Week 1: take the leap and the net will follow

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. Chiefly doing a deep clean of my flat and handing the keys in to my landlord. All was done in a state of complete panic, thankfully Juliette was with me and helped me throughout. We literally finished mopping the floor of the flat as the landlord opened the front door. I almost stood to attention when he walked in, having flashbacks of room inspections at Sandhurst. Thankfully he was a tad more lenient than my colour sergeant would have been, and we got away with a rushed job, swerving to lead always works.

So I spent the rest of the morning fitting the bike and rushing to get out, so much so that I forgot the significance of leaving. Or perhaps I allowed myself to be carried away with practical tasks in order to not think too much about what I was doing. I could hear the whispers of doubt growing and I just needed to straighten my resolve and go!

So Tara loaded up, with all my gear for the next year, rain pouring on my now old front door. I sit on the bike, feel her weight, look up through my visor at the road I would take to work every day, knowing that I would never see it again. This was it. I was leaving, so one turn of the throttle and I was off.

A few goodbyes to friends, chiefly my friend Julien who has been a stalwart friend throughout the planning of my exped and well before. At some of my worst moments he was there for me and in a sense saved my life without knowing it. I swing by his regiment to see him and say my goodbyes, he's there with another French army mate from Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. Seeing them in uniforms is somewhat reassuring, and destabilising at the same time. Another symbolic goodbye takes place, I’m not just saying goodbye to my mates, it’s to my past life.

The first leg isn’t too far but in a sense the hardest, I ride to Juliette's house an hour from Toulouse. I’m grinning from ear to ear. But I know that the next few days will be hard. They are, the next two days are as soft as they are difficult. We say an emotional goodbye to each other full of promises of how we will see each other in a few months. I hope it happens, I’ve learnt to allow the universe to do its thing and not expect too much back from it, this adventure is about living in the present without allowing the future to be a source of pain and anxiety.

Nonetheless, leaving was hard and driving away from Juliette's to go see my dad through familiar routes across the southwest of France was not easy. But somehow, as I start questioning my choices, I turn at a T-junction not 5 minutes after leaving and end up tail end Charlie behind a group of motorbikers, it's a sign! Let’s roll!

I spent the night at my dad's, it's hard, at first he doesn’t recognize me. So I explain to him that I’m a friend of Max, and that I look a lot like him. It reassures him, then he suddenly figures it out, he's reassured and tells me he's glad to see me. He was worried that he didn’t know anyone on the train he was on. I play along and tell him the train cabins look awfully big for a train. He agrees, but doesn’t seem to realise. When he calms down he recognises me and we manage to have a few short repetitive conversations.

I leave in the morning sad and cynical. At least I know that whether I’m gone a year or a day he won’t miss me. He’s in good hands, I’m blessed to have someone like Nadine to care for him. Especially after rescuing him from the chemical straitjacket that the retirement home tried to fit him in.

So I rode off from his place for my final goodbye with my good mother Annie and her husband Serge, my French Family. I love them so much and am always so amazed by their zest for life and energy. Annie is 80 and has more energy than most 20-year-olds I know. They are so engaged with the world and others, they just brim life and energy. I feel blessed to have them in my life. I feel energized after a night with them. Annie is also the guardian of my mother’s ashes. They are buried under the protective branches of a giant cedar and the sweet perfume of a lemon tree.

I say my goodbyes after receiving my blessing from Annie and mum. Two croissants and some scrambled eggs later, all family goodbyes are done. The adventure can start!

But it doesn’t, something isn't right. I’m riding through the Camargue in France, but I just don't feel right. I call my friend Reza, a kindred spirit and fellow adventurer. He tells me to get a move on and cross the first border, or the adventure won’t start. I take his advice and just bomb it on the motorway. Not my favourite way of riding, but I just need to get away from France quickly. I need to expedite the separation from the past!

So it's out of the Camargues and onto the “autoroute du soleil,” heading towards Nice. As I get past Marseille, I debate with myself whether I should actually go into Nice or just keep going till Italy. Fear overcomes me and I just need a final dose of familiarity. I ride into Nice for a coffee and instantly regret it. Heat, traffic, expensive food, annoying tourists. I have to go, so I head towards the coast thinking I might find time for a swim before heading into the hills. Another mistake, I didn’t notice the time; it's 1700 hrs, rush hour. The road is clogged, I can't make it to the sea. The heat rises and so does my temper, "Forget it, back on the motorway, I’m getting to Italy!"

With an average of 170 km per hour burning through my fuel budget for the day, I make it to Italy! Instant relief as I sip on my espresso doppio on the side of the road, sun burning my skin. Made it, it can start now, but it’s 6 pm, I don’t know where I’m going to sleep or eat. I decide to get off the motorway and head for the mountains to find a small town where I can rest. I end up in Triora, a town renowned for its historical connection to witchery, ominous. I can’t find a place and start panicking. I have all my camping gear but I’m not psychologically ready to wild camp yet; the day has been emotional enough. I just don’t have the courage to find a wood block and sleep alone in my tent on the first night, especially since the only spot I found was behind a church in the witch village—too much for one night.

So I fold and head for the next village and luckily find a hotel. I have a great meal of red wine, pasta cooked inside a giant parmesan wheel, and a homemade lemon sorbet, followed up with a chaser of local grappa. So with a full stomach and a swerving mind, I head to bed.

Excitement gets the best of me, I’m up at 0500! So I head to the mountain river for a cold plunge to get my dopamine going. For breakfast, I meet two Italian riders who recommend some routes in the Dolomites, Passa de Giau. Noted, I'll head that way then!

So it’s goodbye to the hills and back to the coast, but before that, a spin by the Deus Ex Machina shop in Milan, and again, going against my instinct to avoid cities. As I arrive in Milan, a crazed car driver almost takes me out. I lose my cool, I start swearing at him in my best French. He responds with "va fanculo," "Forget it, it’s on," I’m about to go to his car window and rip him out of his car to break both his arms. Violence has taken over my senses, I can't calm down. I take a breath

and try to disengage, upset at myself for having let anger get the best of me, but also a little sad I didn’t dislocate that idiot’s head off.

The Deus Ex Machina shop and café were worth the break in the pain of getting into the centre of Milan. Again, more familiarity, but equally good to be around like-minded people. So, the decision for that night was to get over my fear of solo camping and just go for it. I head for Lake Garda after my 5th espresso; it’s a Saturday night, the roads are clogged with Milanese weekenders rushing to lakes and dawdling Germans on their BMW GSs. I hate the place; I can't wait to get out. I eventually find a campsite, set up, and settle in for the night. After I’m set up, I think I’ve deserved a pizza. Too late to cook and use my gear, I head to the nearest coastal town on Lake Garda. It’s full of couples and families. I feel very alone. My friend Jack’s words come back to haunt me, he warned me that when he undertook this trip he found himself the loneliest when around others. I feel it and retreat to my tent, hoping for a good night's sleep, not going to happen. A dysfunctional couple of German cyclists seem to be unable to keep their voices down and one of them has the annoying habit of clanging his pot and pan together all night. I’m about to get up and say something but contain my rage, still a lot to let go...

However, the clang of pots and pans doesn’t compare to the roar of pistons and combustible sprouting from Tara at 0600 the next morning as I tear out of the campsite to go see my good friend Mattia. I will keep it short on him, as short as his amputated arm. Because he deserves a lot more than the few words I will manage here. I met him in Colorado in 2023 as part of an event for the Invictus Foundation. At first, I found him a bit aloof and arrogant. But after I saw him one day getting to the top of a 4000m mountain ahead of the whole team through sheer determination and willpower, I had nothing left but admiration for the guy. Mattia sadly lost all function in his right arm after a serious motorcycle accident; he kept the arm for a while but finally decided to amputate it a few weeks before coming on this expedition. Not once did he complain or say a word about his amputation; he was the embodiment of stoicism (pun intended). So it was with great joy that I went to have coffee in Trento with this one-armed ex-military police officer. His disability clearly started before losing his arm, who joins the military police!!!!

Mattia gives me a few pointers (this time pun not intended but I’ll leave it all the same) on some spots to visit and we part ways. I’m so grateful he took some time to come see me; he will be the last familiar face I see till I reach Greece and what an inspiration this guy is. He's currently preparing for the Winter World Cup para champs as a Nordic skier in prep for the Italian Winter Olympics while starting a career in politics. We talk ideas and come to the conclusion that somehow if Europe could be united by a federating message of inclusion based on shared values of hard work and tolerance, the current swing to the extreme right could be reverted, the question is how...

Politics aside, I ride off into the Dolomites full of energy and inspiration despite feeling a bit hot. The black Malle jacket my good friend Rob sponsored me with seems to be a heat magnet; I suffer from it, but as I gain altitude on my way to Passa Di Giao, the temperature drops and it comes into its own.

As I gain altitude, I pass the snow line into the magical world of the Dolomite National Park. What a breath of fresh air! There's a sharpness to the light here that seems to illuminate nature. I'm reminded that my great-grandfather fought here on the Austro-German side of the First World War. I feel sad that so much death and destruction can happen in such a beautiful place. Apparently, he suffered terribly from PTSD (not recognized in those days). I’m not sure I know enough about generational trauma, but it clearly exists. I hope I don’t pass on too much of my struggles to my kids if I ever have any.

I make it to the top of a pass whose name I can't recall, and just at the top is an ice lake! I can't resist—I have to jump in, partly because I want to and partly because it will look cool on Instagram. Another addiction, another struggle to beat, an attachment to gratification and the known world. My phone, a constant reminder that I belong to something. I hate the power it has over me, but I don’t stop. I rationalize it by telling myself that if I manage to stay authentic while doing it, it won’t be that bad, still it grates on me, or maybe it's another thing I can’t let go of. I can’t just enjoy the moment...

Finally, I make the Passa Di Giao, almost snowed in, and have a chat with a French traveler (in a Land Rover, I envy his comfort and facility, yes this is aimed at you, Alex...). He tells me it's about to rain for the next few days. I suddenly realize that I haven’t bothered looking at my weather app since I left. Here I am at 2500 meters, a storm is coming, and I have no idea where to camp!

I rush down the mountain after a speedy goodbye and make it to a lower lake, thinking I’ve found safety, but the storm catches me. So, the first night of wild camping has to happen; my plans to find a campsite backfire when I find out that the campsite I assumed would be open isn’t. The Sandhurst ghost of my past life is laughing at me: "Proper Planning and Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance."

Well, with all due respect, the whole point of this adventure is to live outside of that rigidity.

In the end, I find a solo harbour (that's a safe location to sleep, in civilian parlance). Water, cover from view, easy ingress and egress routes, comms (4G!), good to go. I've finally figured it out, colour sergeant!!

So, I manage my anxiety about sleeping alone in a woodblock without any brothers around me and no weapon; it feels weird. I manage to light a fire and get some warm food in me before the rain returns. I try to sleep, but the rain and my anxiety keep me up all night.

With little sleep, I’m up at five. All is good. I make a quick cup of coffee and get myself ready for the ride across Austria to Slovenia. The rain continues the whole way; I don’t mind, my gear is watertight, and either way, three months of my life getting beasted by the Royal Marines, perpetually wet, helps in dealing with the cold and wet. I did have my full Goretex on; no point being wet just for fun. I also know that all my gear on the bike is double waterproofed, and I always have some dry gear to switch into once I set up camp, which keeps me going, thanks, Royals...

I decide to get a haircut in Austria before heading into Slovenia. I wanted to keep my hair long and grow a massive beard as a sign of freedom from the Army. But the rules changed this month, and now every man and his dog in the army can grow a beard... Just doesn’t mean the same anymore. I go to an Iraqi-owned shop with a Syrian barber in Austria. I throw in my few words of Arabic and make friends. The barber, Amine, tells me why he can’t go back to Syria; conscription is still in force for young men of fighting age, he's an only son so is exempt from fighting for Bashar's Army, however, he knows that despite him being within the rules if he goes back, he will be killed for cowardice. He tells me that he hopes war doesn’t break out in Austria or else he doesn’t know where he will go. I don’t know what to say; we shake hands, and I return to riding in the rain to Slovenia.

Riding to the Slovenian border, I see a tank on the top of a hill, amidst the fog and rain. I stop to check it out. It’s a Russian tank set up as a demo to attract tourists to an Austrian war museum (probably a bit redacted, I don’t go

in at this point—I'm pretty wet and cold and need to figure out where to sleep, a shame...). Seeing the T-52 tank on the former USSR border reminds me how close a war of ideologies brought us to the end of times, and how close we are today. It seems the Russian border has receded and the red ideology lost, but war hasn’t ended. Are we the problem, not war? Claiming war is horrible is a fact, but the real issues remain about our own nature. The end of the Cold War was not the end to war, just the victory of one ideology over another. What happens now? What are the current ideologies that seem to be destabilizing the world today? Are we as humans doomed to constantly be at war over ideas, territory, and power? It all seems so tribal... I’m aware of my Western privilege in being able to write this as freely as I want. I just wonder about the meaning of being "just" in a world that seems increasingly polarised and where it seems that in all conflicts, it’s not the justest cause that wins, but more often the strongest. Can we overcome this as a species?

Crossing into Slovenia, mountain chalets look the same, but every town still has the vestiges of the Soviet block—tall, grey, soulless communist buildings. There will be more of these to come in the coming months. Ideologies...

My gear hasn’t held up the way I wanted it to; my waterproof trousers are leaking into my boots, happens when you’re 6ft 5 and have stupidly long legs. Morale starts to sink. Not going to camp tonight; I must find a cheap hostel. Made it to Bled, soaked and tired. I see a British pub called the George Best; it’s the first one I see. "Fuck it, I need some warmth."

I enter the bar soaked with my helmet still on, I feel like a wet version of Clint Eastwood walking into a Mexican western bar, it all goes quiet, then the music resumes. A few minutes later, I get invited to have beers with Lovan, who was on his second pint of wine on a Monday afternoon, a legend! Him and his mates quiz me about my trip and invite me to have beers with them.

I had one beer and was on my way before it got messy and I ended up doing things I’d regret. Now in the Ace of Spades hostel to get some rest, having a bottle of wine and trying to relax. Couldn’t face a second night camping in the rain, for 16 euros I get a room in a shared block, hopefully, the kids won't be getting smashed tonight, and I can sleep. Tomorrow, I head to the beach to avoid this weather. My rain gear held up, but my boots are too short, and so my rain trousers leak in... Needs to be fixed.

Direction Zadar , Croatia or in the hills above the coast on route to Sarajevo, or perhaps stay on the coast, will let the weather guide me. The next friendly face will be in Greece, in between now and then, freedom and the Balkans!