A Day at the Office

At times I can't help but feel that this whole cycling thing I'm doing, slaving away in the saddle, is not unlike having a proper job. Granted, there are some notable differences, the most important of which is that, sadly, I don't receive a paycheck at the end of the month. Or a gift basket at the end of the year.

Every morning I get up at seven, the same hour my alarm clock used to go off when I was still at the old job—the irony of it never fails to escape me. I toy with a bit of breakfast, get my things together and by nine I'm eating up the first kilometers, reluctantly at first, like a grumbling office clerk working his way through a stack of emails, but quickly brightening up as my legs find the right pace.

The good thing about this job is that there are no phone calls to answer, no obnoxious clients to deal with. There are deadlines to meet, however. In this corner of Europe campsites are thin on the ground, so it's essential to keep going, to make sure you reach that red triangle on the map before nightfall. Often, your efforts remain unrewarded. Many campsites seem to have vanished into thin air, probably closed down due to the crisis. The best thing to do then is to vent your frustrations at the watercooler, or, in my case, at the soft-drink fridge at the petrol station, where employees and customers alike tend to eye me somewhat suspiciously as I enter, as if I've just disembarked from a two-wheeled spacecraft. Invariably, they start shooting all kinds of questions. 'Where are you from? What's your destination? Why are your traveling alone? Have you come in peace? What does your wife make of this?'

The good thing about this quasi-professional attitude I've adopted is that it's easy to justify taking a few days off every now and then. These bikeless days really do feel like a kind of weekend. After two days of reading, pottering about and taking naps—in other words, doing things that aren't too demanding for a sore behind—I feel like a new man, ready to tackle the length of a medium-sized country.

Recently, I even went so far as to take a real summer break, combining a week in Athens with ten days of bliss on one of the Cyclades. Back at the office you realise holidays always turn you into a bit of a spoilt brat. 'What? I have to stay here all day? Exerting my brain and all that? No beaches, parasols, flip-flops?' It takes a few days to settle in again. If my stiff legs are anything to go by, I've still got some serious settling in to do.