Day Thirteen: Oxford to Eton

Today was going to be a bad day. I slid out on a drain grate about 5 meters after we started, sliding into the wall next to the road and then underneath my bike, in that slow, not-dangerous, not-much-I-can-do-about-it way. A nice (redundant?) English lady rushed out of the office across the road to ask if I was alright and tell me how bad it looked.

I was fine, but spent the next 20km feeling shaken and not trusting myself. About that time, the rain kicked in.

I remember remarking to my mom the first time I read my grandparent’s journals of the trip that in all the documentation, there was no record anywhere of the two of them arguing, and almost no complaining. “The Greatest Generation” she explained. No complaining.

Today I complained a lot. Or I should say I didn’t say much all morning, through the rain, save to snap at Philipp about changing my Garmin settings. It was cold, wet, and the weeds on the dirt trails added insults to the morning’s scrapes. At lunch in Wallingford (beans and toast, 3 pounds) we used words to talk about expectations for the day, and I didn’t have much smart to say, other than to agree that these weren’t mine.

As usual, improving weather and pavement conditions (plus a brewery stop and some hits of poppy in another A.O.N.B. – Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty) lifted our spirits. We hit the trip’s 1000km mark, and we ended the day watching planes land at Heathrow over Windsor Castle while the sun set. Maybe tomorrow is going to be a bad day too.