The start of a successful bike tour from London to Rome

For the previous few days I had been lying around my sisters flat telling myself that I was preserving energy and to mentally prepare myself for the next few months, the discomfort, the rawness of what I was embarking on. No matter how hard the brain ticked over all of the terrible things that could happen (and some that eventually WOULD happen), that preparation just wouldn’t come. I hadn’t needed to prepare. ‘I’ve always ridden bikes, I’m placing myself into a position that I’m all too familiar with.“
Resoundingly, I couldn’t shake the idea that "it’s just another bike ride.’

It was only 8 weeks prior that I was leaving my job so that I could spend 5 months doing nothing around Wellington, achieve nothing, feel nothing, just hang out with friends and shoot the shit. None of the money in my account was planning to get me anywhere at all. My sister was visiting Wellington from the UK to organise an extension to her visa and I found myself cramped into the back seat of a car ride with one of her old friends that she was catching up, someone that had no concept of where my life was at and what I was at all capable of. A complete stranger. I made my plan loud and proud. "I’m going to do nothing! I’m taking some time off. I’ve saved to pay rent for x amount of months. I’m done with working for a good while.” My steam catalogue had backed up and I was going to take it down! My sisters friend glanced sideways at me and uttered a sentence that would have me questioning my entire being. I don’t remember word-for-word what it was. I probably should have, I mean, it was life changing, but it was along the lines of “That’s stupid, you should go overseas.”
I knew about bicycle touring in some capacity, or at least in the capacity that it existed. The idea was endearing, riding bicycles is second nature to nearly everybody. 'It must be cheap because it’s self sustained! No taxis, buses, public transport, airplanes, just me and the road. No extra services trying to charge me.’ I pore through hundreds of websites on the topic in a short period, clinging to every piece of information, every story. About a week was spent on the BicycleTouring subreddit coming to terms with the necessary kit and bicycles. Much to the dismay of my then girlfriend I had started to pack up the things from my flat and transfer them to my Mum’s house in preparation to leave. She’d been planning in her mind a trip that we could take through Europe together, which I was systematically throwing out the window with every piece of clothing and every material possession that I was packing up. A plane ticket booked in 7 weeks time with my name on it. A bicycle ready to be shipped to my sister’s house in the UK that I would be kicking off from. A friend who had worked at an outdoors store had sorted me out with some cheap camping kit. There was an open suitcase nestled into the mess next to my bed absorbing all of the necessary trinkets and clothing as I absorbed more information from the internet.
I spent the rest of my days on the homeland shepherding concerns about my wellbeing and about the logistics of such a journey. My sister had warned me “Why don’t you get a cheaper bicycle? I had 3 friends who all went through 2 bicycles each when they toured Europe.” There were people who tried to suggest a healthier alternatives. “Why don’t you wait to go overseas with some friends?” “Why don’t you just go and do a contiki tour?” Why don’t I? Because I am Max, I do not have a particularly large sum of money and I’m not particularly good at taking advice!

I woke up cramped into the white 2 seater couch that had served as my bed for the last week. My phone notification light blinks with a few messages from a couple of stragglers in Wellington who had stayed up to see me off. All of my belongings are delicately folded and rolled like a game of tetris into the panniers that were adorning my bike’s rear end. I had packed everything up and unpacked a hundred times the previous night which was about the only preparation I could put myself through. 'It’ll be useful to be able to pack quickly when I get caught stealth camping everywhere. Because I’m going to stealth camp EVERYWHERE.’ My phone beeped a few more times, I snapped a photo of the Croix de Fer looking out at the street and savoured the moment that the door finally closed with a click. I stood for a moment and considered the fact that I didn’t have a key to this door if I had left anything behind. I didn’t have any key to any door for thousands of kilometers around. No roof. No bed. No toilet. No shower. No running water. And all I had to show for it was an uncomfortable saddle and some roads to roll around on.
Fair trade.
The first stretch down that Brixton street was entirely underwhelming. For all my body knew, I was heading down to the supermarket. A corner brought me onto Brixton Hill road, bustling with people, cars clamouring at my back tyre, and all I could think was 'It’s just another bike ride.’

A few years prior I had been living in Newtown, Wellington with a bunch of friends. One friend decided she had had enough of not exercising and was going to go for a run. I decided to join in because I was a little rotund at the time. How far? Who knows, let’s pick a place on a map and run there and back. What are our limits? I don’t know, I’ve never run long distance before. How far did we end up running? Too far. What were the consequences? I called in sick to work for two days afterwards because my legs had entirely given up on having the rest of my body balanced on top of them. On the night of the run we had gotten back and bragged how far we’d gone and how we didn’t feel a thing.
I didn’t learn anything from this.

7/7/14 - I had no limits whatsoever at this point. The only limiting factor was a ferry that I had to catch in 7 days time from Harwich Port on the East coast of Britain. Until that date I was as free as a bird. Young, dumb and gunning for some point on the horizon that my map told me was called Northampton, some 100km in a straight line from where I’d started. Getting out of London was a trap, especially when the google maps route I had planned took me off course, malfunctioned and told me to connect to the internet. I reverted over to Maps.Me, which at the time was unable to route me from the birds nest of roads but was enough guidance to make it through some dodgy neighbourhoods to the coutryside.

The scenery was rolling, golden hay and purple lavender fields like patchwork, antique brick houses jutting out of the forage. The sky threatened rain, but never once opposed me.
I had stopped at a petrol station to gorge myself on a pie and a muffin when a younger petrol station attendant approached me propped up against the car wash.
“Where are you cycling from?”
“I started in Brixton this morning.”
“You what?”
“Brixton… You know, South London?”
The attendant started to giggle. “You’re a long way from home boy!”
He ran around the station telling all of the other attendants about this crazy guy with a bicycle and how far he’d come. I had to stifle a smile, but was completely chuffed with the reaction like this guys bragging had validated my mission.
I pitched tent at a campsite in Bletchley.

8/7/14 - Oh god. What is that. Roll over. Oh, what the fuck.
I cradled my butt for a couple of hours within the privacy of my tent.
I had taken my body from 0 to 100 m/ph in a short space of time and my butt was failing me as bad as my legs did when I had taken that run. My saddle wasn’t too uncomfortable, a Madison Flyer that shipped stock on the Croix de Fer. I had considered buying a Brooks saddle in London, but decided that I could just make do with what I had.
Despite hovering one inch off the saddle nearly all day, I covered a fair bit of ground. The hovering did serve to wear me out very quickly and I don’t think I made it 2/3 as far as I had the day before.
I pitched a tent at a campsite called Church Farm Ardeley, suppressing my tears through the reception area whilst still gripping my buttocks. Quaint place, lots of organic food and lollies. Refilled my 1.5l bottle from rainwater that was pooling on top of the tent. Only one other camper stayed that night blaring the FIFA world up on the radio of his car. I’ve never been as interested in soccer as when I have nothing else to do but watch the bugs dance together under the fly of my tent, for fear that if I moved the butt pain would return…

9/7/14 - According to my journal, my butt was only a 4/10 for pain. What a victory.
Pitched my tent at Gosfield Lake Resort. A lake in the middle of nowhere, a mother that owns the location, the daughter and her boyfriend manning the onsite cafe and running waterskiing and wake boarding with a jet boat on the lake. In between summers they swap between Australia and Britain to do the same thing on the other side of the world. Imagine never having to deal with winter!
I ordered a curry for dinner, realised I had forgotten to grab some cutlery from the shop, hadn’t packed cutlery for the tour in general and ended up eating with a tent peg. Another victory, this time for ingenuity.

10/7/14 - Whilst hurtling down a hill today I heard something fall off my bike. When I returned to the scene of a crime I found that it was just a padlock that I had hung through an eyelet on my rear rack. Word for word from my journal “lesson learned, you drop something you go back and check.”
On the very same day, much closer to Harwich port now, I heard something else jingle on the ground. I gaped at the spot where I had heard the noise, but couldn’t spy anything. So I kept on going. That night I was pulling my gear off of the bike to lug into a B&B, went to reach for the key to take my handlebar bag off of the front and found myself digging at an empty pocket that I usually had zipped up.
Shit.
The lock keeping the bag on the handlebars had been set to the locked position, but the lid was still open. I scooped everything into my panniers and left the bag on the bike. This was to be the first of many ‘Anti-Victories’ that I would face in the coming days.
I say Anti-Victories, because sitting here today, typing this out, I deem my ride to be very positive overall. So everything that went wrong leads up to how much I ended up enjoying it. Everything that had gone wrong or right on my trip thus far was in proportion with living at home with a comfy bed and meals to eat. Everything that was about to happen in the coming days… Well, this is where the bicycle touring experience defined itself.