Viva Brighton Issue #66 August 2018

COLUMN
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Amy Holtz
The truth is, I’m a Minnesotan
It’s 6.33am and, halfway up
some unnamed mountain on the
Pelješac peninsula in Croatia,
I think I might be dying. My
bike, Ronnie, is showering in
a torrent of sweat, each drop
making it heavier than seconds
ago. I wish I hadn’t decided that
three swimsuits were absolutely
essential for this summer
holiday. With each turn of the
pedal, I curse geology, climate change and the
sunscreen that’s dripping into my permanently
squinting eyes.
This is our last day of cycling into our final
destination – Dubrovnik – and when I say
cycling I mean cranking up a series of windy
mountain roads whimpering pathetically to
myself and, upon finally reaching the apex
of yet another hill, my wheels give way with
reckless, gleeful abandon to gravity. I clutch
desperately to my brakes singing the few
words of Despacito that I know – namely,
‘despacito’, ‘conmigo’ and ‘poquito’ – because
it somehow quells the fear of getting knocked
sideways into the corroded, knee-height
guardrails, slipping beneath and flying off into
the Adriatic abyss.
Oh, it’s not been all bad, but it’s kinda tragic
when you grow up and become scared of
everything. I understand now that adults
weren’t just being boring when they wouldn’t
go on trampolines or play chicken on their
bikes or launch water balloons with dodgy
self-made slingshots: they were simply trying
to keep their toenails from creeping over
the edge of the yawning valley of their own
mortality.
You can try to combat becoming boring, but
nature always returns us to our
rightful playpen. Like when
you overhear a seven-year-old
striding along the seafront
back to the zip wire platform
bragging, “Well, that wasn’t
scary at all,” and you think,
‘Yes, she’s right – zip wires are
totally safe, cool, not scary and
something I must experience
for a fulfilled life’ and then
find yourself staring through the cracks of a
wobbling staircase of doom, hunchbacked,
terrified, crawling skywards in a body-slicing
harness that makes people watch you with
compassion lighting their eyes.
There’s also a profound grumpiness that’s
embedded itself into my psyche’s hard drive.
The same sour feeling you get eating the
slightly damp custard cream from an opened
pack. I’ve been trying to remember the words
to the Miley classic The Climb to sing myself
up this hill but it’s all I can do to keep my
front wheel in a straight line. Too tired to
even wonder how I know all these songs. I’m
not sure if I’m rolling backwards, but I’m
still puffing desperately in the heavy air – for
now, a good sign. The cicadas are clicking
incessantly and I literally hate everyone in
a five-mile radius at this moment. Which is
actually just me and three other masochists.
When, what seems like a year later, I crank to
the top, my partner – who’s lolling casually on
his bike – beams at me. “Good job!”
It’s far too early for this sparkling cheeriness
and I can’t speak anyway. I still don’t like
anyone. The prospect of throwing myself
down the other side of the mountain suddenly
presents its merits.
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