A Marathon- A Tenx9 tale.

A Marathon

“Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up, it knows it must outrun the fastest lion or it will be killed. Every morning in Africa, a lion wakes up. It knows it must run faster than the slowest gazelle, or it will starve. It doesn't matter whether you're the lion or a gazelle-when the sun comes up, you'd better be running.”

As I stood outside City hall, wrapped in a bin bag, and stinking of ZamBuk ointment to prevent chafing, I definitely felt more like the gazelle. Surrounded by thousands of would be lions, all of which I was sure, would run faster than me, proverbially eating me alive.

What am I doing here?! I thought. I had never been a sporting person.  I'd never won a medal for any sort of sporting endeavour. I'd dislocated shoulders, knees, fingers; forever the "in nets" guy in playground football, and all of a sudden I was about to run a marathon.

"Superman!" came a mildly familiar voice through the buzz of training programmes and diet plans. "You ready to ace this?"

Sarah and I had barely met. In fact, we'd performed an acoustic version of Rihanna's "We found Love in a hopeless place" and that was probably the longest we'd ever spoken for if you could call that conversation, and for some reason she'd decided to run the first leg of this marathon with me.

The klaxon sounded, and I cast my down feather-esque bin liner to the side. It had begun. As I looked around, I saw runners wearing compression socks, waistbands of energy gels, special tape to improve muscle strength, headphones, watches and camelbaks filled with specially formulated hydration mixtures to see them round the 26.2 mile course. I was armed with the free bottle of RiverRock water, a funsize bag of jelly tots, and 3 ibuprofen tablets tucked into my headband. Ah shit...

Instead of launching into a conversation of marathon jargon, Sarah proposed we present a 3/5/10 year plan for our lives. As our legs ticked over into East Belfast, and up the hill past the Strand Cinema, we talked of travels, universities, writing books and favourite foods. The crowd weren't quite screaming encouragement at this point. In fact the most passionate exclamation I heard as we made our way through the Eastern section of the course was a lady shout "Luk at the short his shorts are!"

The distraction of conversation meant mile 5 came as a shock. Five miles!? After the initial fear of having come that far and not realised it, a wave of excitement came over me. This is how I have to run this race- meeting people and letting them escape from their cramping muscles by telling their stories, or if they were too fatigued to talk, distract them from the pain by telling mine. Through sharing life, and treating the race as life, I'd survive the end I thought. In fact, I'd not only survive, but thrive.

"Right see you later" Said Sarah as she peeled off and patted me on the back. WHAT?!?! Her leaving meant I'd finished leg one! How could this be possible? Had I started too strong? I hadn't even opened my precious riverrock!? SURELY I'd made some sort of mistake.

It wasn't until I doused my head with some of my precious water that I realised I just had to find another Sarah. That was it. Talk with someone, and it'd all be ok.

I was alone as I crossed the mighty Lagan river, and trotted along through the city centre, onto Castle Street and the Falls Road. In the shadow of Divis Tower, I saw a man dressed all in white. White vest, white shorts, white shoes, white baseball cap. Only his red number pinned to his back set him apart as a full marathon runner, and not a washed up tennis pro. His head was down, and his heels were dragging. "How could he be in this shape on mile 8?" I said to myself.

"Fancy a jelly tot?" I asked without introduction as I pulled along side him. It seemed the sweets I tried to leave behind, but were forced on to me by my mother would have a use after all.

"Oh yes please" puffed the man as we passed by freedom corner displaying a variety of famous faces that battle oppression around the world.

Of all the guinea pigs I could have been presented to trial my marathon small-talk technique on, Mark was one seriously lucky find. Before we crossed through the peace wall, we discovered that, although 30 years apart, we'd gone to the same primary and secondary schools, were in the same house for school competitions, had the same grumpy old history teacher who apparently hadn't changed over 30 years, and both spent our teenage years roaming the same streets of North Belfast getting up to no good.

I was inspired. He was inspired. He told me he had no one out supporting him, and so our conversation had inspired him to continue, and that he nearly dropped out before the jelly tot. "Off you go" he said. You've got other people to talk to, don't let me hold you back!"

Once more I was alone on the road, but the race was about to enter the hills of North Belfast. My home turf. I knew I'd have friends supporting me on the Antrim road, and so I concentrated my mind on how I could look impressively macho, and gallop past them, giving them the impression I wasn't at all beginning to hurt.

As I clipped past the Marrowbone park, I fell into stride with a woman wearing a tye dye running shirt. We nodded hello, and began to awkwardly mantain the same pace for a mile or so. Descending to the Westland, I noticed she was crying.

"Are you OKAY?!? Do you need help?" I asked as we continued running.

"Em, this is ridiculous, Can I hold your hand?" She said as she wiped her cheeks.

"Emmmm, OK?" I said with a slight chuckle. Working at Corrymeela for the year had led to me finding myself in all kinds of bizarre, and intimate situations with complete strangers. This was just another day at the office.

"I'm sorry", she said as we skipped along past the golf club. "It's just, well, I've just adopted two young children from the Westland area. I've never been, and I didn't want to spend time here, but thought it was important to know what it's like, so I thought I'd run the marathon, and be forced to keep going, and not hang around"

I was stunned to silence. What could I say?! The bravery of this woman to share this moment with me was so overwhelming that I actually forgot I had just reached the half way point in my journey.

"Thank you" she said.

"No problem" I said.

"Off you go now. I'm waiting for my parter to bring me some energy gels so I'm going to take the antrim road slowly."

And with that we parted ways. I was more inspired and energised than ever before. It seemed the numbness in my mind had moved into my legs, and the pain I had started to feel subsided.

Reaching Gideon's green, and the exposed cycle path along the lough was like entering Mordor. All of a sudden we were running into the wind. The rain began to lash down, and all around were bodies covered in tin foil blankets, that had given up once the race entered the high teens. Medical professionals came past on bikes, as runners began to clump in tight groups, working like a Tour de France peleton, and sheltering each other from the elements. I looked up. A sign said 17 miles. With out even thinking, I screamed "Single figures!!!!!!!" My mind subconciously calculated that 26-17 was nine. This was do-able. I might actually be about to become one of those people who can say they've run a marathon... With my exclamation, came cheers and pats on the back from my small group, and we tightened our shoulders to the wind and picked up the pace.

The apocalyptic weather continued as we crossed into duncrue industrial estate. Cool fm pods made up for the lack of spectators, and top40 hits carried us back towards the city centre.

Throughout the route, there were energy stations providing complimentary water and energy gels to runners, but, as I emerged from sailor town, and came down tomb street, I was almost moved to tears by what I saw. An elderly man had parked his car next to Royal Mail, and set up a tiny table, like those we used to write exams on, at the side of the road. "Enjoy your run, keep smiling" said a hand written A4 sign by his car. On the table were twix's, mars bars, cups of orange cordial and celebrations. This wasn't an official aid station, this was just a kind man inspiring others.

Alone once more, and on to the final leg, I met two ladies who were checking their watches against their stride, as we passed maysfield leisure centre and joined the towpath.

"How we doing?" I asked.

"We're on for 4 hours, but leave nothing behind."

Wow. Could I really run a sub 4-hour marathon? It had been a secret goal of mine, but its said that on your first, you should just aim to finish. In that moment I decided I was going to do it.

As I began the long slog up the Ormeau road and into mile 24, I began to seriously struggle. As if to symbolise my fatigue, I began to notice the green balloon attached to the back of the 4-hour pacer, bouncing around in the wind, and slowly but surely catching up with me. I couldn't even consider picking up my pace, and so as he drew along side me, I resigned myself to trying to hold his pace and finish as close to 4 as I could. We gave each other the obligatory, exhausted runner, nod of the head.

"You're doing well" he puffed.

"Aye, I'm aiming for sub-4 here, so to me you're the devil." I joked.

In response, this total stranger slapped me on the bum and said "GO ON! You're way under 4 hours! I'm just speeding up to pull this lot up the hill!"

Sure enough, I looked behind me, and there was a large group, battling with themselves to cover the final two miles.

Could I do it? I dug deep and concentrated on just one more turn of the legs.

Reaching the roundabout, and turning down the Ravenhill, I saw a friend of mine. A fellow volunteer from Corrymeela. Upon seeing me, she began running down the road shouting "He's coming!" Suddenly a group of 4 or 5 of my friends were running along beside me, cheering and asking me questions.

"Talk to these people Aaron" I said to myself. "You've talked to strangers all day. These are your friends. Talk to them."

But I couldn't. All I could do was muster enough strength to keep looking straight ahead and pick my knees up. With a wave to the Corrymeela crowd in a garden across the road, I entered the final mile.

Was I actually about to do this? An entire marathon? As I turned on to the embankment I looked at a guy around my age, walking by the side of the road. "Come on. Almost there." I said. He looked at me, and burst into tears. We entered the final driveway to the Ozone complex together. The supporters lining the barriers screamed our numbers, and it was done.

A full marathon. I'd just run a full marathon in 3 hours and 55 minutes. In my city. I was ecstatic. My teary companion came to me as a volunteer hung a medal round my neck and wrapped me in tin foil. There was no speaking. We just high fived, and he left.

There was only one thing left to do. Hobble over to the Hospice massage tent for a free rub down. I just didn't know whether it would be weird or comforting that my mum was the masseuse.

What Life is, and what Life is for.

"The first question which you will ask and which I must try to answer is this, 'What is the use of climbing Mount Everest ?' and my answer must at once be, 'It is no use'. There is not the slightest prospect of any gain whatsoever. Oh, we may learn a little about the behavior of the human body at high altitudes, and possibly medical men may turn our observation to some account for the purposes of aviation. But otherwise nothing will come of it. We shall not bring back a single bit of gold or silver, not a gem, nor any coal or iron. We shall not find a single foot of earth that can be planted with crops to raise food. It's no use. So, if you cannot understand that there is something in man which responds to the challenge of this mountain and goes out to meet it, that the struggle is the struggle of life itself upward and forever upward, then you won't see why we go. What we get from this adventure is just sheer joy. And joy is, after all, the end of life. We do not live to eat and make money. We eat and make money to be able to enjoy life. That is what life means and what life is for."   

George Mallory , 1922.

"One day like this a year would see me right." sang Guy Garvey. Weeks and months of auditions in my head had resulted in Elbow winning the accolade of overscoring my final ride along Belfast Lough. I couldn't have asked for a better day. A blindingly blue sky and a gentle wind just pushing me along like a father teaching his son how to ride. I tried my hardest to reflect on the past three months as I cruised along the dual carriageway- passing Carrickfergus Castle and on toward the just visible landmarks of "Samson and Goliath", the Harland and Wolff cranes that dominate the Belfast skyline.

I had thought so much about what lay ahead every day for so long, that looking back was just bizarre. The thought of those days spent sweating myself into dizziness, being eaten by mosquitoes, climbing hills in temperatures that melted tyres to the road; was it real? did I do it? I found it hard to think of. Freezing water bottles, ice cracked mudguards, frost nipped knuckles- where did that fit in to this perfect Sunday morning jaunt? I was beginning to get emotional. Other lycra clad MAMIL's (Middle Aged Men In Lycra) sped past, casting a glance at this beardy, dirty person with a fully laden tour bicycle; I wonder what they thought? Did they even entertain the thought that I'd just ridden all the way across the European Continent? They were gone in the blink of an eye.

As I crested the little hill at Greenisland, I saw a cyclist up ahead. He stopped. He turned his bike around. He swooped over beside me. It was Roly Jamison! My old Biology teacher, friend's father, director extraordinaire, and now, a friend in his own right.

"Thought you could do with an outrider!" He said, patting me on the back and getting into position to draft me into the arms of my family and friends. 

It was almost too much. I was shaking with excitement.

Just as we reached the beginnings of Loughshore Park, Roly tailed off and left me to ride in. I turned the corner. There was no marquee. No open car boots with people perched waiting. Instead, there was a crowd of almost 40 people, that had taken over the entire bandstand!

A cheer went up, my feet went down, and I hugged my Mum and Dad. 

"Look at that bloody beard!" said my Grandmother. Yep, I was home.

The folks had done well- a spread of soup, flapjacks, tea, coffee, hot toddys, bread, cake and chocolate. We spent an hour hugging, laughing and taking photographs. It was surreal. How could I have arrived here from Turkey? I still don't know to be honest.

There was only one thing left to do, and that was ride to City Hall. Belfast proper. We'd mustered about 15 bicycles of all shapes and sizes, and so our motley peleton shot off along the cycle path. Amazed to be chatting whilst cycling I forgot that not every one was on a racer, and we quickly lost some of the group, so at Duncrue we reformed and took on the industrial estate. From there we crossed onto the cobbles of the Cathedral Quarter, and arrived on Bridge St. the street that covers the river Farset; the channel that gives Belfast it's name. ONE CORNER TO GO. Ever since I'd read Eddy Merkcx' biography, and seen the photograph of his FIAT team winning the Giro D'Italia, spread across the whole street riding side by side, I knew that's how I was going to arrive onto Royal Avenue. With my hands on my head, I turned onto the last stretch. I looked left and right. I saw uncles, cousins, siblings, friends and parents. They looked at me. I looked at them. I had cycled home from Istanbul.

I had cycled home from Istanbul, thanks to them. 

The quote at the top of this page; George Mallory's answer as to the use of climbing Mount Everest, I think translates very well to a lot of adventures.

 To life.

 In our society today, the common view is that if there's no qualification, money, product or physical object at the end of a task, then what's the point? 

Joy. Joy is the point. Happiness and pride is the point. The laughter on the road is the point. Exploring the limits of your body and mind is the point. Feeling as light as air when you succeed is the point. Falling in love, even for a split second, with a person, place, vista or thought is the point.

I often hear people say, "Everything's been done. There's nothing new any more. There's no use in ME doing that." George (If I can be so bold as to call him by his first name) talked of this same false theory in 1922, and look what's been "done" since then!

His theory was to achieve Joy. Not to do anything new- BUT HE WAS ABOUT TO ATTEMPT TO SUMMIT EVEREST- THAT HADN'T BEEN DONE BEFORE!

Who knows what we can do? If George Mallory was setting out to be the first man to climb the highest mountain in the world, with no other objective than achieving joy and self fulfilment, then why cant we?

I found Joy and self fulfilment. The sweet thing about those two "discoveries" is that you can never get enough of a good thing. There is an unlimited pot of Joy out there to drink from. It's not the Leprechaun's gold- forever in the distance at the end of a rainbow; it is at our front door, calling us to get in and swim around for as long as we want. All you have to do is want to climb in.

Thank you to every one who made the journey possible. I don't mean major sponsors, logistics teams, or diet specialists. I mean the hosts on the road and the strangers who shared food and drinks, I mean the friends who never failed to check in with me every week, and also the people that I hadn't spoken to in years, yet sent me messages of inspiration and support when I needed it. Thanks for the "likes", thanks for the laughs, thanks for the love.

 "What's next?" I hear you say? You tell me. Lets do it together.

What you need, when you need it.

As I rolled along in the darkness of the Southern English coastline, I just didn't know what to think. 

Was I home?

Was I still in the wilderness?

Would Britain be an easy victory lap around the homes of friends?

Would it live up to the reports from the Roman Centurions of old, and be the most dreaded posting in the great Empire?

Just like every country on this trip, it has been all of those. 

   I rode the short coastline into the wind and darkness to the beacon of light that is the Brighton seafront. At the foot of the famous pier I met with Michael, Ella, and some of their University friends, who had kindly offered to host me for the night, and join me for a ceremonial fish and chips. I found the level of grease bizarre. After the culinary delights of Continental Europe, a slippery, salty paper bag and it's contents were more symbolically enjoyable than in taste. None the less it was fantastic to meet with the company, and we talked our way to their campus for a well earned sleep. I was baffled thinking that two nights before, I'd been in Paris, and after zipping along the beautifully laid out "Avenue Verte" to the coast, I'd managed to catch the late boat to Blighty!

   Waking in the morning to a crisp and sunny Sussex, I set off on the South Downs link to Guildford. Michael and Ella were not the only heroically kind souls to offer me a place to sleep in this land so often branded as unfriendly. As I started day one of Britain, I had beds organised for 8 out of an estimated 12 days cycling. I was riding toward the house of an old theatre friend, Christina, on that windy morning, and before I had reached the 10 mile mark it became blatantly obvious that I had caught myself a head cold somewhere over the Channel! NIGHTMARE. I coughed, spluttered, snorted, spat, and sweated my way along a cycle route, that due to the previous week's flooding, became some of the toughest riding I have encountered. At one point the path stopped and led across a field, through an impromptu lake, and then over a 6-foot-tall pile of horse shit that someone had placed right in the way! 

   Rolling into Guildford I was smelly, cold, wet, tired, and very much sick. And absolutely filthy due to all the mucky off road trails. The first display of warmth came from a bar man who presented me with a congratulatory hot toddy, before an angel, normally known as Christina Bennington, took me in off the frosty road. The treat of a dinner in a real life restaurant started what I decided to be a rest day in that beautiful town. I wasn't dying or anything, but flu-ey enough that being on the bicycle made every bone in my body ache, and I couldn't think and breathe at the same time. A tell tale man flu symptom. In the morning, after a great night's sleep in a double bed, I bought enough clementines and vitamin pills to make Sunny-D jealous. Wrapped up warm, I spent the rest of my day drinking tea and walking along the riverside.

   With clothes washed and a belly filled I turned my wheels westward and set off toward Stonehenge. Riding up and over the Hog's back into Hampshire was a lovely start to the day and really got the lungs burning. Jane Austen country provided landscapes that children in primary school all over the world, will spend hours writing poems about, using words like "glittery, sparkly and white." 

   To be honest I couldn't believe it when I reached Stonehenge. It seemed quite far away, and I was a bit nervous with working in miles again after spending 2 and a half months pacing myself according to the metric system. The huge stones set in formation for thousands of years were nothing short of awesome. The sun was dipping as I arrived and so got that all too familiar photograph of the magnificent sillouhette standing alone on Salisbury plain. The best bit about that place is when you find out that what remains is just the tiniest corner of that ancient worship site. A grand avenue runs up to the stones from the North, from a much bigger structure, and archeologists believe that there may have been a settlement the size of a small modern city in that area. Baffling when you see the emptiness of the plain nowadays.

    

   Bristol provided interesting events. A beautiful ride in along the canals of Bath led me to meet Alex; a friend of mine that I hadn't seen in seven years.I have to be honest, when he first offered a place to stay I was a bit nervous that we'd have nothing to talk about once we'd done the catching up, BUT THEN I remembered that he wasn't just a school mate, in fact, we had been in the same group for the Duke of Edinburgh's Award Expeditions, and gone through some pretty hairy times in the Mourne mountains together, including stretchering a team mate down the hillside on a makeshift bed of rucksack poles and bivvy bags! All would be well. We had a fantastic chat before I found out that it was his girlfriend's birthday and she was having a Disney/Pokemon themed party that night, and we were most definitely taking part. Alex nipped into town and returned with two man sized ELEPHANT ONESIES and a crate of Stella Artois. The stage was set for absurdity. We strapped the beer to our bikes, donned the one piece pyjamas complete with hooded and Elephant trunk, and cycled to the party over the magnificent Clifton Suspension bridge. A wild night ensued. The next day was pretty rough in the beginning. Alex rode the 18 miles with me to the Severn bridge, and crossed over into Wales before heading back to the city. Great lad.

   Things improved drastically that day as I rode up the Wye river through perfect Welsh hills and valleys, and I was met by two inspirational women. I had met Jane and Sinead, on the boat from France to England. After a chat they offered me a place to stay in Brigend, on the South Coast of Wales, but unfortunately I wasn't headed that way, so we swapped telephone numbers "just in case!" and parted ways. A few days later, a text message from Sinead told me that they were thinking of a Sunday afternoon drive, and seeing as I wasn't a million miles away, they would come meet me for lunch! I was treated to a fantastic pub grub Sunday lunch, complete with a hair-of-the-dog local ale. It astounds me what people will do for others. Those women quite literally went out of their way to make my day. Just what I needed. The whole event was made even more special by the bar man thrusting five pounds toward me and telling me to give it to any charity I wanted to! I tried telling him I'm not really raising money as such, but he insisted; so Corrymeela will be the worthy recipient! I was very quickly falling for Wales.

   Unbelievably, the very next morning in a little hamlet called Canon Pyon, a shop owner gave me a free Mars bar, just for cycling, and then after a quick chat, ANOTHER FIVER! Corrymeela's fund was doubled in just 24 hours. I was having a ball. I was headed for yet another offered bed, at the home of the Wyn Williams family in the little village of Tregynon. and so the road took me to the town of Knighton, where I stopped for lunch. As I ate my bread and Cheddar at the roadside, Will appeared; a fellow Redbeard wearing a fantastic woolly hat. We talked about why the bloody hell I was in Knighton in December, before he presented me with a little piece of card with a Japanese star of Courage on it. A beautiful gesture. I was inspired for the second time in one day. I set off up the valley, and over a spectacular mountain top, complete with wild horses with their manes blowing in the fresh winter wind, and quickly descended to meet my host, Catrin. We had worked together many moons ago, and got on famously, so now that she had returned home to Wales, it only made sense that we catch up. Arriving at her family's home, I was very quickly treated to a Chelsea bun, a local speciality and perfect cycling diet food. From there things just got very comfortable. The rest of her lovely family returned home from work and we ate a fantastic dinner of homemade meatballs and pasta before rolling around laughing to the comedy of Lee Evans. 

   Catrin's mum asked "So are you following the route of Offa's dyke then?" 

   I replied, "I have no idea what that is. Tell me more."

  Turns out it is the old earthen defences that a king of England had built, roughly along the Welsh border, to keep the barbaric Celts out of his lands! I had in fact been following it by accident, just like the Via Egnatia in the Balkans. History is everywhere if you open your eyes.  Excellent. A print out of directions and a fried breakfast later and I was spinning out of another valley and towards the grand old town of Liverpool. Everything went well until I reached the junction with the motorway before Birkenhead. My map had led me to believe that I could cross the Mersey from there into Liverpool, but it happens that the crossing from Birkenhead is a bike free tunnel, and so had to add another 25 miles to my day in the dark, through Runcorn and Widnes, and in from the East! I was halfway to Manchester! 

   Thomas was my host that evening. I had also made plans to meet a friend to discuss adventures, but I was too exhausted. Thomas and I ate, then sat with his kind housemates for a little while before I had to make my excuses and retire to bed. I was absolutely wrecked. Sorry I wasn't more craic boys. See you next time.

   The first tears of Britain came as I left Liverpool the following morning and saw a huge sign for the Belfast ferry. I sobbed my way past Anfield and North towards Preston, longing to be at home. It was a perfect cycling day, complete with a tailwind, but the easy option was staring me in the face and I was riding away from it. Tough times. So close yet so far. That thought got me down. I was looking at my map and the distance markers and thinking that I was going to have to take a train to Kendal, as by this stage in the journey I have a semi-scheduled ride until the end, due to joint rides, parties and offers of beds. I stopped and opened my bags, searching for a tiny piece of edible hope. It came in the guise of chocolate raisins. A few handfuls later and a phone call from Mum, and I thought to myself,

 "I can do this."

  I rode into Kendal shattered, and with a shattered seat to match. The pounding of my boney bum finally resulted in a cracked saddle. Lovely. After a night in the homely Kendal hostel, I woke to snow and bought a new seat. The snow wasn't too bad. Just a light frosting. Enough to make things look pretty. So I set off up the hill toward the Shap pass. After a while the snow had deepened at the roadside, but didn't seem to be falling any heavier, so I stopped for a self timer photograph that would serve as a Christmas card if I was a bit less homeless looking. Back on the bike I climbed and climbed deeper into the lake district, Past the cottage where Withnail and I was filmed, although you couldn't see it clearly due to the thick cloud. The snow began to fall faster, and soon the whole road was white. Slush was gathering between my pedals and clogging all the mechanisms of the bike, but still I pushed on. I climbed an incredibly steep hill and then I felt the full force of the infamous Shap Pass. The wind came screaming from the left at 70mph, knocking me off my bike into the now blizzard rated snow. For the first time on the trip I went into survival mode. My first thought was "Where can I pitch my tent?" I needed to get my head under cover and fast. It was all very serious and scary. As I lifted the bike out of the snow drift I heard a rumbling from the hill I'd just climbed, and after what seemed like an eternity a pair of headlights appeared in the darkness of the mid morning white out. I dropped the bike once more and ran into the road screaming and waving, hoping the driver would see the seriousness of the weather and help me out.

IT WAS A MILK TANKER.

   I thought that even if he could take me, it might be impossible to take the bike, but due to the severity of the weather, there might be no other option. The tanker pulled in and I opened the door. It almost flew off its hinges as the wind caught it. I explained my situation to Eddie, the driver, and he was kind enough to help me. He jumped out of his cab and was swept off his feet. All of a sudden he saw why I needed help, and so joined me in strapping the bike to the side of the huge tanker as quickly as possible, before jumping back into the safety of the cab and rumbling off down the hill. 

*DAD YOU WERE RIGHT.*

   Winter had stopped me riding. It was a tough moment. I wanted to get out of the Blizzard and get back on the bike as soon as possible, and so Eddie dropped me off close to Penrith. We had such a laugh driving around Cumbria as he picked up his milk that I almost forgot of my little failure for a second, but as I got on the road once more I felt justified in taking the help when I remembered the true fear I felt as I fell off on the Pass. Eddie, if you ever read this, you are a hero. Thanks mate.

   I reached Carlisle earlier than I expected, and met a man who could, along with half the Corrymeela Community and my mother; be held responsible for this whole adventure. He is Maxim Laithwaite. You may know him as Peace Day Pilgrim, as, in the summer, he walked from Londonderry, through all five capitals of Ireland, Northern Ireland, Scotland, Wales, and England, to raise awareness of the Peace One day Campaign and the International day of Peace, 21st of September. He did it all without any money. Totally dependent on human kindness. INSPIRATIONAL. World changing.

   We walked together to Hadrian's wall. 

I HAD CYCLED ACROSS HADRIAN'S ROMAN EMPIRE!

   How interesting that it was the last day of my Roman Empire that threw up one of the toughest challenges? There will always be challenges ahead, no matter how close we seem to be. Max was a great person to share that moment with, and we fooled around in the rain, taking pictures as I rolled around on the flooded pavement. I had achieved a goal, and even though the trip is not over, I relaxed and felt a weight lift of my shoulders as I lay back in the bath, eating my crumpets and drinking hot coffee. Max and Charlie were amazing hosts. They had everything a traveller could ever want. Having both been on the road themselves, they knew exactly what I needed, so staying with them was a true blessing. We drank and ate until we were full, and then drank and ate some more. And laughed a lot. 

   Once again I turned away from home and headed east, riding the length of Hadrian's wall, to Newcastle upon Tyne. The morning was spent climbing into the Pennines, the mountain range that is effectively the spine of England. As I reached the highest section of that day, I turned off the well surfaced road to the smaller lanes that lead to the ruins of the wall itself. At Walltown Crags I skidded and slipped along an old track, then skirted a frozen lake, and hiked up on top of a massive Crag, and stood proudly on the stones of old Hadrian's wall. I could just imagine the Centurions pacing up and down, defending the wall against the Barbarians of the North. The wall, like the Great wall of China, cares not for hill or valley, and simply continues into the distance, rising and falling with the land in its way. I spent an hour there in the snow, just imagining scenes and creating stories. It is incredibly peaceful and beautiful. About 10 miles from Newcastle, I felt very unsteady on my bike, and it felt like the weight of my bags was swinging from side to side. I looked down and saw, that once again, my pannier rack had broken. Not the same breakage as in Italy, or as bad, but still; broken. I did some roadside gaffa tape maintenance, and then rolled to the home of my old buddy old pal Becky. It felt great to be with one of my closest friends again, and immediately the stresses of the day were forgotten and I relaxed once more.

   We ate, then met more friends, Louise and Laura for drinks. All was going well, until a few boys in the bar started a bit of sectarian abuse towards me! I couldn't believe it. It seems that it doesn't just happen in "Our wee country." The guy was screaming in my face and had his pint raised above his head. All very frightening. Thankfully nothing came to blows as the bouncers intervened, and we decided to leave the bar. Bizarre. I'd ridden 5300km across Europe, and had expected at least another 500km of non sectarianism. I guess this was a gentle reminder to not forget the problems our little society faces, and all the effort we need to make to bring about the necessary change in our world. 

   Only we will do it.

   Britain has just been brilliant. I was looking forward to it as an "easy section" as I'd know the language fluently, the place names would be familiar, and I'd know a lot of people. That turned out to be true, but I didn't know the weather, or the interactions this Island would bring my way. From the peace and tranquility of places like Stonehenge, Welsh mountainsides, and the ruins of Hadrian's wall to the chaos of dress-up in Bristol and the sobering insults in Newcastle; England and Wales have given me exactly what I needed when I needed it. 

Heroes, friends, beds, teas, hugs, breakages, hills, wind, love, hate, food, laughter, tears.

   I know that it seems a bum note to finish this post on, with that man in Newcastle being aggressive and cruel, but I'd like to thank him. It really did remind me of where I'm from, and what needs to happen when I get back there. WE are the future my friends. People talk of our generation as the lost generation. The Ipod generation. We will do nothing. Just see out a recession and talk through computer screens. "They" (Who ever they are) expect nothing of us. I've said it before and I'll say it again; 

THAT GIVES US A HUGE WINDOW TO SHOW THEM EXACTLY WHAT WE CAN DO.

WE are masters of our own fate.

We can do anything. 

Tomorrow I'll enter Scotland, and before the week is out, I'll hopefully taste a Guinness that tastes like it should. 

I'm almost home. 

A child poet's dream morning.

Stonehenge and the birds.

Two "Elephants" on the Clifton Suspension bridge.

Wild Welsh horses on the mountain top.

The final thousand marker. (I think.)

Eddie the Dairy Tanker at -12C and 70mph. A hero.

Hadrian's wall, Carlisle. Overwhelmed and not caring for the wet.

The wall as it winds across the hills. 

   

How can I show the World that I am not made for despair?

    France has been a time of peace and joy on this cycling journey. Of course it is a country known internationally for it's cycling delights, but in fact it has been a perfect balance between the experiences in and out of the saddle that have made it so devine.

   Crossing the Alps from Italy by the Col du Montegenevre, and then soaring over the Col du Lautauret in sub zero temperatures, over 2km above sea level, was physically euphoric. A constantly shifting sky provided a glimpse of those glorious mountains through all the seasons. In minutes the warm Southern sun would disappear behind a peak, and around the corner would blow a harsh gale bringing snow or rain. The mornings would be spent climbing, then a lunch on the Col would lead to a descent unrivalled throughout the world. Zipping down switchbacks that at times seemed determined to throw me over the edge and into the abyss of an alpine cascade, and at others, feeling like my wheels were glued to the road and I could lean into the corner at 65kmph. 

   No matter what happened throughout the course of the day, arriving at the foot of an Alpine desent makes all the world seem right.

   

   On my third day, I took on Alp D'Huez. "THE ALP" as it is affectionately known in the Lycra-clad world. I would spend hours talking about each of the 21 hairpin bends that lead to the summit, scaling 1.1km in altitude over a distance of just 14km flat, but there are numerous writings of Fausto Coppi, the Schleck brothers, or Tommy Voeckler making much more drama than I did, so I'll just sum it up by saying "It is tough and exhilarating."

   I thought my momentous moment was going to be when I screamed with joy as I arrived on the deserted summit, and lay down sweating in the snow, but in fact it was as I began the descent that I had that day's experience of a lifetime, and met the first Angel of the road, in France.

   I was into the second corner, and stopped to try and blow some heat into my hands that felt like they were coated in broken glass, when I thought to myself, "I am an idiot. Leaving all my heavy winter clothing at the campsite was a stupid idea. Reducing weight is not a priority. I am not a professional. I did not need to shave seconds off've my time. I should have brought my coat up here. This descent is going to be so shit because I can feel every muscle in my body clinging for dear life to the bones underneath. Even a bin bag to wear might just heat me up a fraction of a degree."

   A car pulled alongside. 

      A BIN BAG SHOT OUT OF THE WINDOW!

"Here, take this! I use if for MTB, but I have more. Do you need one for your face?" 

   I was close to tears, although I had to turn down the face bag. Didn't seem wise...

     This man had been strategically placed to help me. In no other minute in the existence of the human race could that interaction have happened. It is moments like this that I live for every day. I cruised down the Alp in the sunshine that I seemed to have found a revived appreciation for. Thank you Jean Paul.

    The best thing about France is that this interaction was the first of many. Leaving the life changing mountains behind I descended to Grenoble- a city that is currently a labyrinth of roadworks. In an effort to ease my passing through, I spent an hour pushing my bike up and down the footpaths of the one way traffic AND TRAMMED city centre, trying to find a tourist office. No success. I ended up deep in the heart of the city centre searching for a shop that in turn, didn't sell what I needed.
   After a sufficient amount of precious daylight had been lost, I decided I needed out of the city, and so set off vaguely North. Again another hour ebbed by as I pointlessly tried to work out a sensible bicycle route out of the city. I was just about to give over to the main road and dodge trucks for a few hours when I, rudely, called to a man standing by a bus stop,
     "Est-ce que c'est un route du velo dans le direction St. Etienne?" (horrible French effort.)
 To my amazement he called back, in a perfect London accent, "I'm English!"

   I almost fell over. Only because I'd been lost in the city, and only because I'd gone looking for stuff I wouldn't find, had I arrived here at this PRECISE moment, meeting a man I could understand entirely who; 2 minutes earlier wouldn't have been there, and 2 minutes later, would be on his bus and out of my life! Another little guide sent from another life to help me on my way. Within a few sentences I'd found the Val d'Isere cycle path and was flying along the riverbank on a sheltered, golden avenue for cyclists.
    That took me to Vinay- where a woman, surprised to see a cyclist in her little town, offered her garden as a camping site for the night. She owned a B&B but it was full, so allowed me to camp amongst the bamboo forest and relax on her hammocks in the winter sun. KIND KIND KIND.

   A few days later, after long windy days crossing both the Rhone and Loire rivers, I reached St. Just en Chevalet. The home of Alison and Andrew. Out of the goodness of their own hearts they invited me to rest up in their beautful old town house, overlooking the market square of this little mountain village. Two nights was the perscribed rest period, and boy did I rest! I slept, I read, I watched rugby, I listened, and we ate. The new piece of French vocab I'd scribble into my little blue notebook if I still studied hopelessly in Ms. Park's GCSE class would be "Gourmand". A word only the French would have, that means, "not quite greedy, just to enjoy your food." I have a lot of respect for this ideaology.
   We had wonderful homemade soups, fantastic breads, charcuterie, COFFEE, glorious cheeses, muesli, yoghurt, honey, jams, rilletes, and upon the invite of a village friend, a fantastic invention called Raclette. A warped form of a cheesy fondue. Cheesorama. A perfect meal.
   On the morning of my departure, Andrew, a cyclist himself, went to the huge effort of planning a perfect route for the day, avoiding all major roads and including a Chateau, country lanes, disused railway cycle networks, and a fantastic patisserie for our morning snack! He even decided to ride 70km with me! Inspiring. I felt so at home and at peace with these wonderful people and their wonderful cats. Thank you.

   And so after my glorious rest, I powered through 130km to reach the community of Taize, in the Bourgogne region. I planned to stay for two days, having a quick insight to life here, then making good speed north, then I met the people.
   An amazing bunch of young travellers from all over the globe coming together to discuss, laugh, think, meet and enjoy.

I STAYED FOR A WEEK.

The experience I had within that little community was a true highlight of the adventure. I will sum it up simply with the phrase "Silence, Solitude, Laughter, and Love." To go in to any more detail wouldn't do justice. An indicator of the relationships formed over those seven days may be the fact that a Californian lad will now be spending Christmas in my family's home in Belfast, and I've been staying at the home of Jean Baptiste, a truly hospitable Parisien; a guide, a host, a friend, for the past 4 days.
   The rest wil remain unsaid. We can talk about it another time. It was amazing.
    An emerging thought developed with the help of words from Brother Roger, the founder of the community is "How can I show that I am not made for despair?" A great question I now pose to myself every day.

   My road to Paris was a long and magical one. As I rode North, eating and drinking my way through wine country made mystical by the heavy fog, I  slept in forests and had birds of prey as alarm clocks. Cockerels have nothing on the abilities of huge buzzards at wake up calls.
   I followed the Yonne river all the way up to its convergence with the Seine. I love rivers. The provide so much safety and trust. It allowed me to switch off from navigation and just cruise along the bank, knowing that it knew the way. Covering 160km in a day was a new record. Doing distances like this allows me to eat what ever I want. Most of which is chocolate and bread. Traditional baguettes and local pain au chocolat have replaced lion bars and pasta as my staple foods!

   Arriving in the stunning Chateau town of Fontainebleu I was mesmorised by the amount of leaves dancing in the strong wind. Proper dancing. They actually were blowing into different shapes and seemed to be choreographed by some strange natural dance lord. I decided it was time for a celebratory beer as I was now on the doorstep of Paris, about to roll in to complete what I'd been thinking of as the third leg of my journey. What a great idea. I had a short conversation with the bar tender, a great man called Liliane; and within minutes I had his house keys in my pocket and was rolling to ANOTHER free bed! It was so nice to shower and then, having eaten a great meal cooked in a proper kitchen instead of my increasingly toxic trangia stove, return to a bar to play pool and chat the night away.

   Paris just upped the game. Jean Baptiste. What can I say? The man is just an incredible host! After taking the ceremonial photograph of myself by the Eiffel tower and grabbing some food we met at his glorious central Parisien apartment and had a well deserved chill out evening. While he went to work the next day, I explored the city. Notre Dame, Latin Quarter, Saint Michel, Opera, Arc du Triomphe, ITS ALL REAL! Riding up the Champs Elysees in the early evening as it filled with traffic and people visited the Christmas market set up along the side was a ride to remember. The magic of Paris flooded over me and I slowed right down just soaking everything in.
    Having lunch with an old friend from Sweden proved to be a great idea. Rotissere chicken and spuds lined the stomach for some afternoon beverages accompanied by great conversation, before I headed down to Centre St. Georges Pompidou to catch Pierre Bensusan play the most enchanting guitar I've ever heard, in a tiny little underground theatre! How funny that it was my old friend Nathan, that I actually sat beside in French class SEVEN YEARS ago that is now Pierre's road manager- now we're both in Paris and trying desperately to remember all the things the poor Miss Park tried to teach us! We should have listened. My most vivid memory of that class was the day a dog followed me all the way up the Jackson building starcase, down the hall way, and in to the class room, WITH NO COAXING FROM ME AT ALL....
   Jean Baptiste and I then did some socialising in Pigalle, eating Bolognaise Crepes at 4am, before walking through a delightful Paris by moonlight. The climax to my time here ad to come when JB invited me along to the annual wine salon of Paris; an enormous wholesale of wines from all over the country and the possibility to taste every last one of them! JB's friend, Francios, accompanied us with his vin catalogue and guided us in the direction of some of the finest glasses I've ever tasted. There was quite a lot of tasting done.... Although I promise I wasn't as drunk as I look in the photograph at the bottom of this page. Promise.
   From there we had a dinner with his friends in an apartment overlooking Hotel de Ville, Notre Dame AND the Eiffel tower! IT was very cool. Charcuterie, cheese and more wine completed an altogether very French event before heading again to Saint Michel to "let off some steam." Fantastic fun.

    And so France is almost at an end. Tomorrow I will try my very best to follow the Avenue Verte; the new cycle route linking London to Paris, out towards the coast at Dieppe. From there I'll cross to Brighton, then over towards Bristol, up the Welsh borders area to Liverpool, then to Carlisle, turn West to Newcastle following Hadrian's wall- the end of my Roman journey, then up in to bonny Scotland, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Oban, over the Irish Sea to Ballycastle, and finally down to Belfast!

   France has been a whole adventure in itself. I could write for days on each of the individual encounters. I am very glad for the thoughts shared at Taize in particular; because it is due to them that ever since, I have asked myself the question "How can I show the world that I am not made for despair?"
   The answer normally allows me to realise that we are not supposed to just survive each day, but we are supposed to thrive each day on earth.

   See you soon Britain. I am very excited to cycle through those pastures green.

Taking it easy after the Alps.

Chateau with Andrew.

Taize.

Maybe 1000km to home?

The dancing forests of Fontainebleu.

A European cyclist's photograph.

Notre Dame by night.

Triomphe!

Wine salon... I suppose I was a little pissed...

For when it gets cold and tough.

Newsflash.

JUST DID ALP D'HUEZ.

Unbelievable. No time to write, Tourist office is closing and access to a computer disappears.

HERE'S A PHOTO!

What happened to Italy?

   A lack of writing activity can mean one of two things; boring events not worth logging, or a period jam packed with an assortment of goings on leaving no time to sit in front of a computer. I can assure you the last two weeks have been the latter.

  Where to begin? Rome was just fantastic. My Mother and I had a great time relaxing and walking, and it was actually refreshing not to think about the bike for a few days. The only bothersome moment during my time in the eternal city was when I stood in St. Peter's Basilica and thought to myself,

"Would Peter want this?"

But this is a discussion we can have in person some day, otherwise I'll just be spouting viewpoints all over the place.

   Anyway, Mum left, and as her taxi pulled away from our bargain of a four star hotel, I felt a genuine pang of fear and loneliness. Fifteen minutes before we'd been drinking complimentary coffees by a swimming pool, high on Garibaldi hill, and all of a sudden my thoughts had to swith from leisure to logistics. I was solo once more.

   I set off North the following morning. After 20km in Rome city centre, I finally found my way out. With my recently delivered iPod, fresh undies, and plenty of surplus carbs and fats hanging around, I powered my way through the quagmire of suburban Rome to Viterbo and on to Montefiascone. It was a big day with some serious hills and so, in the failing light, I arrived at lake Bolsena. I found an agritourism on the lakeshore that seemed deserted, so I clambered over the fence and set up camp under an olive tree.
   A few hours into the night I heard the terrifying thud of a car door being closed right next to my tent. I sat bolt upright and scrambled into the moonlight to either fight for my life, or; charm the arrivals and agree some fee whilst apologising profusely. It turned out to be a holidaying German family, who were more than happy for me to stay, and then after a great night's sleep, had me over for breakfast! Such kind people.
   Having eaten my fill they suggested a bicycle path that would follow the lakeshore, then climb to Bolsena town, saving me 10km of uphill backtracking. I set off and must have immediately taken a wrong turn... I did find my way to the town, but not before climbing three fences and dragging the bike up a road so rough that I was on my hands and knees. I was sure I was going to be sick as I reached the heavenly tarmac.

   Upon reaching the smooth, signposted SS2, the next two days were spent cruising through the romantic novel-esque landscapes of Tuscany. Forever rolling waves of hills, either freshly ploughed or covered in enormous vineyards that oozed beautiful winey odours. I don't mean post binge session wino odours either- I was passing the town of Montepulciano, and the famous Chianti region!

   Everything was going so well, and I was on target to reach Florence on that third afternoon, when, 10km from the city, I heard a noise come from my back wheel that makes the stomach of every touring cyclist feel like it is about to fall out of their belly button. I looked between my legs and saw the damage- the bolt holding my pannier rack had snapped clean in half, with half still stuck in the bicycle. This was a major problem. With all my weight on the back it was impossible to carry on. The rack was twisting badly and rubbing on the wheel. Nightmare.
   After five minutes of thinking the worst, I made the risky decision to ditch the rack and bags (MY WHOLE LIFE), stashing them in a bush by the roadside, and race on unburdened to the camping at Piazza Michaelangelo, returning in a taxi to collect them.
   During those 45 minutes I thought of all possible scenarios. I knew the remainder of the bolt stuck in the frame was a major problem- Would I have to ditch the bike and find a new mode of transport? Would someone have found and stolen my belongings in the bush?
 What was I to do?

   In the end, I got everything to the camping and the bike to a mechanic. He took one look at the damaged bolt, let out a huge sigh, picked up a drill and hack saw, and said,

"You have big problem. Come back tomorrow."

   I was nervous. So I did what all nervous Irishmen would do, when they're nervous in Italy. I bought a nice bottle of Chianti. I knew drinking alone in my tent would only darken the situation, so instead I ingeniously disguised the alcohol in a paper bag and took to walking the spectacular city in the warm moonlight!
   After some great conversation over Apertivo in a little trattoria, I wound my way past the Duomo with its enormous dome, down to the Uffizi gallery and the little Piazza next to it, where a street musician was playing acoustic reggae covers of pop ballads. A perfect mash-up of genres for a drunken 21 year old.
   Surrounded by perfect sculptures of Greek mythology, and in the eyeline of Michaelangelo's "David", I sat and had a little cry to myself.
   It felt great, and by the time the musician had finished two songs I felt purged of all nerves and had washed away the fear. Key sera sera I thought. This is all part of the big adventure.

   The following afternoon, through the haze of a hangover, I returned to the mechanic, who presented my bicycle repqired, qnd with enhanced fittings! I paid the man and went for a spin along the river, almost falling off twice while catching the eye of some beautiful passer by. Florentine girls are where its at. I decided to set off the following morning, so went to Piazza Michaelangeo and sat in the sunset reading and snacking on delicious, salty, olive oil soaked foccacia bread.

   The road from Florence to Bologna is quite simply a road that was made to be ridden on a bicycle. Just over 100km long; ascending straight out of old Florence in to more vineyards for about 40km, then undulating for 20km between two passes, then descending for around 45/50km to Bologna.
   In the cool sunshine my spirits remained high all day. It felt great to be on the road again after my little hiccup- but the real inspiration came in a cafe atop the passo di futa when, after ordering a lunchitme espresso, I turned to find myself in the shadow of a wall covered in photographs from as far back as the 1950s,showing cycling royalty such as Jaques Anquetil, Nino Defillipis, and Fautso Coppi zooming past that very spot in numerous Giro d'Italia and a few Tour de France!
   On the descent I met two South Koreans, who didn't know each other, but camped at the same site in Bologna, were both in their 20's, and were both going to Madrid! Its amazing what a trip can do. They said they were now good friends, gave me some sweets, then we parted to the road once more.

   From Bologna I entered the pancake gradients of the Po valley and surrounding plains. I made good time to Ferrara where I met Coach Cate- an American lady cycling from London to Athens doing some research on the healthy living styles of the Europeans. We shared ingredients to prepare a great dinner, and shared thoughts to make a great night time conversation.

   From Ferrara I took the Po cycle path, all the way along the levee of the great river, to Verona. Torrential rain and heavy fog finished the day and so I checked into a hostel with a grand open fire and complimentary cat!
   A day off to dry out seemed a wise idea, so after exploring Verona, gazing up at Juliet's balcony, and getting a damaged crank replaced for €50, I met Julien; a French wine trader travelling Europe.
   We teamed up with Anna, a local girl he'd met that day, and a bottle of Grappa, and wandered all over town. It was great fun- catching a Mexican Apertivo along the way and finishing up on the ancient Roman bridge under the stars, that were visible for the first time in days. This night time clear sky let the temperature drop, so when the rain returned the following morning, it was sharp and freezing and blowing straight into my face as I battled to reach Vincenza.
   A day of total misery convinced me to stop at a shop and pick up decent waterproofs and serious boots, so as I finally rolled into Venice 24 hours later on a crisp sunny afternoon, I looked more like a polyester Yeti than a trim cyclist.

Venice! I had arrive at the magical city on the sea, and, two hours later, so did my best mate Pat! He and some fellow students had come to study architecture for a week, and they'd managed to get an amazing deal on an MTV Cribs worthy apartment. Under the cover of BROAD DAYLIGHT, we hauled the bike across too many bridges and I moved in to sleep on their floor for three nights.
   Venice really deserves a chapter to itself. We had our own kitchen, so each evening we cooked 5* meals for cheap. I spent the days  relaxing, wandering along countless canals, getting lost and eating a mountain of Gelato while the others studied at the Biennale.
    On the second night, Venice experienced the worst flooding in 22 years! 1.5m of wqter spilled on to St. Mark's Square, brought to our attention by the eerie, pan pipe warning siren that wouldn't be out of place in Doctor Who.
   Julien from Verona joined us, and we continued our cheap, yet incredibly glamourous way of life for a few more days. Just like Rome it was so good to switch off from survival, and adventure in a much more luxurious manner. Strolling pqst the house of Marco Polo, drinking varieties of coffee, eating all sorts of foreign food and sampling wine and beer by the bottle are all great adventure in Venice. It was tough to leave.

   To save myself the boring repetition of cycling back along roads I'd taken East to Venice, I took a train West to Torino, catching a glimpse of lake Garda,through the trees, and picking up some fine mixed nuts at a stop over in Milano- leading me to the doorstep of the Alps.
   If Torino is the doorstep, then the Val de Susa is the driveway. A great slice of relatively flat valley floor that puches right into the heart of possibly the most spectacular moutain range on Earth. Towering, snow capped peaks lined the road all the way to Susa, then the roqd switched back on itself and began to gain altitude very quickly.
   In minutes my flat valley ride was over and I was surrounded by a panorama of golden forest, snowy peaks, and some of the finesrt cycling world over.

   Two hours of tough ascending took me to the town of Salbertrand, already 1000m above sea level. Upon arrival I was immediately invited to a session of roasting chestnuts and drinking hot wine with the local community, and through that, picked up an invite to dinner in a caravan! It was such a great day. My heart was so warmed by the generosity of the human spirit here, that it took some time for me to notice the piles of snow lying around! Winter has arrived.
   After a great sleep I climbed to an Aaron Gordon record height of 1860m on the Col de Montegenevre, and entered France! A freezing fog was blowing  through the ski station, so I hastily layered up and descended through the snow along an amazing Alpine Tour route, passing  road paintings such as "Allez Tommy Voeckler!" into the picturesque town of Briançon; from which I write this entry.

   A storm has blown in which I hope passes by before the morning, as I will reach a new record altitude crossing the Col du Lautauret at 2058m, before descending to Le Bourg D'Oisans at the foot of the mighty Alp D'Huez! A little test of fitness amongst my 8 hours riding per day.

   Italy really was fantastic. The highs of cycling along routes of bicycle folklore, and the comforts of Rome and Venice, balanced with the stresses of brutal weather, mechanical troubles and internal dilemmas, combined to make a thoroughly worthwhile section of this adventure.
   I have loved every second, high or low, in altitude or in spirit. Now to soak up the Alps before crossing the great expanse of France.

   It's funny- life on the road now seems so normal. Maybe it was the supernatural Alpine scenery I find myself in, but today all I could think about was today. I wasn't concerned with the future for the first time in ages. The more I think about it, I've been slipping into this frame of mind over the past two months.
  It feels great.

The only time is now. Enjoy it.