Like most decisions of great consequence, I happened upon the route for Cycling The 6 in a pub garden, beer in one hand, mini-Atlas in the other. The plan hatched was to travel the length of six continents, all by bicycle. I would leave my life and job as a hospital doctor behind for five whole years to complete the expedition.

What did I want? More than anything a new challenge and some new adventures. I also hoped I would learn a thing or two en route. Some lessons have been more profound than others but almost all have been learned the hard way. I will never again enter an Albanian shop wearing a Buff as a full face mask, unwittingly terrifying all the staff. I will keep tiger balm well away from my eyes.

More importantly I have discovered that the world really is a friendlier place than it is frequently portrayed or perceived. Before entering Albania my head was full of negative imaginings; a lawless country of landmines, terrorists, mafia and bandits. When I crossed the border it felt like a homecoming. Albanians working the fields would stop and shout, wave, cheer and even salute.

Four times during my trip I have been invited into a stranger’s home to stay the night when spotted rough camping. I have been bought food on many occasions and have felt at times ridiculously unworthy of the hospitality I have received. In Albania I sat with a family who needed and could not afford basic health care, in a house where eight people slept in three rooms, with a beer in hand, full to bursting with food and with the promise of a bed for the night.

I have also learned patience. I have stopped trying to break my top speed on the downhills and now just appreciate the rolling vista. In fact I try to ignore the cycle computer altogether. I camp earlier and look around more. I eat slower. I stop arranging ambitious rendezvous’ on couchsurfing.com and then rushing to get there. I don’t need deadlines in my life. I always take the route marked out as scenic on the map regardless of altitude or terrain and every so often I cycle somewhere just because it has a funny sounding name on the map.

The challenges too have been robust and varied. Just what I was after. I have come face to muzzle with menacing mutts many times and in rural Greece was attacked by a large group of dogs. I have had to take down my tent high in the Alps without gloves the morning after the temperature plummeted to -19C.

Physically the journey has had an obvious impact. The contours of my legs have begun to transform and my new hairy visage has given me a partial resemblance to a Morris Dancer, so I’m told. I lost ten percent of my body weight in the first two months despite incorporating a “middle breakfast” into my daily routine. In Montenegro and Italy I relished the challenge of continuous mountain ascents from sea level to a height above that of Britain’s loftiest peaks. But perhaps more challenging were the sustained snowball attacks delivered without mercy by school children across Kent as I cycled out of the UK.

Along the way I have dealt with these many tribulations as best I can and have made as many sensible decisions as perfunctory ones. My route to Albania for example was decided solely on the basis of the direction of the breeze. But I am in no doubt that choosing to leave in the first place was the best decision I ever made and I am learning all the time.

So, it was all going so well. But three months after I started out the biggest challenge of my trip to date has left me heartbroken. On the road through Macedonia and Greece I was consumed by worry. My left knee had swollen up in Italy but now that the swelling had come down a small curious mobile lump was  palpable within the joint. It often got trapped causing me sudden pain. I bit the bullet and shelled out my monthly budget for an MRI scan of the troublesome joint and the curious lump within. Repetitive micro-trauma from cycling had caused a piece to come loose from my femur and the rogue bit of useless debris was now roaming free inside my knee. The radiologist pointed out the 11 mm lesion blunting the contour of my lower femur and I stared at it in anguish and disbelief.

“Can I continue to cycle?” “No.”

“Do I need surgery?” “Yes.”

“How long after the surgery until I can cycle again?” “Maybe not for three months. I’m sorry.”

Gutted. Crushed. Heartbroken. My dream of an unbroken journey around the world by bicycle lay in tatters. The three months I spent on the road have flown by. I suspect the three months I will spend at home will not. But three months out of five years is a snip. I will be back riding as soon as I am ready. My trans-European ride has been magnificent and this is just a small bump in the road and another test of that elusive virtue: my patience.

In the wake of the volcanic eruption in Iceland and with European air travel in chaos I realised that even though I must return home I was stuck in Istanbul. So I made a decision… My adventure would not yet be over. I found somewhere safe to store my bike and most of my kit and scribbled the words ‘Volcano Victim’ on a sign I could hold up by the roadside. Armed with my sign and more than a smidge of faith in human nature, I began to hitch-hike back to London. In the end it took me ten days and twenty three colourful characters to help me get home, from aging hippies to six foot six ex-basketball players and not one of the ubiquitous axe murdering sociopaths that friends at home were convinced I would encounter en route.

So it’s one continent down and five to go. Here are a selection of random statistics from my journey so far…

Distance cycled – 5000 km (I arrived into Istanbul on 4960 km. I had an obsessive-compulsive twinge and rode around until I had clocked up a nice round number.)

Countries visited – 13

Punctures – Only one and brilliantly after just 20 km of the 5000 km outside Ashford in Kent.

Most amount of Milka consumed in one sitting – 450 grams

Favourite song to sing whilst cycling – “In the Summertime” by Mungo Jerry (particularly good to belt out if cycling through torrential rain, heavy snow or gale force winds).

Most entertaining newspaper headline of an article about my journey – Italy, Ferrara: “The Real Forest Gump”

Two things I lost count of – random acts of generosity from strangers and random acts of terrorism from dogs.

If you’d like to keep up to date with my progress please visit my blog. To sponsor my adventure please go to http://www.justgiving.com/cyclingthe6. Every penny donated goes to the medical aid agency Merlin.
I’ll be back on the road soon!