To try something is to risk failure but not to try
is to guarantee it
After we’d both spent just over a year trying to recuperate, Paul decided it was time for him to go back to Austria. And, of course, he wanted me to go with him. I was excited about seeing the world with Paul. My parents both loved Paul, too, and really supported my decision to go off travelling with him. They never saw his controlling behaviour and didn’t suspect how unbalanced our relationship was. Paul went back first and I followed him a couple of months later.
Looking back, I was pretty green. It was my first time on an aeroplane, let alone my first time out of the country. I was absolutely terrified but Paul had no understanding of my concerns — he’d travelled so much that my fear of being in a place where I didn’t speak the language, so far away from my family and where I didn’t know anyone was completely bizarre to him. Where most people in that situation would get support and understanding from their partners, Paul couldn’t understand that because I hadn’t been out of New Zealand before I found the idea of moving to Vienna was pretty overwhelming. It didn’t matter to me though because I was determined to make our relationship work.
Paul met me at the airport in Vienna and we went back to his tiny 30-square-metre flat — our new home. It was scarcely big enough for one person so we lived right on top of each other. We had no time apart at all and things sometimes got a bit heated. The apartment building we lived in, which was owned by Paul’s mother, was in a quite slummy district and we shared the building with a lot of recent immigrants and refugees.
It was a total shock to the system for me having come from living in a big house by the sea in New Plymouth to having a flat the size of our old kitchen, with a toilet that was outside in a shared hallway. Despite its tiny size the flat felt like home for me. Once I got behind those doors I felt safe and happy — I was living with the man I loved and I was going to make it work!
All the things that had come so easily to me in New Zealand were just that little bit harder for me in Austria. Going to the supermarket and not recognising anything was exciting and challenging at the same time. Our life together completely revolved around planning for our next trip. He never lived in the present, everything was all about the next cycle tour, the next country, the next mission. At the flat, space was taken up with maps on the floor as we planned the best routes, worked out where he hadn’t been before and how to get from one place to the next as cheaply as possible.
I’d only been in Vienna a couple of weeks before we were out on the road again. Our first trip in Europe together was to be two months cycling around western Europe, starting in Corsica in April. We had drawn a line on our map showing the route, starting with a trip around the island of Corsica and then on to northern Italy, the Swiss and Austrian Alps and home to Vienna. Paul, the experienced bike tourist, had assured me it would be a piece of cake. The fact that the route included twelve passes above 2000 metres and countless smaller ones, at a time of year when it wasn’t exactly warm was, according to Paul, no reason for concern. April is a little early for a cycling tour of Corsica, but we never let a little thing like bad weather stop us. Not Paul and me, well, I just went along for the ride.
We caught an overnight train from Vienna through Italy to Nice. Everything we did was on a really tight budget so we didn’t pay for a sleeper and our second class seats were right next to a couple of Italian gentlemen who had no trouble sleeping. Their snoring kept us both awake so we arrived in the French port of Nice sleep deprived and eager to get on with the trip.
To get to Corsica we loaded ourselves and our bikes onto a ship for a midnight sailing out of Nice. When it came to buying tickets there was no way we were going to splash out on a cabin. Paul reckoned we’d be OK sleeping on the deck for the overnight sailing. I was fresh off the plane and had no idea so I just went along with what he said, just as I had ever since we first met.
It was calm and warm when we left Nice at midnight. But by 4.30 in the morning, the wind had started to get up and was increasing in strength with each passing minute. I poked my nose out of my sleeping bag — was it raining? No, but water was pouring over the deck and it was sea water, even though we were four storeys up. Paul woke up and tried frantically to keep a hold of everything. He pulled himself up on a rail, swung his backpack on his back and his sleeping bag under his arm and disappeared into the dark.
I crawled out of my sleeping bag and quickly tried to jam everything into my pack. The ship lurched and my shoe skidded across the deck stopping under a rail and my sleeping bag cover was picked up and blown away by the wind. I stood up, slipped and fell. The strength of the wind was overwhelming. Turning my back against it, I fumbled my way down some stairs and along a rail. In the next second Paul was beside me and helped me through a door. I dropped everything on the floor and sat down feeling dazed, cold, wet and windblown. After a few moments I realised we were not alone — we had entered the crew’s quarters and some amused sailors asked us if everything was all right. ‘Yeah, yeah’, we said. ‘No problem.’
No problem except I only had one shoe and it was one half of the only pair I’d brought with me. Paul tried without success to recover the other one. By 6 am the ship was coming into the port of Bastia and the wind was no longer so violent. It took a couple more attempts and, eventually, I was reunited with my shoe.
When we finally docked at Bastia, Paul and I jockeyed with cars and trucks to get off the ship first. There was no way we wanted to be stuck in the belly of the ship behind four hundred or so cars with their motors running. We managed to get away pretty quickly but I wasn’t too interested in the sights and sounds of Bastia. All that interested me right now was a bed or, at least, a piece of flat ground to lie down on. It took 20 kilometres of biking, a visit to a supermarket and two photography stops before we found a place to camp. For the rest of the day we lay unconscious in our tent, glad to be protected from the wind storm that was continuing outside. This was one of the rare times that Paul would break from his daily goal of cycling 100 kilometres a day. When he set himself a goal like that he hated missing it so he must have been as knackered as I was just that once.
Next morning the clouds were threatening and the wind was still strong. One day later than planned, our tour began. The riding was cold but refreshing so I soon recovered from our sleepless nights. The road wound its way through coastal villages staying close by the sea before we rounded the top of Cap Corse and came down onto the west side of the spit, where a steeper and more rugged coastline awaited us.
We passed through a number of villages set high up on the mountainside that looked like ghost towns, with empty houses with boarded up doors, and old people wandering along the narrow streets or sitting at tables outside their houses chatting. Centuries-old villages were dying out — no work, no money — and youth were moving to the cities. We saw this trend all over the island. Everything and everyone looked a bit tired.
The road was hilly, very narrow and set hair-raisingly high on the cliff. Luckily there wasn’t much traffic but when something came it was often a truck or a bus that left just enough room for us to squeeze by. Unhappily, we were on the right-hand side, with a vertical drop down to the deep blue sea a couple of hundred feet below. Dotted along the roadside we saw many car wrecks on the cliffs, again something we saw all over Corsica. The roads were dangerous and had obviously claimed many a life. We counted fifteen wrecks in one valley — a warning to take it easy.
After a few hours on the road, we’d always be pretty hungry. Food was fuel and we were on a tight budget so we used to cook our own meals on the side of the road. A regular favourite on the menu was my speciality, Salmon Lisi — tomato sauce, spaghetti and a can of tuna (salmon was too expensive for our budget) prepared on our trusty little gas cooker. It amazes me how something so simple can taste so good when you’ve been biking out in the cold all day. There was only one problem — I could have devoured the whole pot myself. There was never enough. Food was just another thing I let Paul control.
With a half full tummy we climbed up the next steep pass, puffing hard. Until my body had regained its rhythm and warmed up and as I struggled up a particularly nasty little stretch, I wondered if I was serious about completing the planned two month tour. Had I overestimated myself? We’d been looking forward to this tour for months, my first big trip, and on paper it had looked good. Only a couple of days in and already I wasn’t quite so sure.
The night was approaching as we neared the end of Cap Corse. It was our policy to travel as far as possible for as little as possible and to rarely pay for accommodation so we found a sheltered spot on the beach to set up camp for the night. When we were camping we never had a fire and always left things as we found them. We disturbed no one and we saved ourselves a lot of money.
Next morning the mountains behind us were sprinkled with snow, the air was moist and chilly and our rollercoaster ride along the coast continued until we reached the pretty town of St Florent, a touristy harbour village with more hotels than houses and a shop with the freshest French bread in the world. After an hour sitting in the sun we turned inland, toward the mountains. The first highlight of the tour wasn’t far away — the 35-kilometre long Asco valley is a one-way road that ends at the ski resort of Mt Cinto 1400 metres above sea level.
The way up was long and winding, after 20 kilometres the proper road ended and we found ourselves on a pot-holed, half-sealed–half-metalled road. It was beautiful and peaceful up there in the mountains. Not a soul around and only the sound of my rhythmical breathing to keep me company. Before long I saw the ski field at the top of the road. Everything was closed for the season so we were alone. We were surrounded by majestic snow-capped mountains, the highest being Mt Cinto at 2707 metres. After a short break we went for a walk before heading back down to the valley below. Wrapped up in four layers of clothing, including my favourite yellow PVC to keep the chill and the wind out, I enjoyed the speed of the ride down. Tired and happy we made it just before dark.
Next day we arrived in the town of Corte. It’s a pretty town and because it was raining we decided to book into a very strange but cheap camping ground where there were no showers and the toilets were locked. In the early morning, Paul stuck the thermometer outside the tent — it was zero degrees. Despite my winter sleeping attire of two pairs of socks, two pairs of thermal underwear, tracksuit pants, two T-shirts, a sweatshirt, jacket, hat, ski gloves and my sleeping bag, I was freezing.
Eventually I convinced my cold body to get moving. The day’s ride was not an easy one, pass after pass came at us, and I started to feel a little seasick on the up-and-down rollercoaster. By the time we reached the top of our last pass for the day it had started to snow so we took the next road down towards the coast, where it was much warmer.
Our next goal on the map was Bonifacio. We strolled through the old city with its narrow cobblestone alleys that run between the high castle-like apartments, quaint boutiques and romantic cafes and restaurants. Nothing so extravagant for us! That night we slept in a small concrete shelter, escaping the storm that raged all night and through the next morning. We waited until 10.30 am for a break in the weather before breaking camp to get back on the road. Too soon the rain was back, so we hurriedly packed up and biked through the old part of the town and got stuck behind a funeral procession. It must have made quite a sight — 150 or so people dressed in black, all very mournful and sad, followed closely by two yellow-PVC clad bike tourists impatiently but respectfully bringing up the rear. After 20 minutes following the procession we realised we had gone round in a circle.
By 6.30 that night we had to start looking for a place to sleep. After going through a few possibilities Paul reckoned he’d found the perfect place. ‘Up there behind that little church, we will be hidden from the road.’ Well, he said church — I say cemetery. There was no way in hell I was sleeping in a cemetery, especially having spent a chunk of my day following a funeral procession. No matter that it was sheltered from the road, it was not going to happen and I told Paul so. Uncharacteristically, Paul gave in and we ended up sleeping in the field next door. There was only a fence separating us from the graveyard but at least we were not in there! I’m not superstitious but I don’t believe in pushing your luck.
Before we knew it our last night in Corsica had arrived. In the 17 days we spent in Corsica we climbed over 9000 metres in height — that’s more than the equivalent of going from sea level to the top of Mt Everest. On that last night, as we were on our way back into Bastia and it was getting dark, I was worried that we wouldn’t have anywhere to sleep for the night. As the outer suburbs rolled past, Paul spotted a half-built house — at least it offered us half a roof over our heads and, perhaps, a chance to dry out. I would have given anything to have been dry and warm.
The bare concrete floor didn’t look very inviting so Paul and I put the tent up. Inside the tent it was always a little warmer and it felt like home to me, my bedroom if you like. No matter how horrible things were outside, in my tent I felt at home and comfortable. It’s amazing how little comforts and a routine can help you feel at home. So, the tent became my little house that night. But it was to be anything but comfortable.
At 9 pm the owner of the half-built house paid us a surprise visit. We were embarrassed to be caught on his land without permission and thought he’d kick us off. Thankfully, he took pity on us and let us stay. I was so relieved that I think he got a bit sick of hearing me say ‘Merci, merci, merci’ about a hundred times, but our troubles weren’t over. We retired to our beds early and fell quickly asleep as the rain that had taunted us throughout Corsica returned with a vengeance. Eventually water started to pour down from a hole in the roof and, after half an hour, we were wet through from the rain and frozen cold. I looked outside the tent and saw we were lying in a pool of water — there was going to be no respite from the wet.
After a shocking night’s sleep and waking up in a lake of water, we arrived in the city and found a warm, sunny spot in the middle of a square where a market was being set up. We proceeded to empty out our bags and spread all our gear out to dry — sleeping bags, tents, clothing, the lot. I think some people thought we were opening up a stall. I was pretty relieved to be able to pack up sun-dried gear and get on the ferry to Italy. Thankfully, the return trip was somewhat calmer than our first ferry ride.
We arrived in Genoa late that afternoon. I’d have given anything for a soft mattress and a roof over my head, but it was not to be. Our first night in Italy was spent in an abandoned factory in the middle of the city. It was pretty creepy so we slept with our bikes chained to our hands, just in case. The southern part of Italy is so densely populated that we decided to take a train north to get to some less-populated Italian roads. It turned out to be a good choice as Italy had suffered from terrible flooding over the previous week and huge swathes of land were underwater.
Near the border with Switzerland the pass we wanted to travel over was closed due to snow. Paul was having none of it. He said, ‘That’s fine, we’ll just climb over the fence and we’ll carry the bikes up’. As usual Miss Party Pooper was feeling panicky and scared and made sure Paul knew it. He had no fear of anything and he hated that I wouldn’t just do what he said — he had no mercy when it came to my fear. Surrounded by snow, we had a huge fight but I put my foot down. There was no way I was going up a closed pass when no one knew where we were. I got my way.
In the end, we took another train to a town called Chur in Switzerland. Paul was furious but I took it because I was happy not to be lost in the mountains and we spent the night on what would have been a romantic spot on the Rhine River but for the fact that Paul was barely speaking to me.
The following morning, we were back on our bikes and heading for Lake Constance, a beautiful lake that lies on the border between Germany, Switzerland and Austria. We’d only been on the road for 20 minutes before . . . CRASH! A stick had got jammed through the forks of my front wheel and had ripped all the spokes out and bent the frame. The impact had sent me flying over the handlebars and I was lying flat on my back in the dirt with a terrible pain in my left arm and a badly mangled bike.
Paul slammed on his brakes in order to avoid a collision, dropped his bike and ran over to me. I was lying on the ground groaning in pain. ‘It’s my arm’, I managed to say. Paul, for once, looked panicked, ‘It looks bad — it’s sticking out funny’. Comforting words, indeed!
I told Paul to go and find a doctor. First he took a couple of photos of me lying there in agony — taking photos was his major preoccupation on all trips. Him and his bloody camera! I just lay there feeling shocked and at the same time worrying that I’d ruined the rest of the trip.
After what seemed like ages, Paul came back with a doctor who took me to his clinic in a local village. He examined my arm, took X-rays and delivered the unsurprising verdict– my arm was broken. The doctor couldn’t put a plaster on it and gave us instructions on how to get to the nearest hospital. He added for good measure, ‘Don’t move your arm. A small piece of bone is only just hanging on and if it breaks you could have a permanently stiff arm.’
The hospital was 15 kilometres away. Each step I took shook my arm a little and I was not happy about risking a permanently stiff arm. Having just arrived from Italy, we had no Swiss money so, instead of taking the bus, Paul went into a church and asked if someone could help us. A kindly gentleman offered to take us to the hospital and an hour later the plaster was on and an operation was deemed unnecessary. Feeling a little depressed we boarded the train home to Vienna. Paul was really disappointed about the trip ending prematurely because he’d really wanted to show me more of Europe.
Back home in Vienna, it wasn’t long before Paul was making travel plans for us again. It didn’t matter to him that my arm was broken. He reckoned I could still walk with my arm in plaster so after just two days back at the flat, we set off to the Schneealpe, a 1900-metre high mountain with multiple peaks, at the end of the limestone alps range not far from Vienna. Typically, Paul decided that the most straightforward way up the mountain was not the best way. I found myself clambering over bushes and running up scoria slopes single-handedly.
I so wanted Paul to be happy with me that I risked further and more-permanent damage to my arm. All I wanted was for him to think I was good enough and to be able to see the world the way he wanted me to see it. Even though I managed to climb the mountain and get back down safely, it wasn’t enough. I still felt useless. I wasn’t fast enough. I wasn’t tough enough.
I felt like I would never measure up. Paul could handle so much pain and cold. I couldn’t and yet I’d over-train and struggle quietly to cope. I’d get depressed and Paul would just get more and more pissed off with me. He couldn’t understand why I couldn’t just be happy, despite his criticism of me. He’d get pissed off with me for not looking around and enjoying the view when we were biking. As if I could enjoy the view when I was head down over my pedals puffing my lungs out climbing another mountain pass. Things should have got easier as I got fitter but it never really happened.
Paul eventually admitted that I wasn’t a bad cyclist. I was stoked. But then he followed up by telling me that I was an absolutely useless runner and would never be any good. He said I shouldn’t even try to run — famous last words. That’s still his opinion today, despite everything that I’ve done! I guess that just proves that nothing I could have done would have impressed him. He was as hard on me as he was on himself. His favourite saying was ‘It’s just the truth — not a relative opinion.’
When we were back in Vienna, I decided to step up my training so I could keep up with him. I’d run most days and Paul took every opportunity to tell me how useless I was. He reckoned I wasn’t built for running and that I should just give up. He sure knew exactly how to push my buttons — all the insecurities I’d developed would come straight to the surface. Still, if there’s one thing I’ll never do, it’s give up. No matter what Paul said to me, I was determined to improve and prove it to him that I wasn’t hopeless.
Our outing to the Schneealpe didn’t sate Paul’s wanderlust. As soon as my arm was out of plaster, he decided it was time for our next bike trip. Too bad that I wasn’t supposed to put any weight on my arm and that I was supposed to take it easy for a while.
Paul spent hours planning our trips. The floor of our tiny apartment was, as usual, covered in maps and he planned everything to the tiniest detail. I was so impressed that he knew so much about so many places and I had hardly seen anything. Whenever Paul was planning a trip, he’d encourage me to come up with my own ideas for a trip that we could do. I thought about it but I soon realised that whatever I suggested, he had a hundred trips of his own waiting to be planned. In the end, I realised that there was no point in reinventing the wheel and let him get on with it.