the bourgeois bicycle caravan

As so many groundbreaking failures or equally spectacular successes have been birthed within lucid dreams of the past, it now seems more appropriate than ever, in this pastiche saturated modern world, to pursue what one has so gloriously envisaged from across the closed, dark plains of sleep.

Whether it was the effects of malaria tablets or the post-8pm cheese consumption, that made the mind whir and speak from the subconscious, matters little in the light of day – the fact is last night I dreamed of Caravans.

Silver aluminum boxes chocked up on bricks, mustard striped, full of spiders and nature creeping in through the peeling corners. No wheels? No matter. These homes float on imaginary highways, meeting real terrestrial pirates and through all weathers, to hanging gardens, grand old cities and endless oceans.

The interior is moron velvet and smells of romantic expectation. One minds warp wants to see an explicit heart shaped bed, but this shakes off and there in a glade, in the Black Forest, is a gypsy’s horse wagon, complete with red and green awnings, winking Romani eyes, gold earrings and magpies.

The cheese and Doxycycline begin to truly permeate, bringing with it the Atlantic Ocean or the Pacific (depending on whose side you’re on), and they spill out and into a new sea of trailer roofs which lap a chorus of greetings from the U.S.A. baby! Jimmy Bodean (the White Trash Prophet) screams “The American Dream!” from the beaten roof of a mobile home. In front of Bodean, the eyes of many generations look between temporary clotheslines and listen for his Caravan poetry.

With a Cold War effort Russia and the Orient invade the dream sequence. The Russian Caravans – so far removed! Making kopeks, delivering smoky-bitter tea, dancing bears, Chinese silk and this old train of merchandise just keeps on travelling.

What to do! The cerebral messages speed to burning point – Western Grey Nomads bump in triplets and quartets, slowly through outback New Zealand and alpine Canada in rented RV’s. They are commanded by husband and wife ‘til road death doth part them. The finale, before abruptly sitting up – is ushered in by camels who “maw” at the desert, whilst navigating along generic land waves, with noble integrity, bad teeth and blind obedience. The Arabic Caravan spells ‘environmental ergonomics’ in the waterless, sand ocean.

Awake! But that dream is still here! And it’s instructing motives and motions in reality. I ask my friends what they think and we only discover more questions.

How do we commemorate and command the history of such an intense and varied way of life? How can we stay true to modern ideals and faithful to our own personal beliefs whilst live the nomadic way?

In the face of these deeper, dangerous questions my comrades and I propose – The Bourgeois Bicycle Caravan.

Cheerfully sweating in the boiler room of this beast are four unique and talented individuals devoted to the rambling way and the challenges (both joyous and arduous), which can arise on a winding and unknown path. The initial goal is to travel the length of the French Western seaboard, our ships are bicycles and behind us we will tow laden carts. Central to what we, as a combined force are pining to achieve, lays within these carts. We will bring water craft of all sizes and shapes, paints, cameras, pens and paper, computers, an unnerving sense of humour, intestinal fortitude, Russian beat poetry; all manner of equipment which we can best use to capture and create a special journey in a unique part of this turning globe.

In perfect tune with these pragmatic notions are two main ideals -

First - to respect the earth, because while we grow it shrinks and there is definitely time to turn back the big, ominous clock. We will ride, camp and live within our means, hoping to leave only laughter, good will, broken hearts and other bits of environmentally friendly debris behind.

Second – is to respect the locals and their customs. If this requires some of the comrades to drink more red wine than they ever have before, then this is what they will begrudgingly do. We shall endeavor to communicate with the people on an intense level – never before attempted from the swift and silent seat of a bicycle.

Success will go far beyond completing tick-box objectives, we must be sure to casually promote these notions of respect, as it seems that everywhere people don’t know what they should. The Bourgeois Bicycle Caravan will be a French experiment entertained by foreigners – it will be a revolutionary way in which we consider the Caravan – yet it will pay homage to past exploits, by remaining loyal to imagination, creation, adventure, sexiness, pride, patriotism, initiative, awareness of environment and the enjoyment of the road with our fellow man.

Climb aboard the contorted Caravan. Inside lives scientists, painters, riders, reckless drunks, photographic documenters, lovers and fighters, activists and pacifists, beautiful men and handsome women, rucksack ramblers, poets and there’s that one corporate suit man. What will you do? Is it right that you should be let through that dangerous little white door? Soes! You’re already thinking in “rights” and “wrongs”, huh? Well, you’ll be tussling with them thoughts from that gravel ditch and the Caravan will be bombing hoarsely by. Make sure you wave too-rah. There is missions to be completed, species to save, tubes to conquer, cronies to be run through, damsels to swoon over and walls to be drip, drip, dripped in paints. Through the country side we will write and sing, “THIS MACHINE KILLS TRASH AND FASCISTS!” Yessir. This mobile home is driven by feet and wheels, by creation, youth and desperation. And the whip cracking responsible corporate world has a red right hand in there too, ‘cos everyone has to answer to somebody. Jump on, bring it to the table and be ready to push up the hills and coast down the other side. Running North to South. Destination: France. Oui?