What’s the longest stretch of time you’ve ever spent alone?
It wasn’t a question I’d asked myself—at least, not seriously—until this ride. Sure, I interacted with people now and then. Occasionally, a group of American cheerleaders would saddle up beside me, offering a cheer. But for the most part, my days consisted of me. Alone. On a bike. Grinding through pain, lactic acid build up, searching each evening for a lonely field or a quiet beach with a view.
I’d crawl into my bivy bag, zip the world out, and fall into a light, tentative sleep. Wake, ride, repeat.
By the fourth day, I realized something uncomfortable: I didn’t really enjoy my own company.
The existential philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre once said, “If you’re lonely when you’re alone, you’re in bad company.”
It’s a facetious way of asking: are you at peace with yourself when there’s no one else around?
That, in my opinion, is the beauty—and ache—of a solo pilgrimage. You’re stuck with yourself. No distractions. No one to blame. Just you, for hours, for days.
Most of life doesn’t give us that kind of silence. We rush through breakfast and bolt out the door. We curse drivers on the commute, too slow and they’re idiots, too fast and they’re maniacs. We grind through emails, endure meetings, smile through small talk with coworkers. Then it’s back home, maybe the gym, dinner, Netflix, sex, sleep.
Rinse. Repeat.
When are we truly alone? When are you truly alone?
Winding my way northeast through the Welsh Valleys toward Chester, I hit a wall I wasn’t expecting. Not a physical one, I still had gas in the tank, but an emotional one. Somewhere outside of Llangollen, I stopped, pulled out my phone, and called a friend.
“I’m not sure I can do this,” I said.
“What, the riding?”
“No. The being alone.”
I hadn’t realized how noisy I was on the inside until everything on the outside went quiet.
We fill our days with people and posts and podcasts, and when all that’s stripped away, we’re left face to face with the voice inside. Mine was savage. You’re not strong enough. You’re not good enough. You don’t know what you’re doing. You’re not even doing it right.
A self-flogging match the asceticism of the desert monks would envy.
There’s a difference, I learned, between being alone and being lonely. The former is external. The latter is existential. And the latter, I realized, had been eating away at me for years.
But something curious happened as the miles ticked on.
After a few days of camping in fields, brushing my teeth in cold rivers, and waving at sheep, I noticed the internal volume start to drop. I started to crave solitude. I began to wake up not missing people, but wanting more time with myself. I even discovered I was funnier than I’d previously thought.
Conversations became less about being seen and more about seeing others. I didn’t feel the need to impress or explain. Just to be.
Solitude—real, extended solitude—is one of the great neglected spiritual disciplines of our time. Pilgrimage forces it on you. It gives your mind the space to catch up with your heart. It gives your spirit room.
In my spiritual tradition there’s a famous saying, ‘love others as you love yourself’. I hadn’t realized that my capacity to love others had been limited by my capacity to learn to love myself. So I thought I’d give it a try. I encouraged myself, as I would a friend, I joked with myself as I would a friend.
Somewhere between the misty hills and the worn-down tarmac, I found something resembling a best friend.
READ PART ONE AND PART TWO HERE
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