Breathing

by Aline Hafermaas (Germany)

Making a local connection Belgium

Breath in, breath out. Don’t die! Breath in, breath out. Concentrate! Keep the handlebar of the bicycle straight. Breath in, breath out. You will survive! Trying not to panic I was praying this mantra while I was reaching for my final destination. I had completely underestimated the traffic density; I wasn’t prepared for the heavy trucks rolling besides me, the uneven road, and moreover the non-existent bike path. As I reached Courtil I was nearly crying. So much stress, so much anxiety, still, I was grateful, thank god, I had survived. However as I looked on the maps, I had to deal with the fact that there was seemingly no other way to Brisy than continuing on this murderous street for another 25 kilometres. I was desperate. Trying to hold back my emotions, regulating my heavy breathing, I sat down on a bench; my brain stopped thinking for a moment. Everything slowed down. My eyes closed. The whir of a wasp, who must have lost its nest in the cold air of autumn, brought me back to reality. I had come so far; faced out so much trepidation and got myself always up again on my bike. I cycled kilometre for kilometre, up and down the hills, for almost 6 weeks now. Yet, only a little distance apart from my final destination, I was afraid not being able to take it anymore. There was no chance in driving the last 25 kilometre on the main road, too dangerous, too risky, too carelessly. Admitting these realities was frustrating. It started to rain softly; I was still sitting on the bench trying to figure out a solution. The town was small and touristic. The people looked weirdly at me, a young, teenage girl, lost in the mountains of Belgium. Their bewilderment made me uncomfortable. Trying to hide behind my raincoat, I huddled together and waited for the universe to give me a sign. Somebody who would tell me what to do, decide for me whether to continue on the risky road or to give up after sacrificing so much to get here. The day grew cold and cloudy, hours passed. Breathing. Nobody came; no hero to rescue me, no universal spirit, only the wasp was still whirring around me, driving me more and more crazy. I decided to go up the street, getting a tea to warm me up after almost freezing outside on the bench. I left the bike with the entire package in front of the coffee shop and sat down at a table facing the glass-door to keep track of my stuff. My helmet was laying on the chair beside me, betraying me as a cyclist. Still confused about the ongoing of my travelling, an old sir, smiling face, sympatric attitude, headed towards me. His eyes showed interest and he asked if he could sit down. I placed the helmet on the table, making space for him. He pointed at the bike outside and asked me about my journey today. I told him about my vison, to cycle for three months, right after school, having the desire of finally exploring the world, all by myself. “Brave” he stated and observed the outside. Hopeful I asked him if he knew this area, maybe even heard of Brisy. He shook, slowly but sadly his head, feeling truly sorry for me. I asked for Gouvy, the municipality of Brisy. He inhaled, let me wait, exhaled, let the tension rise, inhaled and smiled. Then he nodded and explained to me which way I’d have to take; at the roundabout left, next street to the right, than again left and following the road till the next town, there would be signs indicating the further way. His enthusiasm gave me hope; maybe I would even arrive tonight I thought. While I was taking notes, he emptied his cup, took off before me and I watched him leave, this friendly human being. As I went outside, I felt the warmth of this simple, yet encouraging connection shifting something in my mind-set. Breath in, breath out. You will make it.