This Girl Roars

This story is a work of fiction. A figment of the author's imagination. Thus, all characters are fictitious. At the same time, they are all over 18...

Tip: Read Parts 01 through 06 before this, to get the background.

***

Maeve was extremely quiet at breakfast the next morning. She wasn't sulky -- we exchanged a few smiles -- but I could hardly get two words out of her. She was clearly preoccupied.

She did come to see Corinne and me off, once we were all togged up and ready to go, and we stepped outside to the splendid sight of Storm and Corinne's KTM (which was nameless - boo) leaning on their side-stands in the sunshine. It looked like it was going to be another glorious day.

This was the first time Maeve had seen Storm and she was suitably impressed. 'That bike is MAD,' she said. 'I can't believe you ride that monster.'

'Ah she's a pussycat really. She only bites if I tell her to.'

I started putting on my helmet, but Maeve stopped me. 'Don't put that on yet.' She put her arms round me and squeezed me tight, and I returned the hug, with helmet in hand. We kissed on the cheek, and she looked at me with strangely sorrowful eyes. 'See you, Becky.'

'See you, Maeve.'

I put on my lid, and We fired up the bikes, nodded to each other and rode off, with a wave.

Corinne had planned a route that took us north through green valleys, along the southern shore of Lake Geneva into Switzerland, then over the Col de Montets back into France, for lunch at Chamonix. We sat in the square, with Mont Blanc soaring overhead, and Corinne told me about her amazing history as a mountaineer.

She'd climbed Mont Blanc 'a few times,' by all the different normal routes, as well as many of the other high Alps, and had been 'obsessed', (her own word) with climbing when she was younger.

I was enthralled with her story, but it took a dark turn when she told me she'd been raped in a mountain hut when she was 30. 'Oh my God, Corinne.' The guy was a foreign mountaineer and the authorities had never traced him. 'Bastard,' I spat bitterly.

'It broke me,' she said. 'I gave up climbing, and I could never look at a man sexually after it.' She was clearly still affected by it, and her eyes welled up when she spoke about it. I got up from my chair and went to hug her. 'It's a long time ago, Becky. More than ten years.'

'So how did you meet Génie?'

'It was when the gendarmerie were trying to trace the rapist. Génie had also been raped, when she was working as a hut guardienne in Les Écrins. They thought it could be the same person. I met her at the Commissariat in Grenoble to see if we recalled him the same.'

'Oh my God...' I put my head in my hands and looked at the ground. You never know about people... These two women had suffered so much pain. Emotional pain. They'd been violated, and that shared pain had given them an extra special bond. An emotional connection. I presumed the lesbian connection came later. I felt so much new sympathy for them.

'Anyway,' she smiled, 'our lives are better now. We have the 'otel and each other, and we meet lovely people like you, Becky.'

I smiled at the compliment. At that moment, I was glad I'd come on this ride with her, and hadn't cancelled in favour of spending more time with Maeve.

'Come on,' she said. 'Finish your poêlée. There's lots still to see.

We set off to ride through the faintly scary Mont Blanc tunnel into Italy. The tunnel is nearly 12km long and you have to stay within 50 and 70 km per hour, and maintain a compulsory distance of 150 metres between vehicles all the way through. I didn't really like it, and I was glad when we emerged in Italy and could relax and ride together again.

Corinne knew the area so intimately that she was able to link together a number of old, unsurfaced mine roads as well as the normal roads. Some of them were pretty hair-raising, especially since there were some patches of snow to negotiate, and this was challenging for me.

I'd never ridden off-road before, and Storm was a bit of a handful, so I was on a steep learning curve. Corinne was waay more experienced and capable, but she didn't rush me, and gave me various little helpful tips and pointers to help me improve my skills. Despite my shortcomings as a rally-raid rider, I was enjoying myself immensely, and I managed not to fall off once.

We were outside a cafe near the Petit St Bernard pass, on our way back into France, when we were approached by an English man. He was tall and thin -- at least as tall as me - with grey hair and a neat, grey goatee beard, and probably in his seventies. The main thing that was noticeable about him though was that he had an arm missing. The whole arm, from above the elbow.

I don't know what it is about disabled people that makes them slightly scary, but it reminded me of a time when I was only a young child, and a kindly man with no legs, in a wheelchair, wanted to give me a lollypop and I ran and hid behind my mum. She had to take the lolly from him, thank him, apologise for me, and then give me the lolly. It was an irrational reaction, and I was determined not to repeat it.

'Hello, ladies,' he began. 'sorry to intrude, but I was just admiring your 'bikes. I'm Andy.' He held out his left hand to both of us for a gentle, but awkward, handshake. 'That Triumph is a beauty. I love the colour. The KTM is great too.' He looked at Corinne, so she didn't feel left out, but it was obvious he was especially taken with Storm.

'I was into 'bikes, but I had an accident, many, many years ago and...' he indicated his missing arm. 'I'm still into them though. They're in the blood. If I were still riding them, this is what I'd be riding.'

'I call her Storm,' I said.

'Great,' he smiled. 'It suits her perfectly... I have to say, it's lovely to see two young women, out and about on 'bikes, enjoying yourselves. Makes me feel optimistic.'

I think I knew what he meant. Optimistic that we were heading for a better world, where women could do whatever the fuck they wanted to, without prejudices and misogyny getting in the way.

Here, in this gentle, gracious old man, was the antidote to those tossers I'd met at the Trout Inn, and the lousy bastard that had raped both Corinne and Génie. Somehow, I thought that if all men were like this one, the heinous crime of rape simply wouldn't exist.

I wanted to hug him, but I knew that would be inappropriate, so I didn't, but I did say, 'Aww, thanks for coming over, Andy. It was nice to meet you.'

He waved, a little bashfully, gave Storm another quick once-over, and walked away with a smile, saying 'Enjoy the rest of your ride.'

We did. We descended from the pass, meandered up through Albertville, and completed our 300-kilometre circuit with a beautiful ride up the western shore of Lac d'Annecy, swinging through the bends, and just loving the feeling of being out on the road, free and unfettered. And it was especially great to have Corinne with me. We were a duo now. Bonded by the roads and the little adventure we'd shared.

I had a beautiful feeling of euphoria as we cruised through those final miles, but sadly it was all about to come crashing down.

We arrived back at the hotel and put the bikes away in la grange, then I went to look for Maeve. I climbed the stairs and found her room door wide open, the room completely empty, and the bed neatly made. A panic began to rise in me.

I dashed down to reception and found Génie. Her eyes carried a deep sympathy. She knew this was bad news. Without me saying anything, she said sadly, 'Maeve has gone, Becky. She checked out this afternoon. She asked to give you this,' and she handed me an envelope.

Cold shafts of broken glass were penetrating my body from all angles. I looked at the envelope and just let out an anguished sob. 'Noo...'

Génie came and held me. She knew Maeve and I had made a connection. 'Where did she go, Génie? Where is she headed?'

'I do not know, Becky. She did not say.'

I really think, if I'd had any idea where she was going, I would have got straight back on the 'bike and given chase, but I had no idea. The connection was broken. Once again, we hadn't even exchanged phone numbers.

I trudged up to my room, passing that landing and her room, where so much had happened, and I threw myself heavily on the bed. I hardly dared to open the letter. I felt like a huge boulder was on my chest. The muscles in my neck ached with the effort of controlling the monstrous lump that had taken up residence in my throat.

Eventually, I forced myself to read what she had written. It was short, and bittersweet;

"Dearest, dearest Becky.

Sorry, I had to go. You moved me more than words can say, but now is not the time for me to fall in love.

I will never forget what you have given me.

Thank you.

Maeve

XX

I lay for hours, just grappling with my tears and my anguish. I didn't go down to dinner, and no-one came looking for me. At 10pm I was still lying on top of the bed in my 'bike suit and I wearily got up and took it off. Then, at nearly eleven, there was a tap on the door. I opened it, and there were Corinne and Génie. 'Are you OK, Becky?'

I shook my head and just said, 'No' and burst into tears.

They both held me. Sharing my pain. These two women who hardly knew me, really. These two women who had been through so much worse than this. These two women who just wanted to share their empathy and concern.

'I told her she should wait, Becky,' said Génie, 'I really tried.'

I nodded. 'I think she's a very determined woman when her mind is made up,' I said, weakly.

There was nothing they could do beyond what they had already done. I thanked them and went back to bed. Slumber was a long time coming but, eventually, I slept, fitfully.

I awoke to the bleakest of days. A total contrast to that glorious morning in Amsterdam, when all my options were still open, and the world was a beautiful place. I stepped out onto the balcony to feel the morning air, and the atmosphere perfectly matched my mood. The sun was absent, and a dank mist had settled over everything, obliterating the view, obliterating perspective, obliterating joy.

I shivered a little and went back inside, to lay on the bed and think, which was (is) my metier.

I thought about two evenings ago, when she'd asked what I was doing the next day. At that point, I could have arranged something with her, put the 'bike ride off, but I didn't. Was it that that made the difference? Did it nudge her away from me by just that crucial amount at the critical moment?

Her decision to run was obviously made while I was out enjoying my ride with Corinne. Could I have prevented it, had I stayed with her? Would she still be here with me? Would we now be making plans for what comes next? I suppose those are just more things I'll never know.

But why had she captivated me so much and so quickly? Why do I fall so easily? After all, I had probably been only one day away from being similarly captivated by Enga.

I've heard it said that falling in love too easily is a sign of insecurity or low self esteem, but that's nonsense where I'm concerned. I don't have a problem with either of those, so it's not that. I decided to call Jola and get her take on it. It was a Sunday, so she wouldn't be at work.

'Morning Becks, wow, this is an early call. How's the safari going?'

'Oh, not so well just now...'

I poured out the whole story and even I was shocked by how much had happened in just a couple of days. Such an emotional tumult, too. I ended with 'God, sorry to unload all this on you...'

'Don't be daft.' She said, in her typically no-nonsense way. 'I'm always here for you Becky, you should know that. You are certainly getting some ups and downs though, eh?'

'You could say that. ' I chuckled, mirthlessly. 'I think it's self-inflicted though.'

'How?'

'I make emotional connections too easily. Invest too much too soon. Fall in love, even. Why is that Jola?'

'I think you're just very emotionally open, Becky. You're like it with everyone. The gates to your heart are never closed. I love that about you Becks. Everyone does. You approach everyone positively - EAGER to like them. Add in a bit of sexual attraction, and a dash of magic and - KABOOM - emotional fireworks. It makes you vulnerable, but oh-so lovable. Never change, Becky. Never change.'

'Oh God, Jola. You're so fucking good for me. Thank you.'

After the call, I had a little weep. Jola had made me feel better, as she always does, but I was still wounded.

I thought about Kim. She had fallen so fast and so hard for me. Was her vulnerability rooted in insecurity? Or was she just like me, very open-hearted? I decided it was the latter.

I got a lot of sympathy over breakfast. Everyone intuitively knew what had happened, and there was some puzzlement over why Maeve had run. 'She made a bad, bad decision,' said Katia, shaking her head, sadly.

I decided to complete my stay and leave the next morning, but I had yet to decide where I was going. It took a big session with the laptop before my plans were sorted, but at least it took my mind off the dull ache in the pit of my stomach.

***

I kissed both Corinne and Génie, and even the others all came out to give me a hug. I had made friends. Again. But I was taking my leave of them. Again.

'You must come back,' said Corinne, and I promised I would. I actually thought I might. This place was so very special.

I fastened my helmet, fired up Storm's engine, and roared off, with a wave. I was off to Italy.

There were lots of places in Italy that I wanted to see; Portofino, Pisa, Siena, Rome, Pompei, the Amalfi coast... I could go on. My first hotel was in a place called Bra (no sniggering please) just south of Turin and about 300km away.

The first part of my route took me back along the Annecy lakeside, and I paused near a place called Duingt to look across the lake, wistfully, to Talloires, where I'd had lunch with Maeve. Tears welled up, and I gave myself a mental slap. 'Snap out of it Becky, come on.. You've gotta crack on and move forward.'

The Col du Mont Cenis -- the old traditional Alpine route from France to Italy before the tunnels were built -- was my first objective. I'd heard it was incredibly scenic, but a cloud had settled on the pass, so I didn't get much scenery. It was an easy route and an enjoyable ride though, the fine mist giving it an ethereal quality.

On the descent to Susa, I was joined by a couple of French-registered 'bikes, one of which was ridden by a woman, with blonde hair flying out of the back of her helmet, reminding me of the cartoon on Judy's Lez Ride card. We rode together for 40 or 50 kilometres, no words or communication necessary, just enjoying the companionship of the road, and we separated - with waves and tooting of horns - when they headed into Turin, and I turned south towards Bra. I felt my spirits rising again.

My accommodation in Bra was called Bed&Bra, and yes, it was simply the name that attracted me. Luckily, it was also a friendly and comfortable place to stay, and it put me in striking distance of Portofino, where I arrived the following afternoon.

Portofino is an incredibly picturesque (and bloody expensive) place, and after I'd settled myself in my hotel, I went out for a look around, and ended up sitting on a bench looking out to the glittering sea and reflecting on my journey so far.

I thought fondly of Judy and Kim, Henk at the B&B in Monster, Gilda and Leena, Vibeke, Enga, Corinne and Génie, the genial old ex-biker on the Petit St Bernard, and of course, Maeve, and I realised that, despite the emotional tribulations and heartaches, I'd had some wonderful experiences, and met some wonderful people.

Travelling, whether it be physical or emotional travelling, is often gruelling, and that's exactly what I was finding. Nevertheless, I decided that my journey was good and should continue.

In the evening, I ate in a marvellously convivial restaurant and I flirted with both waiters and waitresses. My equilibrium was returning. More than that; my joie de vivre.

The next day, the old Becky was almost back. I mounted Storm in the underground car park, and revved her up, delighting in her sound, amplified in the resonant, concrete garage. I zoomed up the ramp, much faster than was wise, and I cackled manically as I almost did a wheelie at the top. I roared up the narrow street, making teenage boys look round, and I got a wagging finger from an attractive poliziotta (with red lipstick!) on traffic duty, on my way out of town. This was the life... I was still alive!

Today's objective was Pisa, which was less than four hours away, so I had loads of time. I hugged the coast for a few kilometres, but then got onto a gnarly road climbing over some green hills with lots of bends, and I revelled in roaring up the straights, and swooping round the corners like a bird of prey. When I encountered a car going slowly, it was dispatched with a flick of the wrist.

This kind of harum-scarum riding was not me, really, I'm usually much more sedate, but I was feeling devilish and defiant, and I was exorcising ghosts. This was Becky, roaring.

I took coffee in a riverside cafe in a place called Aulla, and I sat basking in the sun with my shades on, just feeling a sense of well-being settling on me, as my emotions calmed.

The cafe owner definitely took a shine to me. He fussed around, wiping my chair before I sat down, even though it wasn't wet, wiping the table, and asking me, in very Italiano broken English, 'Is the caffé to your like-a?'

I gave him my best and most dazzling smile. 'Si, grazie.'

This little interlude was very pleasant indeed, and I stayed for a second cup, which seemed to please the owner no-end, and then I rolled serenely down to Pisa.

I'd found that hotel beds were thin on the ground in Pisa. I wanted one with a view of the crazy leaning tower, but that proved impossible. Sadly, there were none at all in Pisa on the rainbow hotels site, but there was one in Rome, and I resolved to head there the next day.

The hotel I'd booked in Pisa was not too far out and I was able to walk to the leaning tower which, like most people, was the main thing I'd come to see. Although the town has a wealth of other historic buildings, it's that crazy tower that is the main draw.

Crazy? Well you'd think so, given the effort that's been put in, for centuries, to keep it in that attitude, but then you have to think about the number of tourists it pulls in. I was impressed, but mainly with how bizarre it, and the story behind it, is.

I ate pizza in a little bistro, within sight of the tower, then returned to my hotel. I opened a bottle of local red wine -- very nice indeed - and spent a couple of hours watching YouTube videos about Italy, sent Mum & Dad my daily location update, then decided to call Jola.

I set the laptop on the dressing table, with the hi-res camera and called her...

Hey Becks, how's it going? Where are you at now?

'I'm in Pisa. I just had dinner in sight of the tower.'

'Oo, swanky. That's a place I want to go.'

'It's good. The tower is MAD. I'm off to Rome tomorrow, via Siena.'

'Wow, fantastic. What a brilliant tour.'

We chatted on for a few minutes, then she asked me the meaningful question. 'How are you feeling now, Becky? Is your heart healing, OK?'

'Yeh, surprisingly much better. I think, because it was such a rapid infatuation, and so short-lived, its effect is fading just as quickly. I mean, I'm not going to forget her in a hurry, but I have it in perspective now.'

Carly joined her on the screen 'The real test will be whether your libido has come back to life yet.' She grinned, cheekily.

So, equally mischievously, I said 'Test me.'

She turned Jola's head towards her and they kissed, starting gently, but then making it gradually more passionate and sexual. The truth is, watching them kiss had an immediate effect on me, as it always does, but I deliberately decided to "play hard to get," knowing it would make them go further.