Travel

I have always wanted to travel, to explore, to see as much of the world as I could within the time I have. A life well lived, not merely endured. To experience what truly matters, to immerse myself in the things that stir my soul. Lately, that familiar longing has returned—the urge to get back on the bicycle and ride, to feel the quiet rhythm of wheels turning beneath me as I slip through landscapes unnoticed. Perhaps the post-Covid malaise has finally lifted, though it seems to have taken its time in relinquishing its hold on my cycling spirit.

Before Covid and Brexit redrew the borders of ease and spontaneity, I would find myself travelling almost monthly to some European corner, indulging in what is now fashionably called ‘gravel cycling.’ To me, it was simply cycling—following the unmarked roads, the forgotten bridleways, the lanes that wound through unknown places, leading not to destinations but to discovery. I have always been drawn to the images of The Rough Stuff Fellowship, those early pioneers who tackled the world on bicycles that now seem almost antiquated. There is no right or wrong in such matters—whether it’s a steel-framed relic or the latest bikepacking marvel, the only rule is to ride. To move forward.

Years ago, I attempted to cycle from Barcelona to Madrid on a fixed-gear bicycle, en route to the European Messenger Championships. It was an act of youthful overestimation. The mountains broke me. I was used to flat roads, to easy days, to the steady certainty of the familiar. Add to that the searing heat, and two days before reaching Madrid, I conceded defeat. Yet, what remains with me are not the struggles, but the glimpses of Spain I would have never seen otherwise—those small towns, those moments of quiet hospitality, the feeling of passing through the world in its truest form.

Nearly three decades ago, before cycling reclaimed me, I spent the best part of ten years travelling as a photographer for NGOs—documenting lives for the UNHCR, Christian Aid, and others. Burma, Palestine, Ukraine. The names linger. The faces, the places, the moments of quiet human resilience. What always struck me was the universality of need—the simple things we all crave. Shelter, dignity, a sense of purpose. It astonishes me how, in an age of boundless technological advancement, so many are left wanting for these fundamentals.

Perhaps this is why, when Re-Cycle Bikes to Africa sought a mechanic, I did not hesitate. It was a chance to merge passion with purpose, to do something that mattered beyond personal indulgence. A bicycle, after all, is a life-changing thing. More will follow on that in due course, but I am still moved by how something as simple as two wheels and a frame can redefine a person’s world.

And now, my cycling spirit has stirred once more.

The past year has seen seismic shifts in the cycling trade, the aftershocks of Covid still rippling through the industry. Having spent nearly two decades within it, I feel the pull to step back—just enough to reclaim what drew me to cycling in the first place. Travel, adventure, the quiet art of observation.

For those who have followed my writing, you will know that I launched the Ultra-Ternative Project 2025 this year. The premise is simple: to travel, to cycle, to document. A few cycling-related organisations, along with some brands, have offered support—not enough for a year-long odyssey, but enough to take the first steps toward something greater.

So, what comes next?

The first major journey will take me from Tallinn, Estonia, back home—2,800 km through Latvia, Poland, Germany, and the Netherlands before crossing the channel and cycling the last stretch to my doorstep. Two weeks of open road, of challenge, of solitude. It is the kind of undertaking that demands a price—not in money, but in resolve. Make it too easy, and I will lose interest; stretch it too long, and it will become indulgent. The challenge must remain intact. The café stops will be enjoyed, but not lingered over. The comfort of a bed will be a passing luxury, not a necessity. This is not a holiday. This is something else entirely.

The second journey is one of return. Moldova—a place I visited fifteen years ago, rich in history, in culture, in a way of life that still resists the tide of modernity. I had once planned a longer route through Ukraine, but war has put those plans on hold. One day, I hope, I will ride those roads. One day, peace will allow it.

As I write this, I recognise a theme running through my journeys. Post-Soviet countries, places with histories that have shaped their present in ways I find compelling. Perhaps it is the influence of growing up near military bases, of watching the Cold War play out in the peripheries of my childhood. Perhaps it is the architecture, the remnants of an era both stark and striking. Or maybe it is simply that these places feel real—untouched by the gloss of western tourism, offering instead an authenticity that is fast disappearing elsewhere.

And, if I am honest, there is a pragmatic element, too. A bed for the night, a meal at a local café—these things come cheaper here than in the more polished corners of Europe. And for now, as I carve out this path, that matters.

So, the road calls. The wheels are set to turn once more. And with each passing mile, I edge closer to the life I have always imagined.