Finding Freedom

Reflecting on a year of growth, joy, and challenges

I’ve never been one for reflecting too heavily on the past; it always feels more productive to be looking forward rather than back. But as I sit here on the first of January, gazing out at a dreary gray sky, a pang of melancholy in my heart, looking back may be exactly what I need.

There’s no denying that 2023 has been a big year; I’ve run head first towards challenges that 12 months ago felt so overwhelmingly huge and impossible that I’d go to bed every night, my head filled with self-doubt and indecision. I’ve stared fear in the face, physically crippled by anxiety, and somehow willed myself forwards through sheer determination alone. I’ve cried more times than I care to admit, and asked for help far too little. Yet I am still here, alive and breathing, a different person but also exactly the same.

A lot of people ask me why. Why do I ride my bike such ‘crazy’ distances? What do I get out of it? What’s the point of it all? I usually reel off a cookie cutter response about resilience and personal growth, but that’s not entirely the full story. The truth is: I struggle to articulate – even to myself – exactly why the draw is so powerful, the motivation so great. All I know is that when I’m riding my bike it’s like everything else falls away; nothing exists outside of the stretch of bare tarmac ahead of me and the healing wind against my skin. It’s nostalgic; a reminder of a simpler time before work and love and mortgages got in the way. Riding my bike is freedom. It’s cutting away the shackles, allowing me to return to myself. Stripping away the stressors of daily life and asking the big questions. When all is said and done, who am I?  

My fondest memories this year all start exactly the same way: pedalling a fully-loaded bike towards the tangerine hues of sunrise as the London skyline fades behind me, disintegrating into its own smog. Opportunity and adventure are the only things that lie ahead. I grin - a wide, toothy smile – and settle into the rhythm of being alive.

There’s something magical about cycling before dawn; parents holding their breath as they tiptoe downstairs to deposit gifts under a tree, afraid of waking the children. A city asleep, oblivious to my passing through.

By the time the sun envelopes the concrete high-rises, I am long gone. My tyres snake freely through scenic country lanes, the sound of sirens replaced by songbird. The air is now clean and crisp so I take in lungfuls at a time, pausing deliberately before exhaling a long and steady breath back into the world.

Here, I let go. I am me.

I haven’t been able to let go recently – perhaps the source of the melancholy I’m currently feeling. Riding in winter often brings its own challenges; drab mornings and short days. But more than that this year: a new fear. One that doesn’t reward with resilience and triumph, but a stolen bike and prolonged trauma.

I’m talking about the bike-jacking epidemic that is slowly poisoning London’s cycling communities.

With an estimated two muggings a day, riding my bike solo has suddenly lost its appeal. Now, instead of rising before dawn I hit snooze on my alarm; the darkness outside is ominous and threatening. I have no desire to stare this fear in the face. The self-doubt and indecision now questions my cowardliness instead of my capability.

And I’m still here and breathing, but arguably slightly less alive.