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The daily puzzle

Shortly after waking up the other day, a trace of grumpiness still lingering, I decided I'd had enough. 'No more of this tomfoolery,' I said sternly. 'Basta. A world cyclist has his pride.' I stuffed my mouth with the remainder of a Nutella sandwich, gave the map of northern Greece a long hard look and took a swig of γάλα πλήρες (full-fat milk). 'Today,' I announced to no one in particular, 'I will take the motorway.'

Looking back on this momentous decision, I realise I had been working up to it for weeks, if not months. Now, don't get me wrong. There is nothing I would rather do than steer clear of interchanges, exhaust fumes and roaring trucks, and forever pedal down rolling country roads, brooks ababble and birds atwitter. As I never tire of telling myself, this trip is not about getting from A to B as quickly as possible. The world record for the fastest lap around the world is safely in the hands of a sun-burnt lunatic from England whose picture I saw in the shop where I bought my bike, and I have no intention of breaking it. But sometimes a world cyclist tires of pushing his heavy-laden mule up fifteen-percent inclines. Sometimes all he wants to do is crack on. Well, let me tell you, motorways just seem to be made for cracking on.

I savoured my first forbidden kilometres near Thebes—a force to be reckoned with in ancient Greece but today just another sleepy provincial town. Before entering the motorway I paused to check for signs warning that what I was about to do is subject to corporal punishment. I didn't see any, so I took the plunge.

At first, things went swimmingly. The motorway that had looked so imposing on the map turned out to be a laid-back two-lane affair with a wide hard shoulder put there for my convenience. I was zipping along effortlessly. Could it be that this road is surfaced with some kind of special low-resistance asphalt, I found myself wondering. Or was it sheer excitement that was pushing me ahead? Moreover, no one really seemed to mind that I was there. The girl at the toll booth let me through with a smile, and the owner of a roadside restaurant refused to take my money when I wanted to buy a Coke.

Mikołaj and Piotr, my partners in crime

Just as I was thinking what I fine example I was setting to all those CO2-emitting Greeks cruising by, I heard the sound of a siren. My initial reaction was to ignore it. For a minute that seemed to work. Perhaps some moron with a customised claxon, I thought. Then it sounded again, this time a bit more insistently. Deciding that turning my head wouldn't make the situation any safer, I kept going. But I could feel something menacing creeping up to me. Then a large four-wheel drive overtook me. No police, I noticed to my relief. Some kind of road authority, by the look of it. I was escorted to the nearest exit and expected a good talking-to. And I think that's what I got, though I can't be sure. It was all Greek to me what this guardian of the motorway was saying. Fortunately, he was very patient with my faked astonishment. ('Really? So you mean I can't use this thing over here, a bicycle, on that road over there, a motorway? It's always so interesting to learn about national customs!')

Things were smoothed out when I was joined by two Polish brothers, Mikołaj and Piotr, who were caught for a similar offense: hitchhiking. The brothers, one of whom spoke some Greek, were forced onto a bus to Lamia, while I had to promise to stay away from the motorway. I tried to put on a solemn face, but deep down I knew I was like a dog that's had a taste of human blood. Sooner or later, that dog will be back for more.