Emily is writing bloody well and she hasn’t even begun cycling round the world yet. I sense that this is going to be one bike journey that really holds my interest. Follow her blog here and read her great post below:

Almost as soon as I decided I was cycling round the world, I started to speculate about how I’d feel during the last few days before my departure. I predicted a queasy mixture of nervousness and excitement, spiced with a horrible sinking dread at the prospect of saying goodbye to my family and friends for four years – and in some cases, no doubt, forever.

And now, with less than two weeks to go, I find that’s not so far off the mark. But what I hadn’t expected was that I’d feel quite so bored with the whole thing. Some people relish the planning stage of an expedition as much as they do the expedition itself. But not me. The daydreaming phase, where you pore over atlases and travel books, and make long lists of all the expensive kit you can’t actually afford to take with you, is quite fun. But the planning itself is unremittingly tedious and stressful. For the past three months I’ve had at least three To Do lists on the go, and a big grey cloud of guilt hovering over my head. Whole days would pass with nothing being ticked off any of the lists, and I’d berate myself for being so lazy, since the only person I was letting down was myself. If I left everything too late, and the whole enterprise came to nothing, it would be entirely my own fault.

I’ve been told by many long-distance cyclists that, setting out on a trip like this, I’d merely be exchanging one routine for another. Although the trip as a whole will be an incredible adventure, the day-to-day reality will be a simple matter of riding, eating, riding, eating, sleeping, and doing the whole thing all over again the next day. What they didn’t tell me was that the planning stage has its own tiresome and repetitive routine.

I go through regular – and ever more rapid – cycles of self-doubt and over-confidence. One day I believe that I can’t possibly do it, worry that I’ve bitten off far more than I can chew, and feel very sincerely that I want to give up on the whole idea. The next day I’ll be bursting with optimism, desperate to get on the road, and convinced I’ll be the greatest cyclist since Dervla Murphy. As my departure date draws closer, I find I can go through several of these cycles in the space of a single conversation.

And I have the same conversations over and over again.

“How are preparations for the trip going?”
“Oh, erm, OK I suppose.”
(Or I tell them how guilty and stressed and behind I am and they wish they’d never asked.)

And of course, there are still people who don’t know I’m planning to cycle round the world, and have to be told. And just about all of them will say:

“Oh my god – that’s amazing!”

And I protest that it’s really not, or at least, it won’t be till I’ve actually done it, and right now I’m just a person sitting in the pub talking about cycling round the world. And then they say:

“Gosh, that’s very brave of you.”
“But isn’t it dangerous?”
“Well, I have to say, I’m very jealous.”

And I remind myself that I have to be nice, and answer all their questions politely, because this is still new and exciting for them, even if it isn’t for me. After nearly a year of planning, of reading all the books and blogs of people who’ve done it already, of imagining and researching and writing contingencies for all the things that might go wrong, of designing a bike and a website and a route from scratch and of battling through the longest To Do list of my life, the idea of cycling round the world is old, tired, over-familiar and distinctly unexciting.

Until, that is, I get on my bike. There’s no surer antidote to the stress and tedium of planning. After twenty minutes in the saddle, feeling the wind in my hair and the rain on my skin, hearing the road humming by beneath my wheels and seeing it curving away into the distance, savouring the freedom and grace of swooping down hills, and relishing the power and discipline of soaring up them, I find I’m grinning from ear to ear. Suddenly I remember that, quite simply, riding a bike makes me happy. This is why I lasted for three years as a cycle courier, and could easily have gone on for another ten. Despite all the trials and tribulations and injustices of the industry, ten hours of cycling a day meant that it was the most satisfying job I’d ever had.

And that’s how I remind myself that I’m doing the right thing. No matter how much admin and bureaucracy I have to fight my way through – and no matter how many thousands of times I’ll have to answer the same old questions – over the next four years, the majority of my waking hours will be spent riding my bike. The very thought of it is making me smile.

Related posts:

1. Guest blog from Mark Beaumont
2. Guest Blog – Mark Kalch. “Going it alone?”
3. Guest blog from the Hungry Cyclist

Some gorgeous summer photos today from Jordan Weeks. If this doesn’t make you want to jump on your bike and ride for the horizon then you are a grumpy curmudgeon!

There’s nothing more relaxing than pedalling through the French countryside. It’s stitched together by small, traffic-free winding roads and open fields scattered with poppies, lush green trees and crops.

The French Pyrenees are breathtaking. Their huge green slopes are amongst some of the most picturesque in the world. Riding up their steep switchback roads with a heavily-loaded bike is made a little easier when accompanied by such gorgeous scenery.

After pedalling through the heat of the day, climbing roads that have a 6-10% gradient, and your legs are burning with lactic acid – The sight of Lake Annecy as you crest the summit of a French Alp is simply amazing, and definitely worth the effort.

They must be amongst the most photographed buildings in the world, but given the right lighting and weather conditions, it’s hard to resist pointing your camera at the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre.

Have a look at more of Jordan’s photography here.

Related posts:

1. In Brief – interesting bits and bobs
2. Bikes for Hire in Paris
3. On the brink?

Andrew Skurka’s marvellous cross-country journey through Alaska and the Yukon ranks, in my opinion, as one of the most impressive expeditions of the last couple of years. It’s worth breaking the lovely series of Night of Adventure talks I’ve been showcasing.

The trip’s total distance was about 4,680 miles and it took 176 days, an average of 27 miles per day. There were 1315 miles of skiing, 2100 miles of trekking, and 1270 miles of packrafting; the route included about 2110 miles of off-trail travel. In other words it’s about five times more impressive than my Iceland trip which I am pretty proud of.

So I’m delighted that he’s sharing his story with all of us today.

Battling a daytime high of -15F plus a stiff cross-wind on Day 2.

My ski tracks along the Peter’s Glacier lateral moraine, in the shadow of Mt. McKinley.

Campsite and bedding on Day 73, May 25, on the Copper River.

A warming fire and afternoon coffee in a Sitka spruce forest along the Gulf of Alaska coast.

Mosquitoes!

Leaning house in historic Dawson City, YT, due to the melting of the permafrost.

Best sunset of the trip, in the Yukon Arctic.

Descending a high pass into the Canning River, Brooks Range.

Please do take a couple of minutes to learn a bit more about this expedition:

- Alaska-Yukon summary
- National Geographic article
- Pre-Edition of his new gear book, A Walker’s Complete Guide to Backpacking & Camping Gear

Related posts:

1. Photo Friday Essay: Murray River Expedition
2. Photo Friday – Kahiltna Glacier, Alaska
3. Photo Friday – the joy of the Mekong

Delighted as always to have Dave Cornthwaite‘s thoughts on my blog. His long-term project of 25 journeys, each of a thousand miles, is brilliant. And he’s off again:

I’m nervous, it’s been a while. Kit is scattered across the table and floor, drybags wedged under my pillow, a small army of cameras lined up ready for battle by the door. It’s expedition time.

This time five years ago my legs were comfortably tired after my first ever endurance journey, a 900 mile push from John O’Groats to Lands End on a long skateboard. Legs may have been tired but feet were in pieces. Infected blisters and lost toenails had plagued that journey but they’d heal soon enough, they’d have to, Australia awaited. My poor board.

I didn’t know it back then but life was changing. Somehow it felt like it might, like I had the power to make a shift, but the future was so vast and unknown I just didn’t know what to expect. Now I realise we can make our own future with just an idea and a bit of hard work, and my horizons are much wider than those of the 26 year-old who rode a skateboard out of Perth in August 2006 with Brisbane in my sights. Wonderfully, my ambitions have swelled a bit, too.

I’m 11 days away from the fourth journey of a project I call Expedition1000, a project that will shape the next ten years of my life. I hope to undertake twenty-five journeys, each at least 1000 miles in length, and every one of them using a different form of non-motorised transport. I’ve never been an outstanding athlete, nor am I an expert in any particular field, but if travel teaches you anything it’s that the new things give you more than the old (unless you’re talking about people). By spreading my experiences and stretching various parts of my body in deserts and jungles (sometimes urban) and on oceans and ice-caps I think I’ve found a way to sate a silent urge that had been eating away at me for years.

On the 20th June I will paddle out of a lake in deepest Minnesota, somewhere I’ve never been before, and into the headwaters of the Mississippi River. 80 days and 2400 miles of river await me, and I’ll be seeing a great deal of it because I’ll be standing on a Paddleboard, the view’s great from up there. There are a few reasons I’m doing this, and creative freedom is one, but as an Ambassador for the Blue Climate & Oceans Project I’ll be trying to make sense of a river that has recently been thrown into turmoil. the Mississippi supplies drinking water to over 18 million people in 50 cities and is home to 25% of all fish species in North America. Its levels are also higher now than they have been for almost 80 years, livelihoods have been destroyed, the shape of the river has changed. I learn more from my journeys than I ever did at school, I hope I can share some of the lessons I pick up.

I’m nervous because I’m excited. By forcing myself away from a comfort zone that once sedated me I’ve created a tingling down my spine that confirms I’m about to paddle headlong into the unknown. The next few months are going to be eye-opening, dangerous at times, exhausting and life-affirming, and I can’t wait. I’d love you to follow me down the Mississippi, I’ll be telling my story through video, photos and the written word. Here I come, Gulf of Mexico!

Follow Dave’s journey through his Website, Facebook or Twitter

Related posts:

1. Please Stand on the Right (if you are a loser)
2. In The Footsteps of Scott and Amundsen
3. Microadventure #8: River Swim

Monty Halls (whose excellent new series began on the BBC last night) kindly spoke for us at the London Night of Adventure event. Here is his enthusiastic 400 second introduction into his adventures on Planet Ocean.

Annoyingly the computer died 4 minutes into his talk but you wouldn’t know it from listening to his presentation. He ad-libbed to the end, wrapping up right on time. A true pro!

If you have been enjoying these short adventure talks perhaps you would like to come along to a future event?
Sign up for tickets to Edinburgh here on June 13th, or add your name to the monthly mailing list below to be told the dates of the next events in Bristol and London.

Related posts:

1. Cycling to the Ashes
2. Night of Adventure 3 – Thank You
3. Crossing Greenland and other Adventures