I’m up at 5am. That’s FIVE AM PEOPLE. Actually I’ve been awake for most of the night. Going cold turkey on years of drinking isn’t really a good idea; you need to taper off. As a result I’m experiencing my usual bout of nightmares, anxiety, panic attacks and sleep paralysis. Added to this a genuine fear my heart is going to explode, that the woman I love is having a three-way right now, money worries, dying in a plane crash and wondering if I left the gas on; and you’ve got a recipe for insomnia. The alarm hardly comes as a surprise.
Nevertheless I put my best foot forward in my hardly used running trainers, and in glorious early sunshine I take to the streets. I’m knackered inside a few minutes, but it’s all about small steps, and there is a certain smugness I obtain from a trio of all-night drunks slurring abuse at me. I can already see the benefits of this new lifestyle.
After a set of reps in my hostel room, a freezing cold shower and a banana, I’m hiking the 4K to my hitching spot. I could opt for the bus, but I’m in the zone here. The calories are coming off. I’m getting an abortion for my booze baby.
Less than 20 minutes later I’m in a garlic van with a crazy Spaniard. He’s delivering a stack of the things to a caterer in Vilnius, and as it’s illegal to hitch in Spain for the most part, he’s keen to pick me up. As in let me ride with him. As in…oh you know what I mean. Anyway it’s not long before he’s tearing up the roads in the clapped out old truck, offering me smokes (which I refuse) and chewing the ear off me about girls and such. He’s a pleasant sort, but it’s certainly another fly by the seat of my pants rides. He actually gets more mental upon entering the city; heavy on the gas and breaking so hard it’s a wonder we don’t get showered in garlic. As he’s done me a favour, he asks me to do him one too. I’m slightly concerned as to what’s on offer, but soon relieved that it’s only helping him unload the smelly contents of the van. Throwing boxes of garlic at a Spaniard surrounded by large hairy Lithuanian types was a new experience.
We shake hands and part company in the old town. I shuffle off to find a hostel, have a quick tour of the city and collapse in my bunk by 2pm. I’ve now got to force myself to stay awake until a suitable sleeping hour and achieve a body clock balance, and it’s taking every ounce of my flagging will power to not smash back beers and smokes in the afternoon sun. Still, this is where you’ll find me dear readers, post push-up reps, a cup of water and a broccoli omelette, lying on my bed thinking of painless ways to kill myself. This healthy shit gets better right?
Hitchhike to India leg 25: Šiauliai to Vilnius
I’m up at 5am. That’s FIVE AM PEOPLE. Actually I’ve been awake for most of the night. Going cold turkey on years of drinking isn’t really a good idea; you need to taper off. As a result I’m experiencing my usual bout of nightmares, anxiety, panic attacks and sleep paralysis. Added to this a genuine fear my heart is going to explode, that the woman I love is having a three-way right now, money worries, dying in a plane crash and wondering if I left the gas on; and you’ve got a recipe for insomnia. The alarm hardly comes as a surprise.
Nevertheless I put my best foot forward in my hardly used running trainers, and in glorious early sunshine I take to the streets. I’m knackered inside a few minutes, but it’s all about small steps, and there is a certain smugness I obtain from a trio of all-night drunks slurring abuse at me. I can already see the benefits of this new lifestyle.
After a set of reps in my hostel room, a freezing cold shower and a banana, I’m hiking the 4K to my hitching spot. I could opt for the bus, but I’m in the zone here. The calories are coming off. I’m getting an abortion for my booze baby.
Less than 20 minutes later I’m in a garlic van with a crazy Spaniard. He’s delivering a stack of the things to a caterer in Vilnius, and as it’s illegal to hitch in Spain for the most part, he’s keen to pick me up. As in let me ride with him. As in…oh you know what I mean. Anyway it’s not long before he’s tearing up the roads in the clapped out old truck, offering me smokes (which I refuse) and chewing the ear off me about girls and such. He’s a pleasant sort, but it’s certainly another fly by the seat of my pants rides. He actually gets more mental upon entering the city; heavy on the gas and breaking so hard it’s a wonder we don’t get showered in garlic. As he’s done me a favour, he asks me to do him one too. I’m slightly concerned as to what’s on offer, but soon relieved that it’s only helping him unload the smelly contents of the van. Throwing boxes of garlic at a Spaniard surrounded by large hairy Lithuanian types was a new experience.
We shake hands and part company in the old town. I shuffle off to find a hostel, have a quick tour of the city and collapse in my bunk by 2pm. I’ve now got to force myself to stay awake until a suitable sleeping hour and achieve a body clock balance, and it’s taking every ounce of my flagging will power to not smash back beers and smokes in the afternoon sun. Still, this is where you’ll find me dear readers, post push-up reps, a cup of water and a broccoli omelette, lying on my bed thinking of painless ways to kill myself. This healthy shit gets better right?