Other people’s stories

I looked at my book shelves the other day and realised I hadn’t followed the advice in one of them to get rid of books – they’re stuff, and stuff is BAD….but that’s not the point of this piece. What I noticed was that most described other people’s lives. Now, I am alright about that, provided the other people in question have achieved great things – AND been dead about a hundred years. That’s not a hard hundred years, I will read about you if you’ve only been dead for 50, provided you’ve done something special: Something to aim for eh?

But too many of these books were from living people and most of those were writing about travelling by motorcycle to far flung lands. Now, the essential story line goes like this: I was heartbroken/stuck in a hated job/drunk one night and I decided to go round the world/cross (insert continent here). Most of the writers had some riding experience, but not all. Some can write, but not all. Most find people are nicer than they thought, the world is more special than they can imagine, whether you make it or not depends on luck and attitude.

The reason these books sell is that most of the readers, people like me, are too stuck in our grooves to scratch that itch. I suggest that most yearn to break free of the mundane but know, in their stomachs, that the mundane is actually a lot better than a puncture on the Karkoram highway as dark approaches, or realising the moving spot on the floor is a bed bug calling to her extended family to share supper.

So the perils of the lonely adventurer fill the same gap that stories of explorers did for Victorians. You can share their excitement and wonder at the world without having to shit in a ditch. For some that itch can be partially scratched by signing up to one of the growing number of adventure tours. These can take you to wherever you can afford, expose you to many of the experiences, with the benefit of a safety net and a scheduled flight home. You just need time and money. Not quite slogging through the Darien Gap on a Honda Cub but not a week in Ibetha either. I’ve ticked that box and very much enjoyed the experience and the friends made then are still friends now. Which is great.

However……however…The bike in the garage is a fully fledged travel bus, rigged for the far flung, ready for the unmade road. It sits there like a stone in the shoe. Riding it feels sometimes like I am taking a camel to Costa just because I dream of the Empty Quarter and can’t quite find the time to go. So, getting back to the books by people not yet dead, who’ve done something I could do if I set my mind to it? They sit on the shelf like a guilty conscience, or the kid in the playground shouting sissy: one of us needs to go.