Sandwich

“‘Ello miss, where abouts ah you cumin’ from?” asked the cop.

“London,” I said.

His eyes slowly veered to my bike and then back to me. “On the M2?”

“Is this the M2?”

“Were you or were you not just cycling along the motorway?”

Up until that question, I thought this was a police-officer-rescues-damsel-in-distress situation.

“I’m actually a little lost.”

“Where r’you frum miss?”

“California.”

“And are you allowed to cycle on the motorways in California?” Eyebrows arched.

I blinked.

“Or I suppose you’d call it a ‘highway’, wouldn’t you?”

I moved my head in sort of a shake/nod, not sure which rhetorical question I was supposed to be answering.

By that point I had been riding for over seven hours. I wanted to ask the cop, “Do you think I am here on purpose? Do you think I intentionally came out here for the pleasure of tensing every muscle in my upper back so that I can keep my front wheel on the two inches of asphalt between the ribbed white stripe and the gravel shoulder while semi trucks blow by me at 90 miles an hour?” But I was still half-heartedly hoping to convey more of the Damsel character than the Lawless Rebel, so I held my tongue.

“And where exactly is it that you’re trying to go miss?”

“Sandwich.”

His eyes veered again, this time to the left as if to look for another person who I must have been speaking to.

“You fancy a sandwich?”

“Well…”

How to explain?

“I was going to have a sandwich in the town of Sandwich.”

He let out a short exhale through his nose, pulled his hands out from his pockets and clapped them together with a little rub, clearly bored of trying to extract any coherent sentences from me. “Well that’s a whiz-bang bike you’ve got there but m’afraid you can’t ride it on this road any further. They’ve got plenty of sandwiches in Canterbury just up the road there. You can take the next exit.”

He didn’t understand. I was on a mission.

While my friends and coworkers were planning trips to Paris and Rome and Barcelona for the three-day weekend, I had become fixated on the idea of a pilgrimage to the small town of Sandwich near the southeastern coast on England. The trip had all the makings of my ideal holiday: biking, scenery and sandwiches. This is the type of adventure I would dream up for any occasion, but there were two additional big motivations for this journey:

1. I just bought a new (to me) bike on Ebay. A beautiful aluminum frame, carbon-fiber fork Peugeot road racer.

2. Due to technical difficulties involving setting up payroll here in the UK, I had exactly £57.32 in my bank account. Paris and Rome were thus nixed from the menu of options.

On Sunday morning, dawn and excitement woke me before my alarm had the chance to. By 7:30 A.M. I was zooming through the sleepy streets of London, literally heading for the hills. By 9:30 A.M. I was coasting along the sloping English countryside, literally singing in revelry of the sunshine and stone castles and wild berries and storybook bunnies hopping across grassy knolls. Eiffel Tower be damned!

This

was vacation.

This is what happens when you take photos while biking.

Ms. Google Navigator (who, on my new phone, speaks in a British accent) had me zigging and zagging in an attempt to find supposedly “bike friendly” paths. I ignored a few of her suggestions for seemingly obvious straight-forward routes until I passed a sign that said “LONDON” with an arrow pointing in the direction that I was riding. (The operative word in the former sentence being “seemingly.”)

I dismounted and pulled my phone out to have a look. After some pinching and zooming, I saw that I had basically gone in a 15 mile circle. But I was not dismayed! “It’s about the journey!” I told myself, taking in a 360 view of the fairytale landscape. I noticed a farm cottage at the bend of the road and, in a brief moment of weakness, wondered if maybe I should just go have a sandwich there… But then I slapped myself and my navigator back to our senses and back on track to Sandwich. It was also about the destination. I vowed to obey all of Ms. GN’s instructions, no matter how silly they seemed.

But then I hit a dead end. I pulled out my phone again and looked down at the screen to see the blue line going straight forward. I looked back up ahead and, upon closer inspection of the gate blocking my path, noticed a single track dirt trail leading into a forrest. The thought of riding my new Peugeot on a trail felt like setting an infant down on the floor of a night club. But to turn back would mean potentially another 15 miles of backtracking and, by that point, of the three objectives of my trip, I felt I had satisfactorily checked the Scenery box and was eager to get on to the Sandwiches bit.

The dirt path eventually lead to a paved road (Glory hallelujah!) which eventually lead to another dirt path (Damn it all to hell.). There was a gas station at the juncture and I went inside to ask the cashier if she knew how long it would be before the trail was paved.

“Couldn’t say for sure dear, but I reckon it’d likely be dirt the whole way, wouldn’t it?”

I still had over 40 miles to go. It had been four hours since my breakfast of two granola bars. My phone battery was in the red. I was officially dismayed. I perused the aisles of the gas station, contemplating what I needed to lift my spirits (for £3 or less). Since moving to the UK, my go-to comfort food has been the prepackaged sandwiches that they sell in the 24-hour shops for £1.50. On sad and rainy London nights, those little triangles taste like sweet processed escapism. This gas station had them in all the classic varieties — pickle and ham, egg mayo, salmon and cream cheese, chicken and stuffing. I took one from the refrigerated shelf and set it on the counter but then, with a sudden guilty jolt, turned around and put it back. It just wouldn’t be right. I would have a sandwich in Sandwich or no sandwich at all. I bought another granola bar and got back on my bike.

That is how I ended up on the motorway. Which is how I ended up being “redirected” to Canterbury. Which is how I ended up taking a train the last 15 miles of my journey into Sandwich. (Which, to be honest, I didn’t mind because by that point I felt I had satisfactorily checked the Scenery and the Biking boxes and was absolutely desperate for a sandwich.)

When I first set out, I envisioned making it to Sandwich and taking a selfie biting into a sandwich in front of the town sign. Facebook. Instagram. All the filters. Hashtag #epicfoodpuns. But by the time my black pudding and mango chutney sandwich arrived within reaching distance of my paws, it was a miracle that I managed to take any photos at all.

Literally shaking with excitement for the sandwich

I only wish I had hidden camera footage of drop-jawed faces in the room, watching aghast at the human-esque wolf in the corner of the pub devouring the entire massive sandwich in less than three minutes. Sandwich supposedly has a population of 4,985 (I suspect it’s closer to 498), so I would not be surprised if the tale of my anonymous arrival, bestial behavior and mysterious disappearance is evolving into an urban legend this very moment.

From Sandwich, I made my way to Walmer — a manure-scented town a few miles south — where I couch surfed with the two loveliest humans in all of Britain: Frank, the former architect and Lynn, the firecracker empty-nester. The pair of them ushered me and my accompanying cloud of dust into their home and immediately started fussing over me to have a shower, a hot tea, a biscuit, a glass of wine, a bowl of soup and a bagel with plenty of protein on top. (It had been over an hour since the wolf incident so I was ready for dinner #2.)

“I just cannot

believe

you’ve come all the way from London on a push bike! To think if my Lucy ever did something like that I would die of a heart attack! Have you called your mother and told her you’re alright?” Once I was suitably warmed and fattened up, Lynn and I discussed antioxidants the health benefits of hydrogen peroxide, Frank chiming in timidly from behind his crossword with witty asides. By the time I tucked myself in to bed under the sound of seaside rain on the rooftop, all the SNAFUs of the journey had been long forgotten.

The “couch” I surfed.

I had thought I would ride down the coast on Monday, but it was pouring down rain and Lynn had TiVo-ed a program called “Blueberries — A Superfood?” so I opted to spend the day in Walmer.

At a cafe in Dover with Frank and Lynn.

That evening, after Lynn had saddled me with a travel bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a hand-sewn pillow of lavender and a small bag of dates, I road my bike to the station and took the train back to London.