Contributor: Sahir Permall
People like me—brown, single mothers in their mid-30s—don’t do this kind of thing. Neither did I, until I did.
On a cold and wet morning this spring, I left home in Glasgow on my old touring bike and pedaled nearly 3,000 miles until, exactly two months later, I reached Asia.
Pushing off along the pavement on that gray April morning, wobbly and unsure, I laughed at the sheer audacity of what I was attempting. With each passing day, my confidence grew, along with my leg muscles, tan lines, and distance from home, until—somehow—it was accomplished.
What I learned from this adventure might surprise you.
- Time only draws maps for tomorrow
“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it is not the same river and he is not the same man.”
—Heraclitus
I had hoped that cycling down memory lane would be illuminating. It was, but the experience was also unsettling and ultimately unsatisfying, and not one I intend to repeat.
As I pedaled through Sunderland, where I once taught Maths, I pictured the young woman I used to be. I saw her hunched over piles of homework in her cramped flat, eating beans and toast from a frying pan, anesthetizing herself against the stress with trash TV.
Recalling L.P. Hartley’s immortal line, “The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there,” I realized how distant that version of myself had become. My empathy for her sharpened against the stone of my profound discomfort at revisiting this place. I pedaled away quickly, not even pausing to take a photo. I no longer wanted to anchor myself to a past I had outgrown.
The past felt increasingly irrelevant compared to the excitement and potential of what lies ahead.
A resolution became firmer with each passing day: from now on, I choose to move forward.
- Freedom lives in the space you create
“So what becomes of you, my love?
When they have finally stripped you of
The handbags and the gladrags
That your poor old granddad
Had to sweat to buy you”—Stereophonics
I am a minimalist by nature. A good wardrobe purge, an empty shelf, or a clear inbox calms me.
The idea that shelf space creates headspace is not new. Long before the modern minimalist gospel made a prophet out of the celebrity decluttering guru Marie Kondo, the ancient Greeks and many faith traditions instructed us to avoid excess and be content with what we have.
Packing my whole life into two pannier bags was an extreme application of this approach. There were times when I missed another pair of warm socks, some salt, a hairdryer, a pillow, or any number of luxuries that would have made me more comfortable.
Carrying only what I needed, I felt an incredible sense of freedom. I was liberated from the demands of maintaining, cleaning, storing, and holding onto things that held little true value. No longer burdened by choices about what to wear, what to pack, or mundane tasks like cleaning the bathroom and taking out the rubbish, I was free to move through the world lightly, leaving little trace behind.
This simplicity brought clarity and the knowledge that I am already blessed beyond measure. What more could I possibly need beyond my health, the love of those close to me, the privileges of a British passport, and enough money to keep going for now?
- Nomadic life is a microcosm of normal life
Eighty percent of the time on the road, nothing much happens. A traveler endures long periods of repetitive action, routine, and boredom. I’ve heard of people watching reruns of *The Office* on handlebar-mounted phones; most of us listen to music or podcasts at least some of the time. The same mundane thoughts repeat on loop: When can I eat? What food is there? Where is the next turning? Watch that pothole/car/dog/child. My knees hurt…
The other 20% is gold: memorable episodes of excitement, drama, and heightened emotion that sink much deeper. The sense of pride when I cycled my first-ever 80-plus-mile day. The three-way chorus of “pay unt pay unt pay” dissolving into fits of giggles when trying to communicate with a Hungarian campsite owner. Sharing a roadside Twix and coffee in the rain with a French hippie who—unprompted—gave me a lesson in how to manifest wealth (I must have looked like I needed help).
One of my happiest moments was arriving at a riverside campsite in Ulm that doubled as a beer garden. Too exhausted to wash, I sat at a picnic table, drinking Coke and eating cheesy pasta. I was filthy: there was black soot from my stove on my arms, dead flies in my hair, and salt from dried sweat on my face. I had earned this dirt. I was grateful to be there, to be alive in that place at that time.
And yet…
Even when it feels like nothing is happening, a day spent cycling is not like a day spent sitting in a car or at a desk. You become part of the environment. You feel the sun or rain on your skin, hear the wind, smell the farms, experience the gradient of the ground, and get dust in your hair. You attract hundreds of small interactions every day: waves, beeps, smiles, nods, hellos, offers of help, questions, stares, cheers, and conversations. There is no option of retreating to the safety and comfort of a controlled environment.
It’s normal life: stripped to its essence, electrified, and exposed.
- Brave isn’t a feeling: it’s being scared and doing it anyway
People keep telling me that I’m brave, and I understand why. But, in truth, I didn’t ever feel brave. What I did feel many times was very scared.
There was the time in Serbia when I got caught in a thunderstorm, five miles away from the nearest town. There was nothing I could do but keep cycling, hyperventilating, fully expecting lightning to strike the metal frame of the bike at any second. I flew down the road, feeling as alive and charged as the storm, until I made it to a petrol station—and breathed.
And the time in Bulgaria when a busy road turned into a four-lane highway full of speeding trucks and beeping cars…and the hard shoulder disappeared. For a few hairy miles, I sweated, swore, and pushed as fast as I could—all the while, my heart pounding and my mouth dry with fear.
The dogs in Eastern Europe and Turkey were the worst. The strays roamed freely in packs. On two occasions, when a pack was on my tail, I screamed and swerved left across the road into oncoming traffic to get away. The guard dogs tied up in gardens barked furiously as I passed, causing me to jump every few minutes. If there is an epidemic of burglar gangs roaming around the Serbian countryside to justify all these dangerous animals being kept in residential areas, I found no evidence of it.
I was forced to push myself through fear again and again, only to find that there was something scarier on the other side—as well as just enough extra confidence to face it. This is the stuff of bravery—even if you hyperventilate your way through it.
- Kindness makes the world go round
My hopes about encountering the kindness of strangers had been raised by reading the accounts of travelers who had gone before me. The journey didn’t disappoint. I returned home with stories of remarkable generosity and genuine hospitality. What I hadn’t expected was how much it all matters.
Small acts carry immense power. A smile, nod, wave, assumption of positive intent, kind gesture, or a simple wish for someone’s well-being—each of these can alter the trajectory of a day or even a life. And the much greater generosity of many Warmshowers’ hosts who hosted me, fed and watered me, showed me around their cities, and even cycled with me will stay with me for a very long time.
Returning to stationary life, I felt that I had transitioned from being a salmon swimming upstream—strong, majestic, and inspiring—to a frog sitting in a stagnant pond, gathering slime. Truths that are seen clearly from the saddle of a moving bike seem to blur when viewed from the comfort of a sofa, and I find myself struggling to hold onto some of these lessons now that I’m home.
What I do know is that I remember with great clarity and gratitude each act of kindness shown to me when I was in that unguarded, open state—and I don’t let a cyclist go past these days without a wave and a smile.
People like me don’t do things like this. But I did. And I hope that others are inspired to do the same: it might just change your life.
I am planning a second part of the adventure in summer 2025, from Istanbul to Pakistan via the ‘Stans—to complete a ‘reverse migration’ of the journey my grandfather originally made in the 1960s.”