14 of 24 - River Severn to Blackpool and Fylde
After a stint in a Cheltenham guesthouse, four of us ex-Holman lads rented a flat above a butcher’s shop in a village near the Severn. Night-shift work meant I often drove us all in, bleary-eyed and half-fed. One of my flatmates owned a motorcycle. My licence said I could legally ride one, though my experience was limited to farm tracks and a brief flirtation with a moped at the Royal Cornwall Show. One afternoon, I decided to borrow the bike. No permission, no warning—just me, his helmet, and a vague sense of entitlement. I rode into Gloucester, then turned back, coasting down a dual carriageway with the wind in my hair and a feeling of freedom unmatched by any car. I could see over hedges, into fields, and into a version of myself that felt untethered and alive. Then I looked back to the road. A roundabout loomed. I panicked, grabbed the front brake, and promptly launched myself into the hedge. Helmet and spectacles in the grass, broken indicator on the tarmac. A pristine white...