The call to adventure!

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.

I was never happy as a soldier, as much as it was a fantastic experience that allowed me to travel the world and meet some truly incredible people, some of whom have changed my life for the better and will be forever in it. The hard fact was that military life never corresponded with who I truly was, as was evident in my complete inability to perform any form of drill when I was at Sandhurst…. Now don’t get me wrong, I have nothing but praise for the military as an organisation (I should also add that an army is just the strong arm Politicians. I make a clear distinction between the profession of being a soldier and their political masters; all too often they seem to be more than happy to send young men to war to do their bidding….) 

The Army provided me with structure and camaraderie, especially for the young lost soul I was. Being in the Army taught me discipline, loyalty, courage and determination. I was drawn to it as those were aspects of my life that were lacking prior to joining. A life of drinking, fighting and drug abuse had pretty much characterised me, I was an angry and sad young man looking for a cause. I realise now with some perspective that those were all behaviours I was displaying to cover the big wound in my heart I had never addressed. At least the Army was a place where I could park my emotional pain and just focus on the tasks at hand. Do as you’re told, stay fit, don’t rock the boat too much, look after your men and you will be ok. So that’s what I did, beasted myself physically, made sure my men’s welfare came first in every situation, trying my hardest to stick to those two rules amidst the constant going away and the heavy drinking culture that existed in those days. I had found my tribe, done the initiations, collected the badges and was in. It was safe. I had earned my place.

But burying your pain away doesn’t help you resolve it. Living a soldier’s life often means you take on a role, a hard exterior where compartmentalisation becomes your go-to emotional coping mechanism. As my Army life continued to progress my personal one started to unravel. From being away all the time, to living a life that didn’t align with who I was any more, things started to go wrong. I found it harder and harder to contain the pain I was carrying inside, often compounded by the life of the Army. Compartmentalising didn’t work anymore so I switched to self-medicating; my drug of choice wasn’t alcohol, it was benzodiazepines, green Valium tablets. How fitting it would be that now that my green uniform couldn’t protect me from my inner feelings, I would seek comfort and evasion in a green narcotic haze. I developed an addiction that I hid from those around me, and despite living what many would call a dream life, good job, promotions, beautiful girlfriend, inside I was suffering. I would seek evasion at every opportunity, drink, drugs, women…Anything to not deal with what I was feeling.

This all came to an abrupt end when two years ago, I tried to quit the Valium, which led me down a dark and dangerous path. I had had no idea how addictive benzos can be. I was hooked, and quitting proved to be the hardest thing in the world. I was taking up to 6 to 7 mgs a day, enough to put a big horse to sleep, yet somehow still managing to go to work and function (barely at times). So, when I tried to stop, everything I had suppressed just resurged, and with a vengeance. After 6 days of no sleep, walking around naked in my empty flat, suffering paranoid delusions of ghosts, while wielding a Russian bayonet I had recovered from Afghanistan, I knew I had gone too far. It was time to seek some help

So that’s when I put my hand up and asked to be seen by a mental health professional. It was the start of a long journey of healing that is still ongoing. I was signed off work for a while and kept being told to take time off and do something I enjoyed. My passions in life, aside from my dog and getting smashed, were motorcycling and Brazilian Jiu jitsu. Motorcycling offered me freedom from the constant harassment of my intrusive and negative thoughts. Being on my bike, riding through winding twisting landscapes, was the best therapy I could ask for. Being on my bike meant I could do nothing else but focus on the road - the next turn, the next acceleration. Nothing else seemed to matter; I was back in the moment again. I was alive and happy to be!

 So, one day, shopping at my local Moroccan butchers I got into a chat with one of the guys working there. He told me about his latest solo trip on a 125cc motorcycle from Toulouse to Marrakesh. How he had grabbed a ferry from France and had the time of his life. I had just split up with my girlfriend (my behaviour at the time was unbearable to all those that loved me) and I was desperate for some space and time alone. So, I shook my butcher’s hand, committed to following his example, and set off the next day to Morocco!

 The first few days were odd; I had never really travelled alone, but as time progressed, I got into the vibe. I was getting a taste of freedom. Freedom of choice, choosing where to be, what to see and allow myself to feel it all! The smells, the people I met! It was Ramadan, so despite most people being understandably a bit flat during the day, when I turned up in a village or town past seven at night I would be welcomed with such warmth and curiosity. It was on the return journey that I received my calling, I was in Tangiers port to catch my ferry back to Spain. As I arrived I was greeted by an eclectic mix of dusty travellers in an assortment of crazy vehicles, bikers at the front, huge 4x4s, vans, converted military vehicles all covered in African dust, the drivers at the side of their rides with distant vistas in their eyes.

It suddenly dawned on me that these were all adventurers returning home from their travels across Africa, not just Morocco. On the ferry I met so many inspiring people. Mathias, a young 29-year-old who had lived alone in the Atlas Mountains with his two stroke motocross for 6 months. Didn’t use a tarmac road once. Marc, the mad German, who had left home 6 years ago to live as a nomad, travelling the world by any means available, so he bought an old 750cc transalp for under a thousand euros and decided to ride it to Dakar! We shared stories all night for two days over a few whiskies in the ferry, amidst the shisha and hashish clouds emanating from the ferry lounge bar! I left my newfound friends to ride back over the Pyrenees with a new sense of purpose. As I crossed Andorra I knew, this was it, I was going to ride around the world and see it all! Feel it all! The call to adventure had happened, this trip had changed my life. I knew then what I needed to do to climb out of my depression and learn to live again!

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