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Wheels on the bike go round and round 23: Door Dilemma
by Mike Jennett
2009-07-19 08:55:56
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It’s only been 2 weeks but every hotel blurs into one.

Doesn’t matter whether it’s a Super 8, a Comfort Inn or a Holiday Inn - they’re all clones. The town is of no importance. The day does not matter.

The brain works on blood. After riding all day, it’s all in my legs. Just as well there’s no sex life on tour.

Remembering a new room number is about as easy as walking a straight line and reciting the alphabet backwards after a couple of six-packs. The clerk could tell me a dozen times and I will forget it a dozen times before I walk away from the desk.

With eyesight like mine, I can’t see what’s been written on the key envelope – so now I’ve taken to writing myself in BIG numbers. Glasses would help, but not a lot. Even when I can read it, I still forget in the second it takes to look up from the envelope.

I have pushed my bike to each end of a corridor and back before repetitively sliding the cardkey in the door with the number from last night’s room – because, after using it several times last night, it’s familiar - then returned to the desk to report today’s key faulty, got a new one and repeated the sad process.

Sometimes the door does open – not because of my key, but because the stranger in the room comes to see what’s going on.

In the movies, that stranger would be a seductress like a young Lauren Bacall with a smoldering cigarette in a holder between red lips, dressed in a translucent nightdress with a hint of dark lingerie. She’d be holding a glass of chilled champagne and I, naturally, would be a smartly dressed black and white Humphrey Bogart; but taller.

In real life, I am encased in black shorts and yellow shirt, my hair is molded into helmet vent lines and I am wearing sweaty gloves. I smell the way I look, I probably still have sunglasses on and am holding a bike. The door is opened by a fat businessman or a scrawny redneck, either of whom who stare as if I am from Mars. If he’s unlucky enough, we’ll meet again later.

Forgetting the room number is as easy as forgetting what town you’re in. That happens too. As I said - it’s a blood thing.

There is a large degree of torment in every day and perhaps blotting out the small things is the brain’s way of softening the pain.

Or maybe it’s Alzheimer’s.

Read more at: www.mikeonwheels.com OR www.wheelsonthebikegoroundandround.blogspot.com     

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