People like me – brown, single mothers in their mid-30s – don’t do this kind of thing. Neither did I: until I did.
On a cold and wet morning this spring, I left home in Glasgow on my old touring bike and pedalled nearly 3000 miles until, exactly two months later, I reached Asia.
I may never have made the transition from armchair dreamer to bona fide adventurer without an Adventure Queens Grant. Winning this was the catalyst for this unlikely journey: an essential and gratefully received injection of support and resources that got me to the start line.
Pushing off along the pavement on that grey April morning, wobbly and unsure, I laughed at the sheer audacity of what I was attempting. With each passing day, my confidence grew, along with my leg muscles, tan lines, and distance from home, until—somehow – it was accomplished.
What I learned from this adventure might surprise you.
1. Time only draws maps for tomorrow
“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it is not the same river and he is not the same man.” Heraclitus
I had hoped that cycling down memory lane would be illuminating. It was, but the experience was also unsettling and ultimately unsatisfying, and not one I intend to repeat.
As I pedalled through Sunderland, where I once taught Maths, I pictured the young woman I used to be. I saw her hunched over piles of homework in her cramped flat, eating beans and toast from a frying pan, anaesthetising herself against the stress with trash TV.
Recalling LP Hartley’s immortal line, “The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there”, I realised how distant that version of myself had become. My empathy for her sharpened against the stone of my profound discomfort at revisiting this place. I pedalled away quickly, not even pausing to take a photo. I no longer wanted to anchor myself to a past I had outgrown.
Even places with happier memories – Cambridge, Greenwich – failed to quench my thirst for the new and the unknown. I was seeking the thrill and challenge of the unfamiliar: battling the wind on the terrifying Humber Bridge, seeing Kent’s lush vineyards, or navigating Lincolnshire’s flat expanses.
The past felt increasingly irrelevant compared to the excitement and potential of what lies ahead.
A resolution became firmer with each passing day: from now on, I choose to move forwards.
2. Freedom lives in the space you create
“So what becomes of you, my love?
When they have finally stripped you of
The handbags and the gladrags
That your poor old granddad
Had to sweat to buy you”
Stereophonics
I am a minimalist by nature. A good wardrobe purge, empty shelf or clear inbox calms me.
The idea that shelf-space creates headspace is not new. Long before the modern minimalist gospel made prophets out of the celebrity decluttering guru, Marie Kondo, or Steve Jobs – who famously wore the same clothes every day to reduce decision fatigue – the ancient Greeks and many faith traditions instructed us to avoid excess and be content with what we have.
Packing my whole life into two pannier bags was an extreme application of this approach. I wore the same clothes and trainers every day and carried no make-up or accessories: no ‘stuff’ at all unless it was necessary. There were times where I missed another pair of warm socks, some salt, a hairdryer, a pillow or any number of luxuries that would have made me more comfortable.
Carrying only what I needed, I felt an incredible sense of freedom. I was liberated from the demands of maintaining, cleaning, storing, and holding on to things that held little true value. No longer burdened by choices about what to wear, what to pack, or mundane tasks like cleaning the bathroom and taking out the rubbish, I was free to move through the world lightly, leaving little trace behind.
This simplicity brought clarity and the knowledge that I am already blessed beyond measure. What more could I possibly need beyond my health, the love of those close to me, the privileges of a British passport, and enough money to keep going for now?
In the same way, you need far less than you might think to embark on an adventure like this. Less money, less preparation, less gear, less overthinking. If you do the bare minimum and start, everything else falls into place as you go.
3. Nomadic life is a microcosm of normal life
80% of the time in life on the road, nothing much happens. A traveller endures long periods of repetitive action, routine and boredom. I’ve heard of people watching reruns of The Office on handlebar-mounted phones; most of us listen to music or podcasts at least some of the time. The same mundane thoughts repeat on loop: when can I eat, what food is there, where is the next turning, watch that pothole/car/dog/child, my knees hurt, how many miles are left…
The other 20% is gold: memorable episodes of excitement, drama and heightened emotion that sink much deeper. The unexpectedly lovely evening I spent eating paella and chatting with a Swiss family after knocking on their door, exhausted, to ask if I could camp on a nearby patch of grass. The sense of pride when I cycled my first ever 80-plus mile day. The three-way chorus of ‘pay unt pay unt pay’ dissolving into fits of giggles when trying to communicate with a Hungarian campsite owner. Sharing a roadside Twix and coffee in the rain with a French hippie, who – unprompted – gave me a lesson in how to manifest wealth (I must have looked like I needed help).
One of my happiest moments was arriving at a riverside campsite in Ulm that doubled as a beer garden. Too exhausted to wash, I sat at a picnic table, drinking Coke and eating cheesy pasta. I was filthy: there was black soot from my stove on my arms, dead flies in my hair and salt from dried sweat on my face. I had earned this dirt. The sun was warm on my skin. I saw the Danube and heard birdsong above the gentle clatter of cutlery and chatter of people around me. I was grateful to be there, to be alive in that place at that time. It was a simple moment, and one of the loveliest of the entire trip.
And yet…
Even when it feels like nothing is happening, a day spent powering yourself over 50 miles is not like a day spent sitting in a car or at a desk. When you move from one place to another outdoors, under your own steam, you become part of the environment. You feel the sun or rain on your skin, hear the wind, smell the farms, experience the gradient of the ground and get dust in your hair.
You attract hundreds of small interactions every day: waves, beeps, smiles, nods, hellos, offers of help, questions, stares, cheers and conversations. There is no option of retreating to the safety and comfort of a controlled environment.
It’s normal life: stripped to its essence, electrified and exposed.
4. Brave isn’t a feeling: it’s being scared and doing it anyway
People keep telling me that I’m brave, and I understand why. But, in truth, I didn’t ever feel brave. What I did feel many times was very scared.
There was the time in Serbia when I got caught in a thunderstorm, 5 miles away from the nearest town. The thunderclaps and flashes of lightening were right on top of me in the rapidly gathering dark on a busy, winding, country road. Then it started absolutely chucking it down. There was nothing I could do but keep cycling, hyperventilating, fully expecting lightening to strike the metal frame of the bike any second. I flew down the road, feeling as alive and charged as the storm, the terror and crackling ambient energy giving me wings until I made it to a petrol station, and breathed.
And the time in Bulgaria when a busy road turned into a four-lane highway full of speeding trucks and beeping cars…then the hard shoulder disappeared. For a few hairy miles, I sweated and swore and pushed as fast as I could – all the time, my heart pounding and my mouth dry with fear.
The dogs in Eastern Europe and Turkey were the worst. The strays roamed freely in packs. On two occasions, when a pack was on my tail, I screamed and swerved left across the road into oncoming traffic to get away from them. The guard dogs tied up in gardens barked furiously as I passed, causing me to jump and almost fall off my bike every few minutes. If there is an epidemic of burglar gangs roaming around the Serbian countryside to justify all these dangerous animals being kept in residential areas, I found no evidence of it.
I was forced to push myself through fear again and again, only to find that there was something scarier on the other side – as well as just enough extra confidence to face it.
Doing something you want to do while feeling scared is the stuff of bravery – even if you hyperventilate your way through it.
5. Kindness makes the world go round
My hopes about encountering the kindness of strangers had been raised by reading the accounts of travellers who had gone before me. The journey didn’t disappoint. I returned home with stories of remarkable generosity and genuine hospitality. What I hadn’t expected was how much it all matters.
Small acts carry immense power. A smile, nod, wave, assumption of positive intent, kind gesture or a simple wish for someone’s well-being – each of these can alter the trajectory of a day or even a life.
Life on the road makes a traveller more vulnerable and open to others’ energy, which magnifies the impact of these interactions. Perhaps it’s the effect of constant movement on the psyche, stripping away layers of armour to allow certain truths to resonate more deeply – truths that are often harder to grasp when life is still and familiar.
Returning to stationary life, I felt that I had transitioned from being a salmon swimming upstream – strong, majestic and inspiring – to a frog sitting in a stagnant pond, gathering slime. Truths that are seen clearly from the saddle of a moving bike seem to blur when viewed from the comfort of a sofa, and I find myself struggling to hold onto some of these lessons now I’m home.
What I do know is that I remember with great clarity and gratitude each act of kindness shown to me when I was in that unguarded, open state – and I don’t let a cyclist go past these days without a wave and a smile.
6. There are lots of reasons NOT to go on a solo bike tour
Like most things worth doing, a journey like this isn’t always easy.
The trophies are dubious: bruised legs, bizarre tan lines, a sore backside and an insatiable pastry habit. It’s frequently uncomfortable and monotonous, often punishing and sometimes dangerous. It’s a mental and physical grind – and it can be lonely. You don’t lose weight and there are far easier ways to get fit. You will have dark nights of the soul.
On the first evening, I wrote in my diary: “I think I might find this journey really hard, but that’s the point. To push myself and see what I discover.” In the early days, I had recurring nightmares about falling into a canal. By day five, I hadn’t worn less than three layers on my top half and was still freezing. That day, from a campsite in Skinningrove, I wrote: “This journey seems both mad and impossible right now. I have no idea if my body can make it or if I’ll discover anything of any use.”
By day 17, I was in Belgium, taking a break in a McDonald’s after 36 gruelling miles. I wrote: “I couldn’t be bothered at all with today’s ride. It took me down stupid paths with mud, rocks, and fallen trees… there’s a huge hill out of here and it’s about to rain… I’ve absolutely had enough today.”
The next day, after crossing back into France, I had the worst day of the journey. The early morning’s cold rain soon turned into hail. An icy wind picked up in the afternoon as I crawled up huge hills, with frequent stops as my tears blurred my vision. On the road, there’s no escape from your thoughts, feelings, or problems. You’re forced to confront them, and that day, I did. It wasn’t fun, but I lived to cycle another (much better) day.
Cycling into a relentless headwind, slogging through mud, and crying your way up a hill teaches you to appreciate all the times when things go right. I’m convinced the journey got better not just because my fitness improved, the weather brightened, or my body adapted, but because I became more grateful. I noticed the tailwinds. I gave thanks.
People like me don’t do things like this. But I did. On the way, I surprised myself with what I learned about myself, about what makes the world go round, and about what I want from the rest of my life. And you can, too.
Don’t embark on an adventure because you think it will be easy or fun.
Go because you want to do something hard.
Go because you’re willing to pay the price for a taste of freedom.
Go because you want to learn.
It might just change your life.
This post was written by guest blogger and AQ Grant winner Sahir Pernall and reposted from her personal blog.