I left Kazakhstan with a sense of trepidation, stepping out of the endless steppes into a land of high mountains and nomadic horsemen, Kyrgyzstan. Before this trip, my knowledge of the country was so minimal I could barely place it on a map. I crossed into Kyrgyzstan from the most eastern Kazakh border crossing, after camping a night in Charyn Canyon, a smaller version of the Grand Canyon. That morning, I woke up alone for the last time in the desert steppes of Kazakhstan, watching the sun slowly rise above the deep red canyon. At first, it was a bright orange sliver of light peeking on the horizon, burning away the last of the night sky. The sun rose majestically, becoming a golden orb not yet powerful enough to blind the human eye, warming the arid land as it claimed its place at the zenith.

Arrived in Kazakhstan partly shell shocked, relieved, and devoid of any money after being robbed by the police in Russia. After scrounging some Wi-Fi from a desolate shop in the middle of the steppe, I managed to book into a relatively fancy hotel in Atyrau, way over budget but needed to regroup, reorganize, and calm the nerves a little. A decent bed, some food, and finding a way to get some money were priorities. In the parking lot, as I was unloading my bike, I was accosted by a jovial and smiling Kazakh curious to find out where I had come from. As is often the way on long-distance solo travel, at first one is always cautious when approached by strangers, especially after my last encounters on the other side of the border. Paranoia can quickly settle in. Once one's guard is up, it's hard to let it down. So, as this strange little Kazakh man with round features, a stocky neck, and rotund countenance was asking me lots of questions about my bike, my journey, etc., I couldn’t help thinking what he was after—money? Information? I was on edge.

You might ask yourself what in the hell is an ex-British Army Officer with two passports doing crossing Russia on a motorbike? Who would be that stupid with that profile even think about doing something like that?

Questions I was asking myself as I was sat in the back of a police car on the border between Dagestan and Astrakhan. While being shouted at in a mix of Russian and broken English that I was going to jail and had lost all my rights. Flashes of BBC World Service announcing the news to my friends and family were running amok in my mind.

Emily left, Kiki was handed back, and Tara was meant to be collected to continue my journey. The parts—a set of spokes that had fallen off in Armenia, threatening the integrity of the wheel—ordered two weeks prior, had arrived. So, with bated breath, I returned to George's garage to pick Tara up, intent on leaving directly from there to the Georgia/Russia border to restart my journey eastwards across the desert plains of Kazakhstan, Tajikistan through Afghanistan, Pakistan, and India. The excitement of the night before was only matched by the disappointment of realising that George had ordered the wrong parts and hadn’t bothered telling me.

Returning to a familiar place when your heart is set on riding around the world can feel like a setback, or even a failure. The very word "set" becomes a problem on a long journey that has a direction but no defined path. Nothing is set in stone—from the gear you pack to the ideas you harbour. The impermanence of things is revealed the further you stray from your original plans.

I left Georgia with a vicious cold but a warm heart, as Shota is now undoubtedly a brother. Such kindness, generosity, and love—it’s a real privilege and an honor to be able to call him a friend.

Onwards from Tbilisi to Armenia for a long-awaited meeting with my old friends Kane, Lucy, and their newest addition, Max. Nate had advised me to avoid the eastern border crossing, as it’s the main transit route and often clogged with transport trucks and tourists. Instead, he recommended the less-used eastern border crossing in Guguti, sitting at 2000 meters in altitude—a forgotten road leading to a barren border crossing.

Recovering from the mountain is a multifaceted experience. Your body demands rest, and while the sense of accomplishment is uplifting, a subsequent deflation often sets in. What next? The adrenaline and high-risk intensity experienced during the climb aren't easily replicated, similar to the transition soldiers feel returning from operations—loss of purpose, fatigue, and a backlog of insights and experiences to process.

Thanks to my altercation at the border, I lost three hours on my initial plan to enter Georgia. There's a lesson here for any traveler crossing multiple borders: Start your crossing early. You never know what might happen—slow procedures, grumpy guards, lines of traffic, and sluggish administrations. Be the early bird and even dedicate a full day to the crossing. Make it an event rather than an inconvenience; it will alleviate any frustrations that may arise. Nonetheless, hindsight is great, but in my case, I still had 300 kilometers to cover to get to Tbilisi and finally reunite with my long-lost friend, Shota, whom I had last seen in the parking lot of Old College at Sandhurst 14 years ago, the day after our commissioning parade and officially becoming 2nd Lieutenants.

 Like any traveler will know, it's hard to get back in the saddle after finding a haven of peace, tranquility, and emotional safety. Amid the chaotic hustle and bustle of Istanbul's streets, I had found a place where I could probably hang my hat, but something in my heart was still stirring me to move on. It was a sad goodbye to Emily and her neighborhood that had, in a sense, become mine. Ismael the shop owner, Onur the rug dealer, and Mohamed the barber had become my friends and made me feel at home on the Bosphorus. But I have a mission, a goal to achieve: to get around the world on Tara. So, with a bit of my heart forever in Istanbul, I set off toward Georgia via the Black Sea, knowing that I will see my friends again soon, and Emily even sooner! My feelings are torn between my longing for adventure and the serenity and well-being I found in her presence. I text our mutual acquaintance who introduced us, "Mate, you’ve messed me up on this one. She's either my Penelope or the Medusa that turns heroes to stone!"

The border crossing into Turkey was a sobering and novel experience. Leaving the EU for the gates of the East, I crossed a DMZ bridge. On each side, Turkish and Greek soldiers equipped with Ops-Core gear looked a bit bored, relaxing in the morning sun. I waved at them, empathizing with their mundane duty of standing all day looking at the other side with nothing else to do. The Turkish border customs officers were as stern as the tail-wagging dogs that roamed around the barriers. I tried my best Turkish to elicit a smile from the one checking my paperwork. No reaction. I kept at it, determined to see some humanity in this stern Turkish Official. Eventually, I saw a suppressed smile appear, satisfied he wasn’t a robot but a human after all—a victory under my belt. I had made it and opened up Tara onto the Turkish roads!

It was such a relief to meet Alex again; we hadn’t seen each other for over 12 years, probably more, since I joined up. We grew up together in Brussels in the late '90s, early 2000s. Our youth was a mix of European technocracy and dabbling even fingering with criminality. Brussels in those days was wild, hash from Morocco, ecstasy from Holland, and a booming underground techno scene was too hard to resist for our young and curious souls.

The storm that chased me from the Dolomites continued to pursue me across the Balkans. I was set to head to the coast as fast as possible to escape the rain and soggy boots. But, as is often the case, no plan survives contact; or as Mike Tyson so eloquently put it, "Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face."

Departures are never easy; they signify change, stepping away from something, someone, somewhere. Going somewhere new and having to say goodbye—a bittersweet mix. Just getting to the departure line was a test in itself. Having partied a bit too much a few nights before leaving to celebrate the removal of my kidney stone, I let procrastination get the better of me and left some of my admin to be done at the last minute.

Kidney stone removed, gear repacked, keys to apartment to be handed in to my landlord in the morning, tomorrow I go.

Couldn’t sleep yesterday, apprehension, doubts, firework of thoughts kicking off in my mind.

Had the last meal with my friends, the thumbs up from my therapist, I’m ready. Everytime I hug or spend time with loved ones I’m assaulted by doubts. I calm myself down and remember that they’ll be in my heart throughout this, this is not a goodbye, it’s a see you later on the road!

Well, there I was days from departing, my gear ready, my motorcycle prepared. My mind as resolute as it could be. The start of my adventure was within reach, I could feel it! I had packed all my belongings; sold all the stuff I didn’t need. My nights were consumed by the departure. I had handed in my last bits of my military equipment a few days before, itself a strange feeling of letting go. The shedding of my old self had begun.

All stories start with a call to adventure, but before that happens there’s normality or the ordinary world: what we know, who we are, the normal, the comfortable place within one is yet compelled to leave….

My normality was being a soldier for fourteen years, one might say that was an adventure in itself. Sadly it was one that took its toll on me.