Doors close, others open.

For some time now, I’ve dreamed of taking my bicycle on an adventure not for speed or records, not for the kind of validation that seems to fuel so many modern pursuits, but simply to slip away. To disappear from the nine-to-five, the hum of obligation, the dull glow of screens that dictate so much of our daily lives. A time-out, not just from work but from the ceaseless murmur of social media, where reality is diluted, manipulated, and repackaged as something shinier than it ever was.

We live in an era of curated existence, where the perfect life is stitched together in a thousand snapshots, each one more polished than the last. And yet, beneath it all, something is missing. I see it in myself. I see it in others. That creeping unease, that quiet dissatisfaction. A sense that we are all playing along with a game we never agreed to, a performance we cannot escape.

So I step back. Not in protest, not in defiance, but in pursuit of something simpler. Something truer that comes from the heart and that doesn’t need to be justified by others or fit in with their instahazed way of life.

This is where the bicycle becomes more than a machine. It is a means of escape, a passage into something more real. Travel alone, and the world unfolds differently. Solitude makes you vulnerable, and that vulnerability draws people in. Strangers become curious: What brings you here? Why this road? Why this place, of all places? And suddenly, the mundane—the quiet village square, the faded café, the stretch of road where nothing much happens—becomes exotic, seen through fresh eyes.

I have traveled enough to know that wealth has little to do with finance or what one may own or display to those online and around us. In places where money is scarce, the door is often left open, a seat pulled up to the fire, a meal offered without hesitation. I have been taken in by those who had little to spare, and yet they gave freely. Meanwhile, in a world of abundance, doors remain locked, and people hoard more than they will ever need. If there is a lesson in this, it is one we are reluctant to learn.

Elbow once sang, If we only pass this way but once, what a perfect waste of time. Perhaps that is the answer—perhaps time, well-wasted, is the only thing that matters. We have so little of it in the grand scheme of things that making the most of it, accomplishing our goals no matter how small. Means that we live a life well lead with no regrets. 

This journey, my first solo ride in too long, is not just about distance. It is about clearing the mind. Testing the body. Seeing if I still have it in me. The fitness will return in time, I know that much. But the mind is harder to train. It is unruly, tangled with past mistakes, clouded by financial restraints, by regrets, by the ghosts of choices made and chances missed. Too often, I have let myself be pulled in directions I did not choose—trying to be what others expected, giving more than I had to those who never thought to return the kindness. 

Truth be told, I am not that great at being an adult and it has taken me far too long to understand things that some people take for granted. It has taken me too long to see it. Too long to step back. But here I am. And I have no choice now but to move forward.

The workshop will close soon, and another will take its place later this year, though I do not yet know exactly when, or where. The future is uncertain, but then, it always has been. In the weeks ahead, I will ride my bicycle starting this journey by visiting a couple of places that I haven’t passed through since Covid and in April I will ride north, towards Bespoked in Manchester—a chance to reconnect with old friends, with the brands that have quietly supported my plans, with a version of myself that still believes in possibility.

Doors close. Others open. And for once, I do not need to know where they lead. That, after all, is part of the adventure.