.
    My insides lurched and I puked a jet of yellow vomit across the bike just as the Jeep sailed by. I looked up. A ‘Friends of Gujarat Earthquake’ banner waved across the Jeep, which had now stopped.
    ‘Are you okay, my friend?’ A thick German voice reached out.
    Why do people ask you if you’re okay when clearly you’re not? You could have your head hanging off by a scraggily vein and they’d still go, ‘You alright?’
    ‘I’m fine. WHHHARRRPPP! ’
    ‘You sure?’
    ‘Absolutely. WHHAARR-RRGGAHH! ’
    ‘You eat somezing bad?’
    ‘Well, “eat” isn’t exactly the verb here … I’ll …’ I really couldn’t tell him what I had done. ‘Really.’
    He tapped his driver on the shoulder and they were gone. I watched the scarf of dust head towards Shergarh, and imagined the principal smiling and laughing to himself. Who indeed had been taking the piss?
    ***
    After fixing the puncture, I got back on the bike, the bitter taste of vomit grinding on my molars. I felt awful. I was sneezing and felt like I was getting a cold. I hoped it wasn’t malaria again.
    I passed scabby bush, sand and towns with the usual foray of men hanging off each other in dhaba shacks, watching the day vanish in dust swirls.
    I could see adversity spreading itself over the bitumen up ahead – sheets of sand drifts. I sped up, thinking I could skim over them on to the next island of black tar, but I quickly found myself bogged in a sand trap. I got off and pushed.
    A bus passed then stopped. The driver motioned me to get on and through hand movements indicated that the road was like this for some time. But I was made of stronger stuff, I told myself. I smiled back and waved him on, shaking his head at this mad bloody foreigner.
    What have I done?
    I went back to pushing the bike through the sand. Four hours later, the sun blistering down, I was still at it – riding for a while then dismounting to push the bike. I was exhausted. And I was running out of water.
    Eventually, the road cleared up and I made it to Phalsund, the only major town between Shergarh and Shiv. But I was worse for wear. I had a blinding headache that felt like it was cracking my skull in two.
    In a restaurant I lay on a bench. Someone turned on a fan and felt the caresses and licks from the slight whooshing of its rotations. Outside, I could hear a crowd of young men around my bike, prodding and poking it, the bell rung continuously.
    CRUNCH!
    I sat up to see to a tall plump young man knocking about a young boy by the ears who was stuck under my bike having tried to ride it. I laid back down, forearm resting over my eyes. Moments later I felt my arm being tugged off my face. Upside down in my vision was the tall plump man.
    ‘You have a beautiful bicycle,’ he said, looking down at me. ‘I want this bicycle. How much you give to me?’
    ‘It’s not for sale.’
    ‘I am much wanting your gear-cycle.’
    ‘I said it isn’t for sale.’
    ‘But it is so beautiful. What price can you give me?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Tell me.’
    ‘No!’
    ‘But I am wanting your bike.’
    ‘I told you. IT’S … NOT … FOR … SALE!’
    He blinked. ‘Yes, yes. But how much you want to give it to me?
    ‘PLEASE! GO AWAY!’
    He slinked out and went back to staring at my bike.
    I swung my arm back over my eyes, trying to wrestle the headache. I began to shake uncontrollably.
    The malarial fevers had