Ruszyliśmy. W głowie mrowie myśli. Myśli się kłębią:
„Szukamy swojej wielkiej przygody, tocząc się beztrosko poprzez bezkres w
nieznane, au blanc de carte, (…) I chociaż nie odkryjemy Ameryki, ani nawet
małego skrawka ziemi, bo wszędzie już ktoś był przed nami wozem, wołem,
wielbłądem, osłem, pieszo, konno…Nie pobijemy żadnego rekordu ani właściwie
niczego nadzwyczajnego nie dokonamy, ale
przeżyjemy przygodę dwojga narwańców i awanturników” (parafraza Mój chłopiec, motor i ja).
Najpierw przez Śląsk, przez Żabią Krainę w stronę Czechowic
Dziedzic – niegdysiejszej stolicy zapałkarstwa i domu Jacka Łaszczoka, w
kierunku Oświęcimia – królestwa karpia i białej gwiazdy i dalej Wadowic.
Beskidy na horyzoncie kusiły łagodnymi szczytami. Pierwsze dwa dni to przeprawa
przez pogórze rozciągające się na południe od Krakowa – Kalwaria Zebrzydowska,
Myślenice, aż do Bochni. Przez błogą Małopolskę, z owocowymi sadami, krzesłem
Kantora i świeżą wiosną. Góra, dół, góra, dół, kręcimy, kręcimy, kilometrowe
podjazdy, za krótkie zjazdy i wiatr ze wschodu, zawsze w twarz, masłem do dołu,
„wieje, wieje i rozwiewa mnie”.
Pierwszego dnia, na 70. km . zapytany o drogę chłopiec do wsi
odległej o 5 km .,
popatrzył się, zamyślił i odpowiedział: „proszę jechać prosto i w prawo…ale to
trochę daleko”.
Na płn. od Bochni, rozciąga się Polska, płaska, wiejska, z
ulicówkami, z trójrzędowymi polami, z ciężkimi cumulusami, z ciszą, z
ujadającymi psami, z psami śpiącymi w słońcu, w cieniu, pod płotami, jakby
opuszczone, bezludzie, z wieżami kościołów jak u Prousta, z malowanymi
zagrodami (Zalipie) i śladami I wojennego frontu (wzorcowy cmentarz żołnierzy
austriackich i rosyjskich w Otfinowie), z żylakami rzek, wzdłuż dzikiej Wisły i
tak aż po Sandomierz.
Dalej z prądem Wisły, przez biały Kazimierz, jakby
niepolski, ascetyczny, bo spójny wizualnie, trochę jak fasada, atrapa, cepelia,
która ożywa z krokami warszawskich letniaków i krzykiem dzieci wysypujących się
z autobusów szkolnych wycieczek; pojechaliśmy w stronę pełnego kuracjuszy
Nałęczowa i zielonej wyżyny lubelskiej i znów góra, dół, góra, dół,
rollercoaster.
Pomalowani słońcem,
wzdłuż szablonów ubrań, z popękanymi od wiatru ustami, z przymrużonymi od
błękitu oczami, wyglądamy jakbyśmy byli w podróży miesiące, a nie ledwie kilka
dni. Ludzie nie zwracają na nas większej uwagi, co po niektórzy jedynie zerkają
z zainteresowaniem na sakwy i objuczone bicykle – pewnie Ci, którzy sami
pedałują albo odwrotnie - nie pedałują i większego sensu w tym nie widzą
Za Bugiem Polska jakiej nie znaliśmy, „Polska białoruska”, z
drewnianymi domostwami, z niebieskimi cerkwiami, żytnim bimbrem, prawosławnymi
krzyżami. Polska podleska (sensu stricto), białowieska, z Hajnówką jako centrum;
dziwnym, rozedrganym, chaotycznym jak przygraniczne miasto, z grafikami Zenka,
malarza naiwnego, samouka o nieszablonowej wyobraźni; z „otwartymi okiennicami”
i tętniącym życiem i zmianami Białymstokiem.
Granica (granice) niedaleko, jeszcze tylko Warmia i Mazury,
jakieś 150 km ,
pewnie 48 h, i przekroczymy naszą pierwszą, a właściwie to nie, to znaczy nie
do końca, bo codziennie jakąś przekraczamy.
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We're gone. Thousand of thoughts. A lot of stuff swimming around in our heads: “We are looking for our great adventure, recklessly riding along into the unknown, au blanc de carte, (…) and although we will not discover neither America, nor even the smallest piece of Earth, as there was already someone everywhere, arriving in a carriage, on a mule, donkey, foot, horse... We will not beat any record and we will not do anything out of ordinary, but we will have an experience of two hotheads and adventures.”
(paraphrase of My boy, motorbike and I”).
8 days, more than 7 voivodeships, several thousand calories and a bunch of observations.
First, through Silesia, Frog Land, towards Czechowice Dziedzice – former capital of matches and the house of Jacek Łaszczok, towards Oświęcim – the kingdom of Carp and the white star, and towards Wadowice. The Beskidy mountains were tempting with their peaks. First two days meant getting
through foothills south from Kraków – Kalwaria Zebrzydowska, Myślenice up to Bochnia. Then through sweet Małopolska with its orchards, Kantor's chair and young spring. Up and down, up and down, we pedal and pedal on, kilometre-long ways up, too short ways down, and that eastern wind, always blowing against us, butter down, “it's blowing, blowing and blowing me down.”
On the first day, on the 70. km., we asked a boy for a way to a village 5 kms from us, he looked, thought and answered: “go straight on, and right... but it is quite far from here.”
North from Bochnia there is Poland of a certain sort: flat, rural, tiny, with triple-row fields, with heavy cumulus clouds, with the silence, with barking dogs, with dogs sleeping in the sun, in the shade, under the fences, seemingly deserted, wilderness, with the church towers just like at Proust's, with painted farms (Zalipie), and the traces of the 1st battlefront (a model cemetery of Austrian and Russian soldiers in Otfinów), marked by rivers, along the wild Vistula river, as far as Sandomierz.
The old mixes with the new, collapsing Poland with Poland repainted and powdered. Iconography - generally the same, differing in detail - Holly Maries and/or crosses, boards of the saint European Union and adverts, adverts, adverts, and on them Wenex, Bramex, Iwex. Pomtex, Roletex, Protex, Limex, etc.
Then down with the Vistula, through the white Kazimierz, as though not Polish, ascetic, visually consistent, a little like a façade, dummy, cepelia, that gets alive with every step of tourists and children that leave buses when on school trips; we went towards Nałęczów, full of visitors, and a green Lublin Upland, again, up and down, up and down, roller-coaster.
Painted by the sun, going along clothes templates, with lips chapped from the wind, with eyes half-closed from the big blue, we look as if we were travelling for months, not just a few days. People do not pay much attention to us, some glance with interest at our saddlebags and loaded bikes - most probably those, who cycle themselves, or maybe the other way round - those who do not cycle and cannot see much sense in it.
Over the Bug there is Poland we haven’t known before, the “Belorussian Poland,”, with wooden houses, blue Orthodox churches, rye moonshine, Orthodox crosses. Poland of Podlesie (literally - Podlesie means “under the woods”), Białowieża, with Hajnówka as its centre; strange, vibrating, chaotic as a bordering town, with Zenek’s graphics - a naive, self-taught painter of an unusual imagination; with “open shutters,” with vibrant and ever-changing Białystok.
The border (borders) is so close, only Warmia and Mazury left, no more than 48 hrs, and we will cross our first, but not really, not literally, we cross one every day.
-------
We're gone. Thousand of thoughts. A lot of stuff swimming around in our heads: “We are looking for our great adventure, recklessly riding along into the unknown, au blanc de carte, (…) and although we will not discover neither America, nor even the smallest piece of Earth, as there was already someone everywhere, arriving in a carriage, on a mule, donkey, foot, horse... We will not beat any record and we will not do anything out of ordinary, but we will have an experience of two hotheads and adventures.”
(paraphrase of My boy, motorbike and I”).
8 days, more than 7 voivodeships, several thousand calories and a bunch of observations.
First, through Silesia, Frog Land, towards Czechowice Dziedzice – former capital of matches and the house of Jacek Łaszczok, towards Oświęcim – the kingdom of Carp and the white star, and towards Wadowice. The Beskidy mountains were tempting with their peaks. First two days meant getting
through foothills south from Kraków – Kalwaria Zebrzydowska, Myślenice up to Bochnia. Then through sweet Małopolska with its orchards, Kantor's chair and young spring. Up and down, up and down, we pedal and pedal on, kilometre-long ways up, too short ways down, and that eastern wind, always blowing against us, butter down, “it's blowing, blowing and blowing me down.”
On the first day, on the 70. km., we asked a boy for a way to a village 5 kms from us, he looked, thought and answered: “go straight on, and right... but it is quite far from here.”
North from Bochnia there is Poland of a certain sort: flat, rural, tiny, with triple-row fields, with heavy cumulus clouds, with the silence, with barking dogs, with dogs sleeping in the sun, in the shade, under the fences, seemingly deserted, wilderness, with the church towers just like at Proust's, with painted farms (Zalipie), and the traces of the 1st battlefront (a model cemetery of Austrian and Russian soldiers in Otfinów), marked by rivers, along the wild Vistula river, as far as Sandomierz.
The old mixes with the new, collapsing Poland with Poland repainted and powdered. Iconography - generally the same, differing in detail - Holly Maries and/or crosses, boards of the saint European Union and adverts, adverts, adverts, and on them Wenex, Bramex, Iwex. Pomtex, Roletex, Protex, Limex, etc.
Then down with the Vistula, through the white Kazimierz, as though not Polish, ascetic, visually consistent, a little like a façade, dummy, cepelia, that gets alive with every step of tourists and children that leave buses when on school trips; we went towards Nałęczów, full of visitors, and a green Lublin Upland, again, up and down, up and down, roller-coaster.
Painted by the sun, going along clothes templates, with lips chapped from the wind, with eyes half-closed from the big blue, we look as if we were travelling for months, not just a few days. People do not pay much attention to us, some glance with interest at our saddlebags and loaded bikes - most probably those, who cycle themselves, or maybe the other way round - those who do not cycle and cannot see much sense in it.
Over the Bug there is Poland we haven’t known before, the “Belorussian Poland,”, with wooden houses, blue Orthodox churches, rye moonshine, Orthodox crosses. Poland of Podlesie (literally - Podlesie means “under the woods”), Białowieża, with Hajnówka as its centre; strange, vibrating, chaotic as a bordering town, with Zenek’s graphics - a naive, self-taught painter of an unusual imagination; with “open shutters,” with vibrant and ever-changing Białystok.
The border (borders) is so close, only Warmia and Mazury left, no more than 48 hrs, and we will cross our first, but not really, not literally, we cross one every day.
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