BACKPACK

PREGNANT

Goddamnit! Screw it! Monday morning. I thought I’d leave in good time, including breakfast. Not just coffee, but also solid food. Even a piece of fruit. A jumble of hopping rabbits and rabid pheasants on the towpath. Lockkeepers still rubbing the morning out of their eyes and skippers who answer my greeting with a nod from their unwieldy barges. The Scheldt is still evaporating from the night and gathering mists that glide low over the fields.

Another commuting cyclist crosses me. Also smartly clad in proper gear, with a backpack with work clothing. Only then does it dawn on me. I’ve covered a third of the route in my shower gear with my work clothes still on the kitchen table. I look at my GPS, start calculating and run through my options. Fast home? And then? I don’t own a car any more. The train? Nope, by the time I get to the station, it’ll be gone.

Rik Merchie, you dumb monkey!

Telling them I’m coming later is not an option. I quit my office job in Brussels a few months ago and returned to an old love. I’m a schoolteacher again, mijnheer (Mr) Rik, pronounced variously as moeneer, menner, sometimes also mevrouw (Mrs) Rik - I have only female colleagues and the students regularly slip up. Education is punctuality, including in a reception class for nonDutch-speaking newcomers. I experienced this by twice appearing late for lessons. I’ve exhausted all my credit. In 1 hour and 10 minutes, 15 young people bursting with hormones will be in my classroom. If I’m late, the director will most likely want to see me. Can a teacher be kept in detention?

FORMER RUNNING LEGS Because you can’t miss a bike, like you can miss a train, I leave public transport for what it is. Loudly gasping, I close my front door and I crawl back onto the saddle. I quickly fish two forgotten energy gels with caffeine out of my dusty running gear box, push them down with a sip of water, click myself fast and start pedalling like a madman. Come on, legs, stomp!

Moeneer Rik is no longer a runner. Let alone a trail runner.