Leaving London

After a fitful last nights sleep in London, I got up early and prepared to leave. Jan and John had stayed up late and were not up to see me go. I showered, grabbed my gear, Checked and rechecked everything, and stuck the brass skeleton key in the door for the last time. As I careful extricated by now fully loaded bike from the narrow hall out onto the narrow cobblestone alleyway, a shout from above punctuated with an arm protruding from the third floor window came crying out in the chilly air. “Goodbye Gavin, We love you and will miss you!” from Jan. “Good luck Gavin!” from John, “Come back and visit again soon!” I felt like a boy heading out on my first adventure away from home. It was onward to Waterloo Station, the thoughts of last nights accident running through my head.
I got lost almost immediately missing my street and ending up in East London. As I consulted my handy map once again, not able to locate where I was due to the general lack of streetsigns around, I spotted a Motorcycle Cop putting on his helmet after a smoke. “Excuse me!”, I shouted, “I’m trying to find Bishop’s Gate?”
“Bishop Gate yeah?” he replied in a cockney accent almost thick enough to be Monty Python, “What you’ll do is turn round, go straight on, left at the light yeah? Then straight down to London Bridge mate.” True to form, I was going exactly the wrong direction before I asked. I followed his cue and was led right back into familiar territory.
Bichop’s Gate through Central London, right on Connelly Street, through the Bank of England and the Financial Centre, then left on Queen’s Road and over the Southwark Bridge. Of course Southwark is pronounced Souffolk or something. I had been told that it was first come first serve for bikes, and that there was only room for two per train. As I got closer to the station, I was joined by more and more cyclists, evidently with the same idea I had of getting to the station at 9am on a Saturday morning hoping that no one else would be there on a bike.
The only advantage I had was that I was an American and once more a New Yorker. Rather than do the British thing of waiting in line for the conductor to tell me that I couldn’t get on with my bike, I simply walked over and got on the train. No one said anything. When in doubt in England, the American thing to do is create a situation where someone will have to confront you about something. 9 times out of 10 nothing will happen. It’s rude, but I had to get to my ferry in Portsmouth.
It was midway to Portsmouth before I realized that it wasn’t a big deal. A lot of people had bikes on the train, and there wasn’t a full load in the morning. What a great system! You can get anywhere in comfort and safety, with your bike! Man, in the states, you’d have to fill out forms and stand in lines and generally be jerked around by people with nothing better to do. It’s little details like a well functioning train system that make me feel that England is a country that works, that it’s spirit is one which endures. Americans have never been interested in being enduring, efficient, or even polite.
Portsmouth soon arrive in my window. I could see the HMS Warrior moored outside the old harbor. From these gates had sailed some of the most famous ships in history. The harbor sign read like a list of whose who. The Mary Rose, HMS Victory, HMS Warrior, ect. Amazing! I tried to go in, but couldn’t bring my bike. Since it’s got bags that I didn’t feel like carrying, I road around the harbor walls, saying goodbye to the tall ships. I would see them again sometime, besides my real adventure lies ahead in France.