Hoping – and cheating

The Meditation on the Seven Last Words ends with the line, “You commit your spirit, hoping, hoping, for the best”. The reflection on Jesus’s assurance to the thief crucified with him, begins with the line, “Hope is all I’ve got”. So I just have to stop to admire this graffiti before I dive under the M3 motorway, don’t I?

Hope is good for us. I think it’s a basic human instinct. Even in seemingly impossible circumstances, most people don’t give up completely. Despair can threaten to overwhelm us – and sometimes it succeeds – but generally a glimmer of light breaks through. If you’ve lost all hope, your long term prognosis isn’t good.

The good people of Winterslow – I think that’s where I saw it – are hopeful. “Save our church”, beseeches the notice, with its QR code, and the assurance that all donations would be gratefully received. Will it be saved? I don’t know. What is the future for such rural parish buildings? Uncertain. But it wouldn’t do to lose hope.

I’m more of a blind optimist myself, believing with woefully insufficient evidence that most problems can be solved – and that most people want to solve them.

I’ve ridden to Salisbury in no particular hurry, paid my respects to the first cathedral I performed the Meditation in, in Lent, and collected my pilgrim stamp. I ate too much in the cathedral cafe, and wobbled my way to Salisbury’s train station, with no great concern.

I did read, in the small print, when I booked a place for my bicycle, that the train company would not transport tandems. But the small print said nothing about cargo bikes that are longer than tandems, even though they only have one saddle. I thought it would be fine.

It is, of course, cheating. I’m going to ride 43 miles today, but the other 100, between Salisbury and Exeter, is going to be done by other means. I can’t ride that far.

One general rule of pilgrimage is that I should take – more or less – what comes. If a cathedral moves the goalposts, so be it. If someone hails me from the roadside and wants to give me coffee, I shouldn’t ride by.

But when the railway staff are demanding I get off the train, that the train will not leave the station with me on it, and they are simultaneously telephoning the police to enforce their decision, I know this is not an occasion to go with the flow. I’m booked to play in Exeter’s fine cathedral at noon tomorrow. I can’t get there any other way.

The fight is swift, and brutal. The inspector at the barrier, looking sceptically at the bike, has already told me that delay costs them “£150 – £200, per minute,” and I must not be responsible for that.

There are people pushing past the bike in both directions – everyone seems to have decided they got into the wrong carriage – and the bike won’t go round the corner. He’s unarguably right – it’s blocking the way, it’s a safety hazard, and he won’t allow the train to leave the station until I remove the obstacle – and myself.

When I look at his name badge, to address him personally, he accuses me of intimidation. I tell him if he would just kindly give me a little bit of room, I can sort it in 5 minutes. (I don’t know how, but I’ll think of something). He says I can have two minutes, and if it’s not out of the way after that he will put me off at the next station. But at least the train is moving, and the police, looking disappointed, are receding into the distance.

And I’m right; the problem is capable of resolution. When the bike is safely stowed, rackless and undignified, and I’ve apologised for being short with him, he offers me a handshake and undying friendship.

But I find my legs are made of jelly when I ride the 8 miles up and down the Devon hills, south of Exeter. It was a near miss. It’s all very well hoping for the best, but a little circumspection wouldn’t be out of order in the balance of things. At least I’m staying in a comfortable, and restorative, place.