I’ve been a cyclist most of my life, but I wouldn’t have called myself a cycling enthusiast. For years, the bike was just something I rode now and then. I didn’t buy my first proper road bike until 2019, and even then it wasn’t anything special — an old Trek 2.3 Alpha, bought sight unseen from a mate for £185. I figured if it was big enough for him, it would be big enough for me.

That bike still hangs from the ceiling of my shed.

Like many people, my real cycling journey began during lockdown. I started with five miles, then ten, then fifteen. Nothing heroic. Just getting out of the house. Eventually I could ride 25 miles comfortably, so I set myself a small challenge: 25 miles a day, every day, for 25 days. No rush. No targets beyond turning the pedals.

The first week felt tiring. After ten days I still felt tired, but I could manage it. By three weeks, something odd happened — it just felt normal. That was my first real lesson in endurance: you don’t suddenly become fit, you just stop noticing the effort.

From there, the miles crept up. Fifty became manageable. Sixty felt like an achievement. I rode up to Leicester to see my mum — which at the time felt like a full-blown expedition, complete with cheese sandwiches, fruit and emergency chocolate. Then one day I rode from Cambridge to Bristol to visit the friend who’d sold me the bike. About 160 miles. For years, that remained my longest ride.

Eventually, curiosity pushed me further afield. I decided I’d ride to Geneva to visit a friend. I didn’t really know what I was doing. I packed camping kit, strapped everything to the bike, and headed for Newhaven to catch the ferry to Dieppe. Two miles from central London, I broke a spoke. A local bike shop fixed it and asked where my cycling kit was. I said I didn’t need any. He smiled and said, “You’ll be sore.”

He was right — about many things.

That first attempt at riding to Geneva didn’t go to plan. Covid travel rules intervened, and I ended up turning around before France. But it was still a learning experience, and cycling seems to be made almost entirely of those. One of the things I learned was simple: buy decent wheels. I invested in a sturdy set designed for heavier riders, and the following year I tried again.

This time, I made it.

The journey unfolded in fragments rather than stages: the South Downs out of London; a quiet ferry crossing; rolling off into France and following parts of the Avenue Verte; freestyling routes when things wandered too much; sleeping in bivvy bags when campsites turned out to be little more than car parks in the woods.

Paris arrived almost by surprise. The outskirts were eerily quiet, then suddenly everything was busy — it was Bastille Day. Bridges were closed, parades everywhere, and I found myself watching the French Foreign Legion march through the city before heading on my way.

Further south, the rhythm settled in. Long Roman roads. Canal paths that began smooth and inviting, then turned into washboard mud and overgrown grass. Small towns that looked deserted until you climbed one last hill and found life, food and somewhere to sit.

The mountains came gradually, then all at once. Long, grinding climbs on a heavily loaded bike. Careful descents. And then, one day, a sign at the top of a pass: Switzerland.

That ride took eight days. I learned more than I can list: about navigation, pacing, kit, and my own limits. But more than anything, I learned why riding a long way suits me.

The last few years had been heavy ones. Losses in the family. Illness among close friends and colleagues. Cycling became a place where I could process things without having to talk about them.

That’s probably why Audax appealed when I eventually discovered it. Cycling a long way, slowly — but not that slowly.

If there’s one thing I’d pass on to anyone in the club who’s curious about riding further, it’s this: you don’t need to be fast, or fearless, or especially brave. You just need to be patient, a bit stubborn, and willing to see what happens if you keep going.

Sometimes, a long way slowly turns out to be exactly the right pace.