Italy’s longest river happens to have the shortest possible name in our language: Po. Two letters, one syllable to describe 650 kilometres of twist and turns stretching from the stone pyramid of Monviso to a marshy delta in the Adriatic.

The Po inhabits a liminal space in the nation’s collective mind, a terra nullius stretching from Turin to Venice: no one embarks on a riverine cruise along its waters, even if the river passes by some veritable jewels.

There’s a black hole at the centre of the Po Valley, and we were headed there.

Chandni Chowk in the summer is hardly on the tourist brochures, but I think this is where Delhi is. And it’s a wild ride.

A baggage handler’s carelessness resulted in a damaged bicycle and scuppered my plans for a trip in the Champagne.

But far from being a problem, a bent disc rotor meant I could re-discover Paris: a city reborn, a cycling utopia and - for once! - a positive message for the future.

Sometimes things don’t work out. And it’s fine. What matters is understanding why. This is a story about that.

Eighty kilometres west of Bologna, within commuting distance from the factories where Ferrari, Ducati, Lamborghini and Pagani are made, is Cavriago. Nine thousand souls on Reggio Emilia’s doorstep, as a song goes, and smack-bang at its centre is Piazza Lenin. And in that square, is a bust of Lenin.

What do you do if you’re tired of corporate life, big cities and of the rat race? Well, you pick up your bike and head for the hills (mountains, really) of central Honshu in Japan.

So this is what I did.

Grappa and Nevegàl. It sounds like an old-school cocktail rediscovered by hipsters, but those were our goals, the high points of our loop in the Eastern Alps.

Grappa can mean two things. One is the liqueur derived from the dregs of winemaking, used as paint-stripper or, if necessary, as a drink for humans. The other Grappa is a mountain, a cycling climb, one of Italy’s gnarliest. A staple of the Giro, obligatory pilgrimage for any convert to the religion of pedalling.

Nevegàl is, too, a mountain. An altiplano between Belluno and the Venetian flatlands, a perfect balcony over the Dolomites. There are huts, rifugi, up on the ridge. Places where to have a meal, sleep and, hopefully, wake up to a full view of the spires of the Dolomites right ahead.

Grappa and Nevegàl. Those were our goals.

If anyone ever asked me what sort of route I’d be the least inclined to ride, my answer would inevitably be something in the Southeast of England. Miles after miles of narrow roads bordered by hedges, with tarmac of dubious quality and the omnipresent threat of SUVs driven by people who’d made way too much money in the City.

So it made total sense that, one Saturday in July, I set off before dawn to do precisely that. London-Oxford and back, 200km, 1,600 metres of height gain.

At some point in the winter of 2024 Max suggested that we sign up for the Tuscany Trail and, in a classic display of why women tend to live longer than men, Ariel and I agreed on the spot. It was only in early May 2025, with departure day a few days’ away, that the implications of what we’d done hit us. Four-hundred and thirty kilometres, more than six thousand metres of height gain, all by bicycle, over four days.

But by that time there was no turning back.

In the beginning, a bicycle was a bicycle. Then, when it transpired that cycling was the only thing sitting at the intersections of the “what I like” and “what I’m decent at” Venn Diagrams, I started thinking about getting my ‘forever bike’. Not long thereafter, I found Scarab Cycles.

And so it was that I went to Medellìn, Colombia, to pick up my new bike and, in so doing, get to know a new country.

Must we really buy a new phone every year? Is it really necessary to overhaul our wardrobe every six months? Why is it that we expect every restaurant to become a franchise and every coffee brand to start selling drinks in supermarkets? How much longer can we expect our economies to expand, our factories to churn more stuff and ourselves to be buying not only more, but also more frequently?

Japan, I feel, offers an alternative. Quality over quantity, care over speed, repair and reuse over buying anew.

In that moment, I must admit, my idea of cycling in America as a mean to escape the glum British winter didn’t seem very smart. I had some misgivings to start with – the new tenant in the White House, the rhetoric against cyclists, being a foreigner with a funny name this close to the border – but I hadn’t factored what had just happened. My main worry about southern Arizona was shaped like a pick-up truck with a Confederate flag, not a mechanical I couldn’t fix.

Southern Arizona isn’t very charming at first: endless sprawl, interstates, nature ruined by man careless disregard.

But beauty is just around the corner: Saguaros, an unexpected nature and quiet. Even if it’s tiring to explore it by bicycle, it’s worth it.

Life is all about change and the most important source of it is, I believe, your own self. One of the most precious pearls of wisdom I’ve ever received is that I shouldn’t spend all my life set in my ways. Trying something new - or checking if a long-held belief still holds true - always pays off.

Shaped like an arrow pointed towards Japan’s mainland, Amami-Oshima is an island placed roughly halfway between Kyushu and the country’s seaside playground, Okinawa. But while dozens of airliners descend towards Naha airport every day, only a couple of 737s link Amami with Tokyo. Why that’s the case is, much like the reason why a North Korean spy vessel decided to stage a battle in the waters out here, a mystery we won’t be able to solve.

Close your eyes and think of Tokyo. What do you see? Perhaps it’s seas of people at that Shibuya crossing. Or maybe it’s fast trains gliding through a man-made canyon land of neon lights. Glitz and glamour, hustle and bustle, the lot. 

All of that exists and, if that’s what you seek, you will find it aplenty in the world’s largest megalopolis. But the Tokyo that I’m drawn to, the one that lures me back time and again, is different. Quiet and ethereal, modern and ancient, I don’t even need to employ the trite “off the beaten path” trope to see it. Because it’s everywhere.

What follows is a long post, for it’s not a single story. It’s a collection of postcards. Enjoy.

A bikepacking trip in Slovenia with an old friend. Pedal further.

An afternoon in Tokyo, Japan, unshackled by any commitment.