Advert. Charity. Summary.


I’m not a writer.

I’m not even a cyclist, not a professional one anyway.

But I do have MS, diagnosed in March 2015.

Since then, I’ve undergone two bouts of immune-modifying chemotherapy… and have cycled over 45,000 miles.

It’s been quite a journey.

To try to organise my own thoughts during this remarkable time, I started to write this diarised blog. I found this exercise enormously therapeutic and was hugely buoyed by the messages of support that it elicited.

As this blog grew and grew, it became harder for readers to find a coherent story so, this year, whilst I was laid low by ill health, I spent my bedbound time transforming my various diary extracts into a single book. 

The book’s chapters are not necessarily in chronological order and have had to be heavily edited from their original form but I feel that they now best-represent the trials, tribulations and joys of a life with MS. I hope that they provide you with an entertaining read.


It’s available (as per the links below) from Amazon – or search for the title (no spaces)

It’s all in a good cause – all profits will be donated to the “MS Society” – and the e-book is barely the cost of a coffee. I’d really appreciate it if you bought a copy, and perhaps even encouraged your friends to do the same…. 


Paperback: :





It’s now been two years since my second dose of Lemtrada.

The treatment was never sold to me as a cure for my MS. Clinical trials had shown that the drug might reduce the frequency of relapses by 50%, but it wouldn’t be to zero.

I try to bear this in mind as I review the last year. I was ill for almost four months between November and March. Never badly so, but I my body seemed to be stuck in an unescapable rut of malaise, vertigo and fatigue.

Then followed a fantastic summer when I felt as healthy as I’d even been. By September, I had cycled over 10,000 miles for the year, many of them rough, off-road riding on my new adventure-bike.

Later that month though, I had a worrying relapse. If last winter’s malaises could maybe attributed to the bad luck of a winter’s colds and flu, this was unequivocally a new MS event. For over three weeks, I had almost no feeling from the belly-button down; pin and needles in both arms and hands; and a shingle-like tingling that stretched from the top of my head, across my shoulders and down the left hand side of my back.

This pattern so closely echoes previous years that, at face-value, it feels as though nothing has really changed, or improved since my Lemtrada treatment. What’s more, my  monthly blood tests still show my lymphocytes struggling to return to their pre-treatment level.

But, if there have been some tough months this year, there is a silver-lining. And turning my blog posts into a single, coherent book is it.

Off the bike, off-work, and pretty much off-life, I’ve had the opportunity to finish off one project that I’ve always wanted to do: to get my book written and into published ink.

I edited, twisted, contorted and culled many of the blogs that I’ve written over the last few years, and I’m now content with what is left. I am happy that it tells my story; of being diagnosed with MS; and trying to find my own way forward despite it.

And, whilst I’ve been feeling down these last few weeks, re-reading some of my blogs about what I’ve done these last few years, where I’ve been and what I’ve overcome, reminds me both what is possible and that I must stay strong.

Perhaps, if I am the only reader, it will have been worth it just for this, but I do hope that others will feel similarly inspired. (Be warned, a self-publicising blog will soon be on it’s way advertising my new title when it’s released!)


Then, last week, I crashed my bike again. The impact was sufficient to rip one of my shoe into two, crack my helmet and write-off my bike. In fact, only my socks managed to avoid being destroyed. So I type these last sentences staring out the window at blue, sunny skies, nursing a broken wrist, tender with a fuzzy mixture of body-length cuts and bruises.

The air, though, does look so very fresh and clear – and is probably perfect weather for cycling.

I still want to get back on my bike, and whilst that remains the case, my belief is that everything else will work out OK.


If you’re interested in buying a copy of my book, “CyclingWithMS”, copies will soon be available from Amazon – both on e-book and hard-copy . Please note that all (or any!) profits will be donated to the “MS Society”.

E-book (available 8 Oct 2018):

Paperback (available 15 Oct 2018) :

Perhaps, for now, my work here is done


Running the risk of starting off with some pseudophilosophy, but I think we can agree that life has a distinct beginning and, of course, one “big end”. And whatever happens in between, you can’t really quarrel with those two points

Almost three years ago, I set out writing this blog – not really sure of where it would go, but it was meant to provide a sounding board for my own experiences of MS and to offer insights to the similarly recently diagnosed. If they happened to be cyclists, I hoped that they’d find a narrative which, whilst although inevitably different to the stories they would face, would offer them information (and inspiration?) where I had struggled to find the same.

I have now written about the period of my initial diagnosis; two chemotherapy treatments and their aftermath; and many of the highs and lows in between. 

Now, in December 2017, this is certainly not the Big End, but it feels as though a story – my story – has now run something of a full arc.

Although, again this year, I suffered my annual autumnal malaise, I began to feel that I had reached a stability with my MS – and, though this may not be exactly the life I would have chosen – good health in the summer, with periods of poor health on either side – it is still a life very much worth living. In fact, this last summer, must have been one of the best of my life – which I hope came across in my write-ups of my various summertime tours. 

My MS is at times saddening. Disappointing. Frustrating. And on rarer occasions, upsetting. Worrying. And, on the odd occasion, defeating.

But this year I have ridden my bike. And, at times, have felt as healthy as I’ve ever been.

I await the future, like all of us. But I am happy in the present.

Where I’ve had to give ground to MS, I like to think that it has always been a considered retreat – inch by inch – rather than a panicked capitulation.

Trying to make the most of the hand still in play.


Whilst, at one level, all bike rides must ‘start’, and then ‘finish’, it is the want of us ‘cyclists’ to impose our own arbitrary lines in the sand – to set landmarks to reach (or fail) / win or lose.

Earlier this year, I wrote about my bike ride down the Pacific Coast of America, but one slight regret I omitted: initially I had planned to ride all the way down to the Mexican border. It had been wholly within reach until a perfect storm of mechanical (cracked seat post) and electronic (broken GPS device and phone) malfunctions had slowed me down as I approached San Francisco. I was never to make up that lost time.

Of course, the ride I did was “my ride”. Rich with variety, adventure and (self-awarded) glory. But I never quite made it all the way down.

My line in the sand, had crept northwards until LA became my finish line.

I felt the glow of completion; but also the nagging regret of those last ~150 miles left unridden – to some arbitrary line in the sand that I had deemed it necessary to reach.

A refusal to capitulate. But coupled with an acknowledgement of changing circumstance and possibility.

Trying to make the most of the hand still in play. 


My last touring ride this year was following the River Rhone, down from Lake Geneva, all the way to the Mediterranean.

Southern France was rusting with autumnal colours and, even down through Provence, winter’s weather was knocking at the door.

I had planned the route somewhat ad hoc, but was revelling in an anticipated sense of ‘completion’ – riding a river from source to sea.

It was only late on the second day, that my friend pointed out to me that the source of the river was actually several days ride to the North of Lake Geneva.

Like the final leg down to Mexico, this was going to have to be conquered another time. Or perhaps another lifetime.

As the river widened towards the coast, at least the saltwater goal of the Med, remained in sight.

Until we awoke on the final morning to a howling storm and 50mph winds.

We made it as far down as Arles.

My friend was blown clean off his bike.

Twice a cross wind pushed me off the road and into the verge.

I was hit by a runaway rubbish bin as it was blown towards me like a bowling ball.

One bridge proved impossible to cross. In the end I walked my bike from one side to the next, pausing behind any windbreak I could find.

So the red-line of my ride didn’t quite reach the sea.

And riding through heavy rain on the second day meant that I had a serious head cold setting in as we caught the train home.

The next day, my old MS symptoms were blazing and I spent the next few days in bed swaying with a buzzing vertigo and a pulsing muscle ache.

On that occasion, the line in the sand hadn’t been pulled back quite fast enough.

As I lay in bed, I reflected that it’s always better to have a hand in play. Even it’s not the one you would necessarily wish for.


The most arbitrary of all my cycling goals is the number of miles I cycle in each calendar year.

Luckily, web-based tracking tools do all the work for me – leaving me to ride to the next pointless milestone, which no one else but me will notice.

A few years ago, I wondered if I would ever reach 10,000 km. That became 10,000 miles. Then 12,000. Then 1,000 every month.

This year, with no long hospital stays; no chemotherapy treatments; and a summer of touring, my running total is 14,300, with 15,000 very much in my sights.

But I’m now off my bike again.

Feeling down with MS symptoms nagging away.

A line in the sand that I can almost touch. My eyes flitting between the rich pot, and the hand I’ve been dealt.

 No one but me will notice.

But Disappointing. Frustrating. And, on rarer occasions, upsetting. Worrying.

I must remember to keep adjusting the lines that don’t matter – so I can still go on and reach the ones that do.

For now, LA (not Mexico); Arles (not the Med); 14 (not 15).


When I started this blog, I’d already been suffered the cumulating symptoms of MS for 5-6 years.

Whilst, when I finish this paragraph, I’ll be off into the unknown, diagnosis was never the beginning, nor is this the end. 

When it asks for a mile, I may give it an inch – but I will fight it on the hills in Bristol; and on my tours to Europe and beyond. On club-rides, lunchtime socials, head-down time trials and commutes to work.

I’m lucky to be CyclingWithMS and long may that continue – MS may be a fact, but the cycling bit is still a choice.

I’ll add to this blog if there are any developments or change – but, for now, all the best, and thanks for reading.

The Pacific Coast: an abstract and an epilogue



At the beginning of my journey down the Pacific Coast, I stood in my friend’s house in Portland, Oregon, and looked at the huge map of America he had on his wall.

I’d been used to seeing America on the miniature globe on my desk; but, on this large scale, only ever when split into abbreviated day-by-day chunks, on my laptop screen.

At this new, wall-sized, explosion, the distances suddenly looked all the more intimidating. Even my very first day’s ride, planned to arrive at a dot labelled “Manzanita”, looked huge. I could see a long list of towns I’d be passing through. What had seemed like a simple journey along a couple of highways, was now a patchwork of intersections, county and state lines, bays, borders and bridges.

I (again) checked the internet for last minute tips and weather forecasts and happened across the site of an adventure company offering organised tours of a similar route.

“93% of our riders agreed that this tour was “the best thing that they have ever done””


I baulked at the statement (it reminded me of similar claims I read when trying to find a wedding venue – “100% of our couples say that their wedding with us was one of the best days of their lives”!)

Suffering from the jeg-lag of my transworld flight, I set off in pitch dark the following morning. Almost immediately I missed a turn and found myself riding on a giant overpass as commuting traffic squeezed past me at speed.

Carefully does it…. a long way still to go.

The best thing ever? Let’s see.


Ten and a half days later I slowly rolled up to the front door of my friend’s house  in LA.

I uncleated my shoes, stopped my ride computer and took a few deep breaths.

My arms and legs were buzzing slightly with tiredness.

My face was glowing with wind and sun burn, and I’d grown a wilderness beard.

I’d cycled 1,650 miles.

Along the coast. Through Redwood Forests. Across a desert. Over a mountain range.

My journey was now at an end.



Now I’m back in Bristol; back at my desk; and back at work.

At this exact point in time, another cyclist will probably be setting out from the Canadian border, making his (or her) way South.

Another ‘me’ will be stopping to take another photo of the Golden Gate Bridge – probably from the exact same view point.

Somewhere they’ll be some other rider, leaning on their bike, trying to summon up those last energy reserves to ride that last 10, 20… 50 miles for the day;

But for 2 weeks, that was me. Living the dream.

Of course, my rolling up to a friend’s house in LA wasn’t “The End”. Nothing stopped at that arbitrary line in the sand

Neither was my pitch dark departure “The Beginning”. Before that there was the flight from Heathrow; the drive to the airport; and the booking of the trip some 8 months ago.

There was that trip to the USA in 2005, that I’d planned but never went on.

There was the map of the world on my bedroom wall when I was still at school – complete with pins of where I’d been; and where I’d wanted to go.

And a generation ago, there was my Granny, riding her fixed gear bike in the Cairngorms of Scotland – up the hill to Tomintoul. Before my dad. Before he met my mum. Before me.

And there was me in Southmeads Hospital in March 2015, digesting the fact that I’d just been diagnosed with MS.

Me, holding back my emotions as I tried to cycle down the hill to work, but barely with the strength to lift my legs; trying to cycle up the Col du Tormalet as my perceptions of dreams and reality blurred.

There was me, lying on the kitchen floor as my body swirled with vertigo, recovering from my second bout of chemotherapy.

And there was my nadir: being lifted to my feet by a cinema usher as my distorted senses left me unable to leave my chair.

Time existed before, and time will continue to be.

But those 2 weeks did feel like a moment apart.

A wash of memories and landscapes; emotional highs and lows that I will ring-fence as something special.

And – yeah – I’d tick that box.

It might actually have been the best thing I’ve ever done.


So, back in Bristol; back at my desk; and back at work.

My friend recommends a book called “After the ecstasy, the laundry”.

The next day of now.

I look at some of the photos I took. Somehow none of them quite seem to capture the real essence of the trip – another beach; another view – snapshots in time that don’t quite describe the whole journey. I’ll try and piece them together into a longer ride diary blog when I have time.

1,650 miles of cycling – but perhaps the real challenge is when the riding ends.

The Pacific Coast: a travelogue


To some extent, America is a known quantity to us Brits.

My sense of the country has long been channelled by films and TV – so, to some degree, I knew what to expect when I arrived in Portland Airport.

From my first step through US Customs (warmly welcomed by a US cop, complete with gun holster and sparkling policeman’s badge) to the sight of the Hollywood letter boards (as I rolled into LA), this whole trip was to be a satisfying tick-box exercise of all that I imagined the US to be. One by one I was seeing the real versions of all those screen-based myths.

My arrival in Oregon kick-started this theory as “Portlandia” (the TV myth) seemed to be the perfect embodiment of the Portland for real (or vice versa). Tattooed hipsters served me coffee, gave me cycling advice and offered vegan, gluten-free alternatives to every dish.

It dawned on me that I could probably have a very happy holiday just chilling out in that one city…. but quitting my ride before I’d even started would have been the betrayal of a steady drumroll that I had been building up for many months.

I had an adventure to get done.


On my first day, wide-eyed and fresh, I was enthused by every passing road sign, shop-front and vehicle: “Highways”; “Diner”; “Waffles”; “Pancakes”; “Gallons”; people carriers; 4×4’s. They were the US that I already knew – it felt like I was reconnecting with an old friend.

Actually my first day was a pretty grim route through Portland’s industrial hinterland – but I was far too excited to care. With a boyish excitement I was served free refills of coffee; paid small sums with big wads of single dollar bills; left tips; passed green and yellow road signs; and turned right (legally!) on red lights. After one, then two, visits it became clear that every diner would remind me of that scene from Pulp Fiction.

What soon became apparent was the extent to which life on the road had been so dramatically up-scaled. Rather than being squeezed onto the side of a UK road, I cycled, in what felt like relative safety, on a hard shoulder the same width as a full lane. Initially, I stuck to the main highways and, although the flow of passing traffic never abated, it passed with a cruising calmness I wasn’t used to – 40-50mph, rather than with a roaring acceleration nearer to 70. The theme of this ‘upscaling’ was everywhere, and remained for my whole trip: from the trees, to the food portions, landscapes and people.

 This was a country built upon road transportation. The highways bulldozed straight from A to B, through towns and over rivers – rather than dabbling around them like they do at home. Rather than peering round one turn after another, I got used to re-orientating myself at an intersection to see my route road disappearing off to the horizon – tarmac shimmering with hazy mirages in the sun.

Upscaled too was what I was trying to achieve. My plans demanded ~250km of cycling everyday and, from the very start, I treated these distances with a nervous respect. Rather than racing breathlessly to my rest-stop each night, I cruised, rather more in keeping with the feel of the traffic, and stopped frequently, always aiming to carry more food and water than I could possibly need. I was racing no one, but was there instead to breathe in the sights.


It took me almost most 100 miles of cycling to actually get to the Pacific Coast and then I smelt the sea before I saw it. One more small hill later, and suddenly it was there: The Pacific Ocean – out as far as the eye could see. It would become my orientating compass for the next 10 days; the huge, featureless mass to my right. Throughout my tour, a steady, inland breeze pretty drifted in from its waves.


Each variation of landscape had in common this same sense of overwhelming scale – from the beaches, to the hills, farms, ranches and forests. Even the sky felt bigger as it played out its daily pattern of dawn mists followed by a steady rise in temperature to a deep afternoon blue. I wasn’t used to seeing so much of it at once.

These are the images that I imagined remembering: the photogenic and the ‘grand’. Every morning with my early starts, I enjoyed the pre-dawn air, seeing first the moon and stars and then the sunrise.

However, it’s a paradox of cycling touring that, at the very same time my world was growing, it was also shrinking down to the minutiae. The road surfaces ebbed and flowed and drove my moods: from the sleekest of new tarmacs that I floated over; to cracked and blistered old road coatings that had been scrunched up and wrinkled by the elements. At its worst, every passing metre jarred my bike and rattled its frame. 

I wiped tiny grains of sand from my drivetrain each time I passed close to a windswept beach; and I eeked out my small tubes of suncream and saddle-cream so that they would last the trip. It was only on the 10th day that I, at last, could use with abandon what was leftover.


In the early stages of the tour, I began to wonder whether I was destined to be stuck on the larger highways throughout. But those early thoughts soon became distant concerns. The ride took me on a sliding scale of minor roads, down to the far end of the spectrum where the tarmac disappeared and the surface turned , firstly, to gravel, and then to sand.

Early in the ride, I also wondered whether the closest I’d come to seeing some American wildlife was an exotic spread of road-kill. I slalomed through squashed raccoons, deer (one enormous one, I assumed to be an elk?), squirrels, possums, chipmunks, snakes and even skunks (which stank as much as I’d read as a boy). I went past what looked to me like large porcupine (do they exist in California?) and an armadillo (again, is that even possible?!). Slowly though, these cadavers made way for more uplifting sights – however, even these were only drip fed through: at first, I heard the raucous bark of some sea-lions; then saw the speckled dots of seals out on a rock (black dots even to my telescopic camera lens).

The sight of whales spurting out their plumes of water ended up being a rather deflating encounter: with the jolly tone of someone that had spent too long in my own company I gate-crashed a guided group of whale watchers. When asked if I knew what I was looking for, I quipped, “Something like a big fish….?!” My humour with met with such deadpan distain that I reversed my bike back out onto the road somewhat crestfallen that I’d lost the ability to communicate with my own species.

By the end of the trip, though, I’d had to cover my face as I rode through a flapping group of vultures picking food at the roadside; stood pin-drop-quiet within touching distance of a group of deer; and even accidently created a road-kill of my own as I rode straight over a sun-basking snake (despite my best efforts to jump it). I’d watched raccoons and chipmunks steal food from a veranda where I sat, as humming birds buzzed around them; and I’d photographed big herds of wild elk (although this did involve pushing aside other tourists to get a line of sight). The scariest wildlife was, perhaps, best left to hints and suggestion: road-signs revealed the presence of bears and coyotes – but the closest I got was hearing the tale that a cyclist had ridden into a bear only 2 weeks earlier and had a broken arm to show for it.


Highway 101 was the main artery of the route and, at times, it was a big, brash speedway – but I was often grateful to it for sucking away some fast miles.

Highway 1 was its little brother. The not so big, not quite so brash, tributary, that often dipped closer to the cliffs and waves, and ducked through smaller towns with less brazenly.

Then there were all those other roads that weren’t deemed deserving of a number. These were nearly always the most scenic, but were also the most haphazard.

Navigation could have been made easy by just staying on the 101 but that would have meant 10 days on a dual carriageway so I took the detours in good humour.

I only got badly lost once – predictably trying to escape the conurbation of San Francisco. I found myself, firstly, trying to climb a single track Mountain Bike circuit (as several riders descended at break-neck speed towards me); then, potentially more seriously, at the entrance to a long road tunnel having just passed a sign stating that “cyclists take alternate route”.

Following a tiny pink line of a cycling GPS computer has its own drawbacks (and bonuses). A couple of times I emerged from the deep cover of “inland” forests to suddenly find myself atop an ocean cliff (on one occasion, I did so at such pace that I almost found myself through the barrier before I could compute my surprise that I’d hit the coast).

On my first day, as if to dispel any danger of overconfidence in my whereabouts in the world, I rode past a concentration of tobacco stores – reminiscent of a tax-dodging border crossing, I mused – before I passed a “Welcome to Oregon” sign. All very well – although I hadn’t realised that I’d ever left that state…..


 The towns, like the roads, changed in character the further South I went.

In North Oregon, the flatter coastal plain lent itself to enormously long bridges as the 101 traversed over one river mouth after another.

A couple of these constructions looked like a packet of drinking straws held together with blue-tack – and as though they’d be built by arguing factions, so dramatically their style changed half way across.


The many inlets held towns trying themselves to bridge a gap – between half fishing industry; half tourist-chique. Some cafes were staffed by hipsters straight out of Portland; others, more aligned to the rough and tumble of industrial fishermen.

As the shoreline steepened into more pronounced bays, surfers, and surfing competitions appeared. I sat eating my morning porridge, amongst young athletes squeezed into their own versions of lycra cladding, and reflected on how much cooler surfers were compared to an equivalent set of breakfasting audaxers. The scene reminded me of “Point Break” and, later, I had the smug satisfaction of finding out that the film had indeed been shot there. Descending into such bays, the roads often became awash with sand and I tip-toed on my bike.

It wasn’t until I approached San Francisco that a new type of culture appeared. Roadside diners started to air their menus in Spanish and the oatmeal and omelettes of my early days were replaced by burritos and fajitas. The price of burritos plummeted from a $13 hipster snack to a $5 working lunch – served in a dense wrap the size of my own forearm. Fellow customers ordered in Spanish and smiled politely at our limited exchanges.

I was very consciously focussing my diet on proteins – yoghurts, shakes, bars (and chicken burritos) and as the days went past I grew in confidence that I’d get the mileage done.

Eat right, sleep right.

I was eating over 6,000 calories a day, and making sure that I slept for 8 hours a night.

Perhaps I’d learned these necessities the hard-way on previous tours – but, riding on my own, these were easy rules to follow. I could follow every whim of my appetite and body-clock when and as I wanted. After a few days, I’d built up a fairly dependable daily pattern consisting of a large breakfast, mid-morning coffee, early lunch, a mid afternoon sugar stop, then a large dinner, with further snacks after I’d found a bed for the night. During the course of my tour I actually lost 2.5kg- but overall I feel that this was a healthy weight-loss, rather than a physical deterioration.

Unlike the majority of other cyclo-tourers I met, I was not camping. Instead, I was holing up in the cheapest accommodation I could find each night, usually booked on “AirBnB”. The eclectic range of places I lay my head could be a blog onto itself – during the trip I checked in to a: campsite, mobile home, flat, condo, garage, farmhouse, motel, cottage and RV site. Some came with warm hospitality, others did not, but all I needed was a bed and a shower (although perhaps I’ll give some better reviews than others (!))______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Although the sea was the predominant feature, my route did have its other “chapters”: forests, farmlands and even desert (which I’ll come on to). And unlike the day rides I’m used to doing around Bristol – these were huge tracts of land that I didn’t just shoot past, but I rode through for mile after mile.

The Redwood Pines – and their national park – took me 2 days. Simplistically a day and a half of steady climbing, then one great, rushing descent. Much of this time was spent in the chasm between vast tree trunks (and through the famous ‘drive-through-tree’). The feel of the air was almost magical: windless, still and silent; the smell of the pines; and their dappled light. These trees did indeed feel like giants – “The Avenue of the Giants” an apt name. Here the roads were emptier too – on the morning of the long descent I barely saw another vehicle.


As I passed through the forest on the tarmac, I pondered how magical the woods must have been just 100 metres to either side. I felt dwarfed even on my well trodden road.

For me, these were the highlight of my trip. I was moving from A to B at the pace set by my itinerary – but this was the area that most demanded to be revisited.

Even the intimidating passage of large logging trucks left behind, not the smell of polluting diesel, but the scent of resin and timber – not unlike a 5-star sauna.

 Whenever I left the cooling breezes of the coast, the temperatures quickly rose from the comfortable low 20s to above 30. Rather than the ascents being little and often, they became more substantial as I flirted with the mountain ranges parallel to the sea. Nearer to San Francisco, I passed through ranch country and saw groups of actual cowboys, riding actual horses, with actual lassoes. It crossed my mind that they were probably tourists on a ‘cowboy tour’ but I took a photo of the dusty ranchlands in the background, and a huge long chain of single file, brown cattle plodding across dry grasslands.

Only 30 miles inland and the feel of the country was very different.

I was served by a man wearing a T Shirt: “#1 gun safety rule? OWN ONE”; flies attacked me when I stopped, and for the first time I began to run out of water before I reached the next town.

I stayed the night in an “RV Site” on a simple mattress. My host’s vest read “My momma told me I could be whatever I wanted? I chose to be an ASSHOLE.”

I could tick-off a couple of Simpsons characters from my list of must-see America.

Tricky to articulate, but it felt as though the locals were used to tougher times, and had less indulgence for a cyclo-tourist visiting their town just for fun.

Where the inland was flatter, crop farming displaced the cattle. Enormously vast irrigated fields stretched as far as I could see.

Perfectly coiffeured rows of grapes, asparagus, lettuce, artichokes and sod (turf) filled the air with their respective scents. The roads here were incredibly flat, and remarkably straight. But, perhaps surprisingly, my speeds never seemed to rise on these stretches. There was no shelter from the winds and the surfaces were grainy compared to the highways, but in ~2 days of riding I never felt boredom at their repetition. I found myself fascinated at the never-ending rows of geometric precision and the sheer scale of production.



As I type out these experiences, I reflect that these intermittent sights are the punctuation points which gave my trip structure. They are the chapter headers, the paragraph breaks and the full-stops. The binding agent, and the flow of the whole trip, was, of course, the riding of my bike. My itinerary comfortably allowed for detours and photo-opportunities; expresso-stops and shopping trips; but also demanded steady progress. I set my alarm at 5.30am every day and was on the road soon after 6. I typically would start to set up for the night around 12-13 hours later; get a shower; clean my bike; then chill out for barely 15 minutes before sleep.

Over and over again I’d do a mental checklist of body and bike:

Bike…. tyre feeling a tad soft; brakes perhaps slightly misaligned. A gear or two grating; a strange creaking – I think from the seat post? The headset needed retightening; the tri bars had come slightly loose; a bottle-cage was rattling

Body…. my right metatarsal niggled away; my left achilles began to grow sore. My calf muscles took turns in feeling fatigued and needing a stretch; and, by the end of my trip, both my knees were worsening with tendonitis.

A strained muscle deep in my right thigh caused the greatest concerns – early in the tour I strapped it once, then twice, and eventually added a third bandage before that pain started to subside around days 4 and 5. My right hip hurt periodically (probably linked) and my lower back during extended periods in an aero position. Shoulders and neck grew stiff and my biceps tired when the road surface was poor. The palms of my hands developed tender blisters and my wrists went numb. Despite slightly obsessive application of suncream, the back of my neck, cheeks and knees all burned in the sun, and the left side of my face and scalp bristled with an MS-tingle that felt like shingles. I got a toothache, and a sore throat. My saddle sores steadily worsened with each passing mile. On one day, I had to pick out a large fly from my right eye and smarted for hours afterwards.

I listened to them all. Adapted where possible. Assessed their messages, and split hairs between complaint and damage.

I don’t like drugs, anti-inflammatories or painkillers, believing that they distort what you hear – but on my final day did I succumbed to the whining from my knees took some ibuprofens.

This wasn’t a race. This was a quest for steady progress – I just had to keep my arms around the various risks at play.

As I planned my route, the one day that stuck out most ominously was just south of San Francisco. Because a landslide that had closed the coastal road, I was forced inland, through the desert from Salinas to Paso Robles. I was nervous about the distance (my longest day); the climbing (biased entirely to the end of the day); and the temperatures (which were likely to be in the mid-30s).

Although that day indeed proved to be the toughest, as so often with cyclo-touring, the greatest challenge was actually an unexpected one – and it brought me as close to quitting as I got.

Advised against the 101 for this stretch, I had picked a route on minor roads, but, although I diligently started very early to try to mitigate the day’s heat, their cracked and ruptured surfaces almost brought me to my knees. It felt as though I was riding over a sea of cobbles that went on and on, mile after mile, as the sun rose ominously in the sky and the temperatures rose. My speed on the flat dropped to 11, 10mph. On occasion I’d hit a stretch of resurfaced road and, with no greater effort, would accelerate up to 18, 19 – before hitting the cracks again and dropping right back down.


I was breaking.

I stopped at a railroad crossing and to my delight ticked off another couple of my must-sees. Firstly, a steel Amtrak passenger train creaked past. Then a the huge long snake of a commercial goods train. It groaned and squealed past for carriage after carriage, perhaps a mile long. My resilience picked up.

Then, after I’d barely seen a car all day, a utility truck drove past – on its flatbed was a pile of inflatable rubber rings and 2 bikini clad women (one wore the stars and stripes – tick). They hollered at me – “Hey baby!!” – before leaving me in their dust (perhaps they were heading to LA as well?) That was enough to bring back the humour to my predicament. I pushed on to Paso Robles and was soon ordering a large iced coffee as I sat by its lush green, irrigated town square.


If San Francisco hung on my experience of riding over the iconic Golden Gate Bridge [anything from Hitchcock’s ‘Vertigo’ to Michael Bay’s ‘The Rock’], my arrival in LA was the procession of iconic place names and beaches as I rode into movieland.

The ocean road [fact] felt plucked straight from the opening credits of “Big Little  Lies” – and the seafront houses grew in glamour and glitz. I thought of Sharon Stone’s sea-top mansion from Basic Instinct, and I passed through Malibu, Santa Monica, Venice & ‘Muscle’ Beaches, and – yes – I saw the Hollywood letterboards. I can’t even remember which, or how many films, I’ve seen then in before – but the beach towers were quintessentially Baywatch and I took a photo of their wide expanses of sand.

I’d spent so many hours in relative seclusion, meditating and day-dreaming, that the busy LA roads felt pretty foreign and jarring.

For days I’d been able to smooth over all the many mental stresses of my life: I’d rolled them over and over in my mind – like pebbles in the Pacific swash – until their rough edges had smoothed, smoothed, then smoothed away. Some disappeared entirely – but none jarred anymore.

I’d got to a state of inner peace that I’ve rarely known before – left in the isolated bubble of my own devices, my yin and yang were more balanced than ever. Past regrets, future stresses, hopes and fears had all dissipated and I felt a sadness at having to leave this new equilibrium.

But the tour was coming to an end.

Car horns sounded in the LA streets and my reveries were about to be sucked back into the chaos of a shared, real life.

My old friend opened his front door and smiled.

I lent my black bike against the white-washed walls of his garage and took up his offer of a cold can of ginger ale.

This was where the cycling stopped.


The Pacific Coast.

Unforgettable stuff.











This week I fly to Portland, Oregon.

I’m planning to cycle the Pacific Way, down the West Coast of the USA.

This has been a trip over a decade in the making – since I first sketched out a route and added it to my ‘bucket list’.

More recently, it has been 8 months in the planning. During which time I’ve booked flights, bought kit… and cycled over 10,000 miles in preparation.

It’ll be a testing tour – and will involve cycling some long distances over some very varied terrain, through some very varied weather conditions.

I hope I’m ready for it.

And, yes, I hope it’ll be fun.


The first time I ever really rode a bike was ~20 years ago.

A Raleigh Pioneer bought for £195.

I bought it not to commute, nor to pop down to the shops (for which it was probably built), but to cycle from Lands End to John O’Groats – some 1,200 miles.

Never having ridden more than 5 miles in a day I wasn’t sure how long this might take – the local bike shop suggested perhaps 60 miles a day – so, being a young man, I planned on nearer a hundred, booked a train ticket to Truro and photocopied about 40 pages of my Grannys’ Road Atlas of the UK to stuff into my back pack.

I wore my running shoes, gym vest and tracksuit trousers and packed my bobble hat and golfing-waterproofs in case of rain.

On Day 1, I bought a 5-pack of Mars bars in case I needed boosts of energy along the way.

I didn’t pack a spare inner tube, nor a puncture repair kit. I didn’t even know that you could get punctures on a bicycle – let alone how to change a tyre.


This year I mull over which of my wheels, and tyres, to take. Given that most of the route is likely to be on decent surfaces – albeit with the liklihood of rain – I opt for my lighter, “race” wheels coupled with winter tyres – more puncture resistant and with greater grip should the roads get slippy. I do worry that a broken spoke on this option will pose a significantly greater risk – but, on balance, I figure I’d be unlucky if that happened.

I’ve downloaded my route into my handheld GPS unit, and I’ve packed a spare.


20 years ago, on my second day of riding, I started to feel dizzy with hunger and tiredness.

I had arrived at my first night’s hostel well after sunset and had eaten only a simple dinner of boiled pasta.

Mid-morning, barely 20 miles into the day, my bike had wobbled to the verge of the road and I’d been forced to lie down on the ground, unable to carry on. Eventually I found my way to a pub, waited for it to open, and then ordered two lunches and a pint of coke.

I hadn’t realised how hard this “holiday” of mine might beBy the end of Day 3, pretty much the whole of my backside was red-raw with saddle-soreness. I stopped at a chemists and bought an industrial tub of vaseline. It dawned on me that cycling with cotton boxer shorts was a bad idea, so experimented with going “commando” instead – which was no better.

That night, in Tiverton, my hands were so numb from their unfamiliar position of the day that I couldn’t hold my cutlery at dinner – and ended up having to shovel in my pasta, with a great deal of slurping.

But, despite all this, the trip was beginning to feel like a proper adventure. I was learning every minute… and was excited about what I was doing.

The close knit, patchwork fields of Devon and Cornwall, with their sharp, twisty climbs and tall hedges, slowly gave way to a less confined landscape as I rode up the Welsh borders.

I was learning what and how to eat more sensibly – and how often I needed to stop and rest.

 I made my way through the industrial (ex-industrial) heartlands of the Midlands – through towns I had previously only known through their famous football teams – and, by the time heavy rains came through Northern England and the Lake District, I was on a high. I had almost ridden the length of England, and I was no longer just surviving, I was enjoying


My arm- and leg-warmers are lightweight and flexible enough for changing weather conditions. I’m going to pack a couple of protein bars and energy gels should I be caught short.

By much trial and error, I’ve lately been wearing my “Ale” shorts for long rides – combined with Assos cream they’re as good as I’ve found for avoiding any chaffing. Although they’re expensive, I long-ago decided that they were worth the investment given the amount of cycling I do.


 It was only when I was half-way up Scotland that I dared to think that I might actually get the whole way to John O’Groats. Suddenly it began to seem actually within range.

But my bike was beginning to really creak and grind. The incessant rain, which had lasted a few days, and associated road-grit, felt as they were bringing me to a standstill. I stopped in a layby for shelter and saw that my chain was almost wholly brown with rust, and was almost locked to my touch.

By happenstance, at that moment a farmer appeared out of the rain on his tractor. I showed him my problem and, by way of a prompt can-do response, he opened up an oil can and doused the whole of my bike in thick engine oil before rubbing it in with a cloth. He asked where I was heading, and when I told him, he laughed uproariously before driving off, leaving me to the stench of diesel.


This year, I’ve packed a miniature bottle of bike oil. Each night I’ll be cleaning my bike, re-indexing my gears and adjusting my brakes. As well as a pump, I’ll pack a few CO2 cannisters to ensure I can get my tyres up to adequate pressure.

I worry again about my choice to go with my lighter, less robust wheels


When I got to John O’Groats it left like something of an anti-climax. I was alone. And it was still raining.

However, as I turned back towards my hostel for the night a small cluster of other cyclists pulled in.  They were proper cyclists – with road bikes, lycra…. and probably their own spare inner tubes. Then I recognised them – I’d seen them many days before near the Scottish Border. They seemed genuinely delighted to see me –

“- No way!

– Can’t believe you made it

– We never thought you would!!!

– The man in the bobble hat!

For the first time, ‘cycling’ offered some sense of pride too.


I think back to me, 20 years ago.

I knew then that, through sheer youthful exuberence, I had managed to force a square peg through a round hole, and cycle the length of the country.

That night, I had celebrated with youthful exuberence and drunk (much too much) whiskey in the nearest Scottish pub.

On my return journey back South, I had met up with an old friend in Edinburgh, and through sheer youthful exuberance, we had stayed up all night drinking (much too much) whiskey in pretty much any Scottish pub we could find.

Now not so youthful, and perhaps not so much exuberence, but the lure of life still feels as strong as ever.

These last few months? They have been training for me. Training for my trip to the USA to come. The roads have been leading to here.

Time, if ever it were needed, for my MS to stay in its box.

To ride every road. The Coast of Wales 500


The website ‘Strava’ can generate “heatmaps” – visual summaries of every road you’ve ever ridden.

For me, immediately around my house and work, almost every road is painted in red. Then, as the map expands, these red lines spread out and the cluster of colour dissipates into thinner and thinner tendrils of exploration, until they, too, turn back to whence they came.

There are other epicentres of activity around my other cycling-haunts: North London, the Cairngorms – and even the Alps. Red lines of memories which serve as a my photo albums and diary.

I’ve started to look at these maps as I plan my next rides – to fill in missing roads and find new ones.

On a recent ride with my local cycling pals, I got excited about a new left turn – and announced my goal: “to cycle every road”.

“What? ‘Every road’ where – in the Cotswolds?”

“No, no, my friend…. in the world”

Much still to do.


This last week I did a multi-day ride around the coastal perimeter of Wales.

Although coastal cycling is exposed, and often with tough gradients, it certainly rivals mountain ranges for dramatic scenery.

I started in the South-Eastern corner, crossing into Wales via the Severn Bridge, before passing along the South Welsh riviera (the industrial conurbations of Port Talbot and Cardiff); through the summer holiday crowds around the Gower and St Davids; then up, North, along quieter and more rugged roads towards Snowdonia. The North-West was to see a much flatter profile along a sweeping floodplain all the way up to the Isle of Anglesey. Having gone all that way, I insisted on doing a loop of that island before heading East, back across the top of the principality to Chester Train station and a much faster (and motorised!) journey home.


Riding across the South of Wales felt a bit constricted.

The roads were busy with chains of holiday traffic and every town was beset by traffic lights and queues at the coffee shops. All the cars seemed to want to be somewhere else, and to be getting there in a hurry.

I largely stuck to minor roads, but kept accidently finding myself on dual carriageways – where I felt obliged to cycle as fast as my legs could carry me to get away from the revs of impatient drivers.

I took photos of smokestacks, steelworks and industrial recycling centres. These ‘cycling-badlands’ were the same roads where I’ve had to swerve to avoid a dead horse; and had bricks thrown at me whilst a group of kids shouted “Go Forest!” [which, I guess, is pretty funny…].

Cardiff Bay did offer a bit more sheen with its fancy Assembly Building, boardwalks and tidal barrier – but the first real beach I came to was at Swansea, where misty rain was herding the tourists into steamy tearooms.

Tenby has a beautiful beach, but the town was bursting at the seams with visitors. It was only when I “turned the corner” at Pembroke, and started heading North, that the landscape really opened up. In the morning on my second day, the sunshine was desperately trying to burn through, and succeeded enough so that the beaches started to dot with multi-coloured bathers for my obligatory photos. Riding alongside the tourist railway at Aberdovery was a real highlight and, by then, the sea was glittering.


A hint of a tailwind and even my route miscalculations started doing me favours – a wrong turn near Barmouth meant that I could catch a speedboat across the river whilst a gaggle of fascinated children asked me every question under the sun about my tri-bars and lycra (!)


By the time I crossed the Menai Bridge into Anglesey, I had started to curse the buffeting cross-winds a bit. But I was where I wanted to be – in the great outdoors – and it felt a very long way from an office desk. The road came to an end in Holyhead, and I could go no further north.


Heading back to the East along the top of Wales took me along a remarkable web of interconnected cycle-ways. They bobbed and weaved up, down, over and around the coastal road – at times, ocean spray dowsed my bike and windblown sand threatened a wheel-spinning skid. I was tired after a few long days of riding, but a steady drip-drip of beautiful photo opportunities kept me enthused: Llandudno castle, the oceanic wind farms out at sea, the spikey coastal defences at Penmaenmawr and the occasion tourist honey-pots of a pleasure beach. For lunch, I sat with my feet dangling in the huge seafront paddling pool at Llandudno, feeling quite as happy can be.


The last 20km or so I rode on the extrordinary “concrete beach” along past Rhyl. The camber of this storm defence pulled me towards the surf of hightide; I wobbled a bit uncertainly in the gusty winds and cagily overtook dogwalkers.

I could see England again in the distance – and it began to feel like a good time to turn off whilst I was still ahead.

I stayed my last night with my sister’s in-laws.

I arrived pretty roughed up by the weather. And pretty tired.

The dad laughed, “I can’t believe you’ve done all that in 3 days – it’d take me that long to drive it!”

I was fed a delicious dinner.

As I looked in the mirror tonight I thought how tired I looked. My hands were buzzing with pins and needles – they were in my left cheek and neck too, which has become a new symptom of late. My arthritic knee felt particularly stiff and sore.

I am very much looking forward to a nice new, circular red line on my “heatmap” – one that was hard-earned.