I left London heading north, passing through Oxford to visit some dear friends. Dinner was already on the table, kids ran barefoot in the garden, and laughter spooled out the back door. One more night of familiarity before rolling onwards.
The next morning, I said my goodbyes and pedaled away from safety, stability, and second helpings. Almost immediately, I noticed the palliative effect on my soul as my world shrank to one simple instruction: ride north until there’s no more north to ride. For what felt like the first time in a decade, my mind could finally breathe deep. No deadlines. No expectations. No results. Just me, my bike, and vague direction.
I was still basking in this newfound clarity when a bus nearly ended the whole thing prematurely, cutting a corner so tight I had to lurch sideways out of its path. It would’ve been a tragic headline: “Man Finds Inner Peace, Immediately Run Over.”
Shaken but unscathed, I pressed on. I wouldn’t see another city for days, choosing instead the winding country lanes and undulating hills of the Cotswolds. My sister once studied in Chester, North Wales. I remembered this suddenly and thought, I’d like to see Chester. So I went. No itinerary. No debates. Just whim. That whim took me northwest, right into the Welsh mountains of my ancestors.
The first few days were brutal. My legs were still adjusting to the new rhythm—10+ hours a day, every day, like a monk’s devotion in motion. I had a deep pouch strapped to my handlebars, stuffed with raisins, nuts, seeds, and broken shards of dark chocolate. I made micro deals with myself: Make it to the top of this hill, you get a piece of chocolate. Hit mile 40, take a whole handful.
It was simple. And it was beautiful.
Cool English sun draped the roads in gold. A crisp breeze followed me like a gentle ghost. The rhythm of pedaling became a kind of cleansing ritual. But even in the most beautiful places, the mind finds shadows.
One long mountain road stretched out ahead of me like a punishment. My legs were failing. My spirit was flagging. I was alone, no I was lonely. And when you’re lonely, the ache in your body can start to echo in your soul. I cranked up Ed Sheeran’s Castle on the Hill, a little cheesy, yes, but familiar, nostalgic, almost holy in that moment.
Just as I was sure I couldn’t go a mile more, a car pulled up beside me. Four strangers leaned out the windows, all Americans, all shouting, “You’ve got this, brother!”
A queue of cars backed up behind them, but they didn’t care. “We’re in this together now!” one of them shouted, beaming.
They stayed with me as I climbed the final stretch. And then, like good samaritans, they were gone, cheering through the open windows, vanishing into the wind.
Sometimes you need to be alone.
Sometimes you need distance from cities and people.
But other times when the climb is steep and your spirit is cracking you need a cheesy Ed Sheeran song on full blast and an American cheer squad yelling, You’ve got this.
And for the first time in my life, I actually believed myself.
READ PART ONE HERE!
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