Pete was perched astride his own steed, a much sleeker affair than mine. I hoped he’d not been waiting too long. Not as bitter as the last few days, but chill nevertheless. We’d met a little south of Gloucester, just enough afternoon light remaining to reach his flat in Thornbury by sunset. Home-cooked food and a beer or two promised. And lots to chat about. Not seen him since a farewell drink on Dartmoor the night before I’d sailed for France.
It’d been a short day, no more than forty miles at the most. But I’d been very glad of this. My ribs had ached furiously and I’d resorted to stronger medication. Discovering that a cumulative dose was effective in subduing the pain, but the nausea I was experiencing was much more debilitating. Knew that I could at least ride with the former, but definitely not the latter. I’d anti-nausea drugs, but didn’t want to risk an interaction making the situation even worse.
So, confident I’d be able to cover the ground in about four hours of actual riding, I’d decided to – quite literally – sleep off the sickness. Reckoning on the last dose of strong painkiller wearing off around midday. I’d little alternative. But at least I’d been able to draw some comfort from a conversation with Bill at the bunkhouse. He’d been a nurse and reassured me that there was little that could be done for cracked or broken ribs. And if there’d been complications, I’d have known by now.
