Darkness fell and the suburbs faded from view, my window now a black mirror. A man was sitting across the table from me, wearing a brown corduroy jacket over a smart shirt and tie. I rested my forehead on the cold glass and watched his reflection out of the corner of my eye. He typed thoughtfully, absorbed in his screen, his face illuminated with blue light. With envy, I imagined the hot supper and cosy bed awaiting him at home. Could I ask? I thought about how I’d phrase it, and decided the station would be the place to do it.

A halo of condensation surrounded my head and raindrop rivers oozed across the window. Stretching out my aching legs, I indulged in the fight against my heavy eyelids. Cocooned in the soft fabric of my seat, with warm air puffing against my feet and the sounds of the tracks in my ears, I dreamed this train would just keep going forever.

The carriage was almost empty by the time the ticket officer shook me from my slumber, but my neighbour was still aboard when we pulled in at Manchester Piccadilly. I summoned my courage to ask him for a bed for the night, but when our eyes met, I only mustered a weak smile. He nodded as he walked to the doors, leaving me alone to reluctantly leave the comfort and security of my warm seat, and with stiff, weary legs, step out onto the cold platform into a city of unknowns. My only thought was to find a safe place to sleep, an energy man has felt for so many years that it has become an instinct, but one rarely felt these days.

It was a Tuesday in August and for some reason, I was cycling to Oban on the West coast of Scotland to compete in a kayak race. That morning I’d peddled out of sleepy Somerset, leaving just four days to get to Oban. Now in Manchester, I was wondering why I didn’t just drive. But I was hungry for an adventure and a summer working on the local cherry farm had made me frugal and unwilling to reach into my pocket for my hard-earned cash. In a few months’ time, the monotony would be forgotten, and I’d hand over cash with little thought, but for now, it was all too fresh in my mind.

Last-minute spontaneity and an apparent lack of preparation seem to be a theme of my adventures -sorry mum! I’d never gone bike-packing before and didn’t own any of the kit needed. Or was it needed? With no fancy ultra-light ultra-small ultra-expensive sleeping bag, I simply decided I wouldn’t take one. The same went for a roll mat, tent and cooker. None of that. I set off with just a sleeping bag liner strapped under my saddle and my pockets stuffed with bananas. There was no plan or schedule for this adventure and I had no idea where I’d be spending the nights. The only constraint was to get to Oban by Saturday.

Leaving my front door on an ordinary Tuesday, I travelled along the lanes of my childhood. I know the surface of these roads like my skin, every pit and pothole, every strip of smooth, tacky tarmac that melts in the summer sun. That day I didn’t notice such details, instead, my eyes focused on the challenge that lay ahead in the way that a mountaineer glances up at a summit towering above him, but like the mountaineer, I mostly kept my eyes on the ground just ahead of my feet.

People sped by on their way to work, and the ordinariness of the day grounded me in reality, quietening any apprehension. But although ordinary, life felt exciting that day, unpredictable and full of possibility, like a budding leaf ready to unfurl. It struck me that in fact every day is exciting, it’s just the way we see it. Go out expecting nothing new, not believing that something magical could happen, and that’s what you’ll get. To everyone on the road I was just a bike and to me, they were just cars and just as no one knew about my adventure, I didn’t know about theirs. It’s such a shame I thought, that we get to interact with so few of the amazing things happening around us.

Soon enough though, I reached a boundary and crossed into territories unexplored. After 140 miles across the Somerset levels, over the Cotswold Hills and up the Severn Valley, I arrived in Worcester. I staggered off my bike and waded into the river Severn to wash my grimy skin. Oban in 3 days was unachievable and if there was any section to miss, it was the built-up midlands, so I decided to jump on a train to Manchester. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt my ego a little to not cycle all the way, but I reflected on my motivations and realised it was far more important to have a good time than to worry about completing some arbitrary, self-imposed route. Prioritising adventure is something that has stayed with me, but not something that is always easy.

Arriving in central Manchester, I was certainly outside of my comfort zone – cold, hungry and tired, alone and without a bed in a dark and foreign city, the streets alive and threatening. To the dismay of my legs, I felt my only option was to leave the city. I didn’t stop cycling until I reached the first field I came to, where I curled up under a hedge and shivered through the night in my sleeping bag liner. Sheep seeking shelter before me had worn the ground smooth, and I lay on the bare earth, knobbly hawthorn roots digging into my back.

The next morning I returned to Manchester Picadilly with bleary eyes and jumped on a train to Lancaster. I met a Welshman called Andy on the road, he was cycling Lands End to John O’Groats. We cycled north together to Kendal and up over Shap fell. At Carlisle, Andy retired to his hotel and I pushed on into the sunset, crossing the border into Scotland and peddling to Lockerbie to complete another day of over 100 miles. I found a Tescos and unashamedly gorged on everything unhealthy. Oh, back when I didn’t have diabetes! A woodland outside Lockerbie beckoned and I made a nest there for the night.

Day 3 began with breakfast in a truckers stop, the best value full English I’ve ever had. I had no idea what to say when the lady behind the bar asked, with a thick Scottish accent, “Link or Lorne?”. I felt far away from Somerset.

I made it to Glasgow and cycled along the river Clyde, stopping for a black pudding bap and Irn Bru, just to embrace local cuisine. Within an hour, I’d swapped the metropolis for the mountains as I cycled along the shore of loch Lomond. In typical Scottish fashion, the rain started and the midges descended. A hotel at Luss was oh so tempting but I had faith I’d find shelter and sure enough, I happened upon a cave. I laid my raincoat on the damp floor and spent a miserable night enclosed in the sleeping bag liner, wishing the midges away.

I arrived in Oban the next day, sodden and shivering after a day of driving rain. I was greeted by Patrick, a friend of a friend of a friend, who was kind enough to welcome me with a hot shower, meal and bed. Anything can happen! Patrick had some truly awesome tales of adventure, like kayaking across the North Sea from the Shetlands to Norway, and so it was a fitting end to my first one.

Needless to say, I was exhausted before the race even began, but I wouldn’t trade a place on the podium for the journey I’d had to get there. I’m not telling this story because I think it was an amazing physical feat or something no one has done before. I’m telling it because it was the first time I did something like this, and it remains my favourite adventure I’ve ever been on. It shows that all it takes to have a great adventure is to get out of your comfort zone – it doesn’t have to be epic.