How I Ended-Up Doing This Crazy Trip
This blog is written retrospectively as if the event were occuring in the present.
It is an account of a risky Winter cycle trip towing a cat in a trailer on a very tight budget. All I know is that we’re heading North. It’s a story of fate, family squabbles, adventure, survival, solitude and resilience in the face of extraordinary challenges. How far will we get and will we be OK!
Truth is Stranger than FictionHello, my name is Hilary and my cat’s called Alice. I live with my brother Leo in Bridlington, England and my mum is re-married and lives two miles away with her husband Dennis and my ninety-four year old grandad. I'm in my early forties, Leo is two years younger and Alice is thirteen and we’ve lived in the same house since the end of 2003. Leo works as a paint sprayer and I’ve been driving trucks part-time. The past ten years have been a bit of a rollercoaster and I’ve had quite an interesting life up until now…[i]
Join me in the next instalment to find out.
Ta ta for now
Hilary xx 👯
My friends knew that I had always wanted to play for St Andrews United, but when I was fifteen our family moved us three hundred miles South to Flamborough, East Yorkshire and no-one played football there so I was stumped because all the boys played cricket instead. It was around this time that I would isolate myself for days-on end in my attic bedroom and didn’t have any female clothes to make me feel better and because my family were very strict and old fashioned I could not tell them for love nor money. Instead I joined the Air Training Corps and this became the start of my plan to escape the torment.
I continued to excel in fitness and running and found that I could supress my dysphoria for several months at a time, simply because I was too busy and exhausted with military life and my cross-country running commitments. Still, this wasn’t enough and after four years in Cold War Germany and the end of a two year relationship with a German girl I volunteered to undergo Pre-Parachute Selection training at Aldershot in 1989. I thought this is It, this is my answer…I need to be tougher!
Parachute Training School, RAF Brize Norton- Summer 1989. The author is back row, extreme right.
The injury was effectively the end of my Army career and I spent the rest of my time either being rehabilitated at Headley Court or going through the motions in the MT section of 9 Sqn in ‘dead man’s shoes’. Yes, the only things I earned at Brize Norton was the experience of three jumps and the nickname of ‘Pamela’.
Thank you Searg.