Over and out from Quebec

Graham Reid

Down the back of most longhaul aircraft, where the fuselage narrows, the seating configuration in the rows near the windows changes: instead of three seats there are only two - and the window seat has plenty of legroom.

This makes it a more comfortable place to sit and although elementary physics will tell you the ride may be slightly more bumpy than if you were near the fulcrum of the wings, it also feels safer: aircraft rarely reverse into a mountain.

I usually ask for one of these seats, and it was there I met Marcel from Quebec - K-beck as he said it - as we flew to Auckland from LA.

Marcel - milky skin, scrupulously shaven head, intense blue eyes - was on a three-month holiday and he intended cycling around New Zealand, a lofty ambition and not one I shared.

But we hit it off as we exchanged travellers' tales. He worked as a medical librarian and through some enlightened pay-to-holiday ratio a percentage of his income was set aside and given as a lump sum to coincide with holidays. He'd cycled France - "Through France?" I asked. "Non, France," he replied - and large tracts of Europe and America. And was now going to do Kiwiland which he had read so much about.

He was witty and charming and by the time we got to Mangere I'd invited him to stay at my place. He agreed and although we lost each other at Customs - me detained as usual, him retrieving his bicycle - he had my phone number.

The following afternoon he called from Queen St and I gave him directions to Point Chevalier. But when he hadn't arrived after a few hours I started to worry. He turned up much later, sweating and bewildered.

He had asked for directions many times he said but no one knew where this place "pwan-shiv-al-yay" was. He also thought New Zealand had a huge Indian population: he'd stopped at dairies and service stations.

He stayed the night then pedalled off. For the next three months - the worst months of rain that I can recall - he cycled around the country, being run into the gravel shoulder by truckies, having things tossed at him from cars, being welcomed on marae, meeting wonderful people everywhere, having some gear stolen ...

When he came back to Auckland he was charitable in his account. Then he returned home and some time later sent me tins of delicious maple syrup. We corresponded by email for a while and then he told me he and his partner were going on holiday to somewhere on the East Coast of Canada.

His partner's name was David, and Marcel signed off: "Yes, I am that kind of man."

I wrote back and said I hoped they enjoyed their vacation - and that I knew he was that kind of man from the moment I sat down beside him on that flight so many months ago.

I never heard from him again.