62
By the time I reach the French border it’s past midnight. I’ve driven more or less non-stop, save for a couple of toilet stops and the refuelling outside Frankfurt. I don’t have much fuel left now, but there aren’t many miles to go, either. The lumbar area of my back hurts like hell. Every now and again I straighten up in my seat and push the bottom of my back forward, feeling the creaking and cracking as the vertebrae resettle into their proper positions. My knees are stiff, too, and my right ankle started to hurt about an hour ago. Stopping for a rest has never been an option, though. The only thing I can do is keep going, keep ploughing on.
About twenty minutes or so after I cross the border from Belgium into France, the roads start to look familiar. The memories come back, and it
