The Man

An excerpt

My alarm shocked me into consciousness. It was 4am and my immediate instinct was to close my eyes and retreat back under the comfort of the duvet, but unfortunately my body had other plans. My legs were already feeling the fatigue from yesterday’s jolly across the Alps and the soreness made it impossible to relax. Sleep would have to wait.

Hauling my body out of bed, everything felt heavy. It was still dark outside and I began to question whether the early alarm was, in fact, a good idea. On the one hand, it would give me more hours to cover the distance I needed without having to sacrifice stopping time, but on the other hand it meant that I’d given myself less time to rest and recover. Finding the right balance was going to be critical if I was going to keep this up for another three weeks.

I flicked on the light and blinked in my surroundings, taken aback by what I saw. It was as though I’d exploded all over the hotel room; clothes were hanging from every spare hook and ledge, various food items and packets were sprawled across the desk and floor, and charging cables were sprouting from every plug socket in sight. I’d spent a grand total of thirty minutes in the room before crawling into bed the night before - how had I made such a mess? I’d clearly need to hone my post-ride routine if I wanted to keep myself sane; the idea of gathering up my things was paralysing. Where do I even start?

A sharp exhale and I was on the move, squirrelling items into their rightful place whilst taking feral bites out of a danish pastry. I had already wasted precious time and needed to get on the road. Suddenly, everything was urgent. A quick brush of the teeth here, an arm squeezed into a lycra jersey there, and soon enough the hotel room that minutes earlier had resembled a bomb site, now stood silent, the only evidence of inhabitance being a few pastry crumbs dusted across the carpet.

Now for the real challenge: retrieving my bike. This is what I had been truly afraid of. Thoughts of opening the shed door to only cobwebs, followed by the sinking feeling of realising my bike had gone. Coming from London, one thing you learn very quickly is that no bike is ever safe. Even using the highest-rated lock imaginable, you could still end up in a cold sweat when you return to an empty rack. I even had a friend who had her bike stolen from a locked cage inside her apartment complex - twice! So forgive me for struggling to put my faith in a piece of rotting wood and a rusty key.

Arms loaded with bags, I crept down the corridor, unlatched the front door, and stepped out into the frigid morning air. It was still dark, but I could just about make out the shed across the road, its battered exterior illuminated by flickering street lamps. I could feel my heartrate quicken as I traipsed clumsily over to the shed door. “Whatever happens, happens” I told myself, already making peace with a reality that didn’t yet exist. I could feel my brain conjuring all the possible scenarios that might unfold, and all the possible ways in which I might react - most of them involving tears. At that moment, I was convinced it was all over. The first night in and someone had already stolen my bike. I’d have to start looking for flights back to London - thank goodness I’d taken my passport up to my room!

The silence was palpable as I reached towards the door and wiggled the key. A sharp inhale as I nudged it open, followed by an audible sigh of relief when - of course - there was my bike, in exactly the same place I’d left it. Innsbruck: 1, London: 0.

Cycling out of Innsbruck at dawn was nothing short of magical. I rolled my way along pristine tarmac, both awestruck and humbled by the sharp blue silhouettes of mountains that wrapped the horizon. Everything was bathed in pink hues and a blanket of low mist danced above the grass. The world was completely silent. It was both eerie and utterly enchanting. I spun the pedals slowly, turning my head from left to right, soaking it all in. It was a far cry from the lanes of Essex that I was used to.

As I joined the road out of Telfs, the Hohe Monde peaks loomed ominously in the distance, protected by a barricade of coniferous trees. I knew what was coming; a formidable climb I’d been dreading since seeing the route for the first time months earlier. At 7km in length and an average gradient of 8%, this wasn’t a climb to be taken lightly at the best of times. Chuck in some post-Alps fatigue and a fully-loaded bike and this was a recipe for grade A torture. “You’ve got this” I muttered under my breath, conscious of the fact I was already running out of gears less than 100m in. I took in a deep inhale, attempting to ease the panic I could now feel tightening around my chest. I knew what was happening: I was psyching myself out, something that’s become somewhat of a bad habit over the past 30-odd years. No matter how many times I succeed, or achieve, or overcome, there will always remain a whisper of self-doubt: “not this time”. This will be the time I fail. This will be the time I’m finally ‘exposed’. This will be the time I realise that everything has been a fluke and that I’m not good enough after all.

I don’t know where this lack of confidence came from. It has been around for as long as I can remember; even early school reports would depict me as the girl who was ‘afraid to put her hand up in class’. How can a child as young as four already be crippled by self-doubt? I can’t blame it on my parents either; I had a wonderful childhood filled with love and encouragement. In fact, I grew up believing that everything was possible - I could achieve anything I set my mind to. And perhaps that was the problem. The definition of success was so big and so limitless, that any achievement would fall short, because there was always more. This perfectionist, overachieving mindset would eventually lead to constant indecision and crippling anxiety: who am I if I don’t succeed? And when your entire identity is built around achievement, failure suddenly becomes the worst outcome imaginable.

I tried to focus on the climb. Inhale. Exhale. Right foot. Left foot. Suddenly, a voice. Not mine. I turned. Not Alvin’s. Instead, a stranger’s face, rugged but friendly, attached to a body sat atop a mountain bike. He spoke again, and I realised that I had been staring for an uncomfortable amount of time. “Hi!” I exclaimed, in a panic, not wanting to come across as rude. “English?” he responds. I nod, suddenly very aware of my heavy breathing. “To Nordkapp?” he asks, pointing at the race number attached to my bike. I nod again, this time making more of an effort to smile. He sees this as an invitation and quickly spins his legs until our bikes are side by side, then proceeds to ask for my name. I feel myself tearing in two; one half desperate to be the sociable, outgoing adventurer who makes meaningful connections with others whilst on her travels, the other wanting to shrink back inside her own head, only the command of the mountain for company. “I am Gregory” he breaks the silence. “Jess”, I respond, choosing to be the former.

Despite my reservations, it was a welcome distraction to have company on the climb. I learned that Gregory was a local rider and often ascended the mountain in the early morning, carrying his bike the final few hundred metres to the top, before freewheeling back down and starting his day. “What a life” I thought, imagining the thrill of having this landscape on your doorstep, prepped and ready for adventure at any given time. “You’re really lucky” I say in earnest, thinking about the concrete streets and debris-ridden roads back home. “We both are” he retorts, casting an eye out to the panoramic views below. And he was right. Gregory may get to enjoy this mountain and these views on a daily basis, but right then, in that moment, they existed for both of us. We could both enjoy them equally, and so enjoy them we did.

Gregory wished me luck as he turned right onto a gravel path, leaving me to finish the climb alone. It wasn’t much longer until I felt my pedals ease. I looked down at my navigation device and saw the gradient starting to decrease - 7%, 5%, 3%. I’d done it. The climb that I’d been dreading was finally over, and it wasn’t totally awful. A huge grin spread across my face as I revelled in my achievement, but widened when I realised what it meant next: coffee.

The next 20km was all downhill, with gentle, sweeping roads carved into the mountainside. It was the perfect descent. Long enough that you could switch off and take in the surroundings, but not so steep that you needed to be constantly on the brakes. After passing through a handful of alpine villages, I eventually rolled into Mittenwald, a small town at the foothills of the Alps, just north of the Austrian border. Known for its colourful painted houses and charming cobbled streets, it had “oat milk flat white” written all over it. The hunt was on. A quick scan of Google maps told me that there were several popular bakeries only a few streets off route, so I pointed my wheel to the right and picked up speed.

I could have sworn I heard angels sing when Das Lokal came into view. The bakery was perched on the edge of a cobbled square and framed by snow-capped peaks. A flawless blue sky hung overhead, and a handful of wooden chairs were scattered outside, luring passersby into a lazy morning. A squeal of excitement left my mouth - this was perfect. It’s funny how precious you become about where you stop when you’re limited to only two or three stops a day. It almost became a personal challenge; refusing to stop unless the vibes were exemplary. Some days I would cycle for hours longer than I wanted to, simply because I wasn’t happy with what the road had to offer. If I could only stop for 60 minutes a day, you bet they were going to be the most exquisite 60 minutes imaginable.

Only what started as the picture-perfect cafe stop, soon took a darker turn. I would forever remember Das Lokal, not as the place where I enjoyed thousands of Austria’s finest calories, but as the place where I watched a man die.

It was 8.30am in the morning and I’d covered 55km. Not a hugely impressive distance, but considering most of it was uphill, I was ravenous. I emerged from the cafe with a (very large) coffee and an (even bigger) cheese and tomato bagel, and plonked myself down on one of the benches in the middle of the square. Sitting opposite was a young boy and his father, also enjoying the sunshine, and also perched next to their fully loaded bikes. It was an odd snapshot in time - a meeting of three cyclists in the midst of their own adventures, both tackling different distances and durations, but, at this moment, both sharing the same space under the same portion of sky. We shared a nod of acknowledgment, but then kept to ourselves.

Bagel devoured, I soon became aware of a low gurgling sound coming from the left and turned my head to find a fourth person. Except this one wasn’t looking up to the sky, eyes bright and glassy with the awe of adventure, he was hunched over, head drooped towards the concrete below. Coming from London, I was used to this kind of sight, and my hardened mind instantly dismissed him as a drunk or a druggie who was suffering the consequences of the night before. As is customary in London, the appropriate response is ignorance - “not my problem”- and so I continued to sip at my coffee as though everything was fine.

The gurgling soon became punctuated with throaty snorts, similar to how you’d imagine someone with sleep apnea battling through the night. It was a little disconcerting, but I was convinced he was fine - or at least conditioned to believe so. “Excuse me?” the father spoke out. He was directing the question at the wheezing man. No response. “Are you ok?” he tries again, a little louder. I noticed that his son was now standing, wringing his hands in distress. Another loud snort. I make eye contact with the father. Maybe he’s not ok after all.

After a few more failed attempts at getting a response, the father takes a few purposeful strides towards the man and lays a hand on his hunched shoulder. He shakes him, gently at first, and then more vigorously. The man remains folded over his knees. Alarm starts to set in. The father shouts something to the son, who then runs into the cafe. Minutes later, one of the cafe workers emerges, phone pressed to his ear. He speaks in rushed sentences, but I can’t make out the words. There are three people crowded around the man now, making various attempts at reviving him from his trance-like state. This is starting to feel serious.

The sound of sirens, followed by the arrival of an ambulance and several uniformed medics, create a sudden sense of urgency. Terse words are exchanged, equipment unloaded, and fear froths the air. The son is pacing now, his eyes fixated on the man. The paramedics each take an arm and manoeuvre him forcefully to the ground, his back now resting on the cold cobbled pavement below. I’ll never forget seeing the man’s face for the first time: his eyes rolled back into his head, the whites exposed, and blood frothing from the right side of his mouth. The realisation that I had assumed ignorance cut hard. This man had clearly needed help, and I was perfectly content to chew on my soggy bagel whilst he was slowly suffocating to death. I hated myself at that moment, disgusted at the way I had dismissed him as “just a drunk”. Even if it was substance abuse that had gotten him into this state, did that make him any less deserving of human compassion? I questioned all the times I’d ever sat on the sidelines, feeling as though it was someone else’s duty to intervene when things got uncomfortable. I still hate myself now, reliving this moment all over again, challenging my belief that I’m a good person. What would I have done if the father and son hadn’t chosen that bakery for their morning pastry? Or if they suffered a puncture, delaying their arrival by thirty minutes? Would I have called an ambulance? Or would I have just pedalled away? The honest answer is I don’t know. And that haunts me still.

The paramedics kicked into action, pounding down on the man’s chest, trying to goad his heart back into a regular rhythm. Another worked alongside, preparing a defibrillator to deliver a powerful electric shock. It was a traumatic scene, and I dread to think what harrowing nightmares the boy endured for the rest of his trip, and beyond.

I felt rude and out of place sticking around, waiting to find out how things would end. I played no part in his resuscitation attempt, and therefore felt completely undeserving of bearing witness to what could be his final minutes of life. Instead, I timidly wheeled my bike away from the square and started pedalling, shouts of “coward” echoing inside my head.

I pedalled solidly for the next seven hours, allowing the hum of the wheels to drown out any intrusive thoughts. I was terrified that stopping would mean silence, and silence would bring torment. Instead, I tried to expel the guilt through pushing through the pedals a little harder than I wanted to, convincing myself that the pain was justified. “At least I’m alive to feel the pain”, I thought.

It was only when I found myself navigating the outskirts of Munich that I snapped back to consciousness. I could barely recall the last 110km at all. Taking in my new surroundings, I sensed a certain joviality and lightheartedness that hadn’t been there before. I’d joined a cycle path and had dramatically dropped my pace, weaving cautiously between pedestrians and leisure cyclists enjoying the park on a balmy Sunday afternoon. To my left was the Isar, one of the longest rivers in Bavaria: its journey starting in the Karwendel mountain range in the Alps, and stretching a staggering 295km before reaching its final resting place in the Danube. It was an energising sight; hundreds of scantily clad bodies sprawled along the river’s banks as they drank, talked, and played freely amongst family and friends. Everywhere you looked, there were people. And at the centre of it all, a glistening water paradise, epitomising the vibrant flow of life through this magnificent city.

I’d only been to Munich once before, many years ago, but don’t recall seeing anything quite like this. As I scanned the crowd of smiling faces, I allowed my thoughts to wander, imagining what life might have been like if I’d grown up here. I dreamed of spending my childhood years frolicking in the shallower banks, learning to swim and surf between the Marienklausensteg and Thalkirchner bridges, and cheersing ice-cold beers with teenage friends on the cushioned sand of the Flaucher.

This was a strange phenomenon I started to notice as I spent longer on the bike: passing through momentary snapshots of towns, villages, and cities, glimpsing a life that could have been. I found myself constructing entire narratives about who I was and what I enjoyed, who my friends were and how I spent my time on the weekends. Of course, everything was pictured through rose-tinted glasses; life was exciting and meaningful, and fun. It made me wonder how I saw my own, real, life. The one that had led me here, on this elaborate quest to the end of the world.

The Isar soon continued its journey towards the Danube, whilst I turned left over a bridge. I’d covered 388km since leaving Rovereto the previous morning, and was about to arrive at my first checkpoint: the tourist information centre in Marienplatz. After this, there would be three more checkpoints I’d need to pass through before finally reaching North Cape; Berlin, Copenhagen, and Rovaniemi.

The Marienplatz was everything you’d expect from a city-centre square; steeped with history and totally chaotic. There were tourists everywhere, and it was impossible to maintain any kind of speed on the bike. Instead, I found myself unclipping with one foot and scooting along the floor, giving myself the ability to perform an emergency stop if a distracted sightseer veered into my path. The constant voices, music, and clinking of cutlery were all-consuming. I felt as though my brain was being flooded with noise. It was all too much, too quickly. Having spent the best part of two days meandering through the muted tranquillity of the Alps, this sudden rush of stimulation was overbearing. I felt the overwhelming need to escape.

A quick photo in front of the checkpoint and I was straight back on the bike, head down, and focused. I wanted to get out as quickly as possible. I couldn’t stand the traffic, or the constant stream of people drifting through the streets. I pedalled faster, constantly refreshing the map on my phone and judging the distance to the next sanctuary of green. The road seemed to go on forever. It was long, and straight, and unsympathetic. Every fifty metres came a traffic light - on red, obviously - where I would wait intently for the second it turned, pushing hard on the pedals to maintain a sense of forward progress. I needed to keep moving. I needed to get out.

It was just after 4pm when I came to an abrupt stop. My heart was racing and my jersey was sodden with sweat. What was I running away from? My body was operating as though evading an imminent threat, but the only thing I saw was concrete and people. I took a deep breath and allowed the cool air from the exhale to tickle my upper lip. It took a moment to reassure myself that neither of those things were going to hurt me. I needed to reset.

I walked my bike away from the main road and pulled into a cafe, the only distinctive feature being its tango-orange, plastic seats. “This will do” I thought, as I slid myself behind one of the tables, initiating the routine of plugging various electronic devices into my power bank. I took another deep breath, feeling my heart rate start to slow. “I’m ok” I repeated.

Lifting my gaze I met the eyes of an older couple sitting at the table in front of me. I feigned a smile. They eyed my bike, then back to me. “Have you come far?” I noted the German accent. “Rovereto” I replied, matter-of-fact. At this, their faces lit up. Before I had a chance to protest, the couple were introducing themselves and swiping through holiday photos from Lake Garda, proud of the fact they’d managed to make the trip every year for the past 20 years. “It’s our favourite” they gushed, recalling memories from their younger years. The couple’s presence had a calming effect; it was nice to be able to focus on something other than the cortisol pulsing through my body.

In between mouthfuls of a cream puff pastry, I found myself opening up about the ride, unintentionally letting slip how nervous I was about what was still to come. It was only the second day, but it felt like I had already lived through a whirlwind of emotions. The miles behind me were filled with moments that had stretched me in ways I hadn’t expected. And yet, the most daunting thought was that this was still just the beginning—I had more than two weeks ahead of me. What else was the universe going to throw my way?

Despite the nerves, I knew deep down that this was exactly the part of long-distance cycling that I craved. Sure, there’s the stunning scenery and the addictive sense of freedom, like you’re somehow untethered from real life, but that’s only the shiny surface. What really pulls me in, what keeps me coming back, is the adversity. The guaranteed, inevitable struggle that slaps you in the face. There’s something raw about it, something you can’t replicate on those neat, day-long rides where everything is comfortably achievable. It’s the knowledge that, at some point, I’m going to hit a wall - physically, mentally, or both - and I’ll have to figure out how to push through. But that’s the part I secretly love. It’s where the real magic of ultra-distance lies.

My current adversity was figuring out where I was going to sleep that night. Yet again I’d left it too late in the day - definitely a strategy I needed to rethink - and the majority of places were already booked out. Pulling up my various booking apps, I examined my options. Freising was only 20 kilometres away, and while it boasted a decent number of hotels, stopping there would mean falling short of my 200-kilometre daily target. The thought made my stomach churn; I was loath to give in so early in the race when my legs were supposedly in their prime. I knew I had to accumulate as many miles as possible now to build a buffer for any unforeseen mishaps down the road. Every kilometre mattered, a safety net for those inevitable moments when fatigue would creep in or something unexpected would throw a wrench in my plans.

The next town after Freising was a further 30 kilometres away, at least two and a half hours of riding time from where I currently sat. It would mean that I wouldn’t arrive until gone 8pm, a gruelling 18 hours since my alarm had rang that morning. But this was the nature of the beast, and I quickly clicked ‘book’, desperate to have a known finish line to work towards. I said my goodbyes to the German couple, who promised to keep an eye on the live tracker and follow my progress over the next few weeks, and I, in turn, vowed to be kinder to myself.

Three hours later I rolled into my accommodation for the night, a traditional-looking Bavarian inn, with a beer garden to match. I was both physically and mentally drained, and in desperate need of a hot meal. I’d only been riding for thirteen hours, but felt as though I’d lived through an entire lifetime.

I settled myself at a table indoors, grateful for the refuge as dark clouds loomed threateningly overhead, hinting at an impending downpour. I thought back to that morning, sitting on the bench in Mittenwald having just conquered the climb that had felt completely insurmountable only hours before. I thought back to the first sip of coffee, and how soothing the warm liquid had felt as it ran down my throat. I thought back to the son, and how blessed he was to grow up alongside a father who steps up, instead of sideways, when the situation demands. And I thought back to the lifeless man on the cobbles - a stark reminder of life’s fragility - and the girl who pedalled silently away.

It’s been over two years since I cycled to Nordkapp, and this is the first time I’ve shared this story. Even now, I still feel a wave of sadness when I think about The Man, followed by a flood of shame when I consider my role in his story.

At a time when division feels increasingly present in our world, let this be a salient reminder that people are still just people, and that compassion has to extend beyond our assumptions - regardless of age, gender, race, or the prejudices we may hold against them.

It’s a lesson I promised myself I would carry forward when I left that cobbled square in Mittenwald, and it’s one I spend every day trying to live up to.