When we decided to cycle from Harrogate to India, there was no grand plan. No gear sponsors. No colour-coded itineraries or laminated kit lists. Just two mates, two bikes, and a half-cooked idea over a warm pint: “Let’s ride east until we hit India...”

Rhys bought his bike from Halfords. He didn’t test ride it. Didn’t even ask how many gears it had. Just liked the look of it. He was still chain-smoking 40 cigarettes a day when we set off. I wasn’t much better. My tent had more poles than I had patience, and my understanding of Central Asian border bureaucracy came from a six-year-old blog post I only skimmed.

But here’s the truth no one tells you. You don’t need to be a cycling expert to pull this off. Everyone thinks you do. You don’t need fancy Lycra or thighs like tree trunks. You just need to decide to go. And then take action on that decision. A bit of nerve helps. A sprinkle of stupidity—sure—that'll help too. So does the ability to laugh when things fall apart. And they will.

The secret? Pick a direction. Don’t worry too much about the destination. India worked for us because it sounded far enough to be ridiculous. Your destination could just as easily be Ireland, Inverness or Istanbul. The magic lives in the distance between you and the idea, not the idea itself. It doesn't always have to be massive, either. Short adventures are just as important for mental health.

Rhys and I didn’t have posh touring bikes. We had whatever we could afford. The road didn’t care. Neither did the dogs in Turkey. What matters is that your bike works, can take a few knocks, and carries your gear without complaint. It doesn’t need to be beautiful. You just need to believe that it's sturdy. We were told (probably wisely) that you should take a steel frame, as they're easier to mend when they break.... but this is much of a muchness. 

Packing is where most people lose the plot. Rhys brought three frying pans and a hair trimmer. I brought four pairs of trousers. Two weeks in, we were ditching stuff like molting dogs. You don’t need much. Just the basics. Something to wear. Something to sleep in. Something to eat with. Something to keep the rain off. Everything else becomes a burden you’ll either carry or curse.

We didn’t train either. We just left. The road is the training. And yes, those first couple of weeks will hurt. You’ll feel every pedal stroke in places you didn’t know had muscles. But you’ll adapt. You’ll slow down. You’ll learn to listen to your knees. You’ll stop caring about pace, and start caring about peaches in roadside markets and places to pitch your tent.

Accommodation? Mostly, we made it up as we went. Churchyards. Fields. Petrol stations. Wooded areas. Thick grass for a softer sleep. Beaches. Places with a nice view to wake up to. Kind strangers with spare rooms and a strange curiosity for two scruffy cyclists who hadn’t showered in days. We used apps like Couchsurfing now and then, but the best nights came from simply asking, in broken local language, “Tent okay here?” or even better, not having to ask, as there was nobody around.

Food was basic, and sometimes brilliant. Markets were our lifeline. Bread, yoghurt and mystery meat got us across entire countries. We cooked when we could, ate out when it was cheap, and learned not to fear repetition. 

And the borders? Some were easy. Others made us feel like fugitives. There are paperwork, waiting rooms, and photocopiers that never work. But there’s always a way through. Sometimes it just takes patience, charm, or the ability to mime “tourist” convincingly while clutching a passport that smells faintly of socks and stress.

You will get lost. You will get soaked. You’ll eat something that fights back. You’ll question your decisions. And then, out of nowhere, you’ll be invited to dinner by a family in Georgia who insist on feeding you and getting you drunk for hours before bringing out a guitar and singing until midnight. You won’t remember the perfect weather days. You’ll remember the chaos. The strange. The real.

Because this kind of trip isn’t really about cycling. It’s about choosing discomfort and finding beauty in the in-between places. The border towns. The backstreets. The bits where things fall apart and come together again in a way you never expected. And on top of it all, the people who save you, the people who invite you into their lives, the people who become a part of yours. They are ultimately the DNA which binds and brings together these kinds of trips and trumps other countries and cultures.

If you're still toying with the idea = DON'T! If you've got that nagging itch to go somewhere and do something just beyond reasonable, maybe this is your nudge. You don’t need to be ready. You just need to leave.

Things to Consider Before You Plan a Trip Like This:

• Why are you going? Be honest.
• Do you want to be fast, or do you want to see things?
• Can your bike handle weight and bad roads? It should be able to...
• Are you okay with discomfort, or at least willing to get used to it? You'll have to be...
• How much do you really need to carry? Not much
• How will you handle weather extremes? Depends on your mood in the moment
• Do you need to book accommodation in advance, or wing it? Wing it, unless you're bunking down for a few days - or entering a big city! 
• Will you be travelling with someone, and do you still want to like them at the end?
• Can you afford to go slowly and cheaply? This is the best way
• What will keep you going on the days when you hate it?

Things to Sort Before Leaving:

• If need be: Get your vaccinations and check visa requirements (and then check again).
• Sort basic bike maintenance: how to change a tyre, and tighten your brakes.
• Set up a bank card with low or no foreign fees. Can be handy but not essential
• Download offline maps and learn how to use them. Can be handy but not essential
• Get your bike serviced. Check the wheels and racks. Ask if you can sit in on the service and ask questions - learn on the job! 
• Prepare basic phrases in key languages. It can sometimes be handy
• Let someone at home know your rough route.
• Back up copies of your passport and documents.
• Make a gear list — then cut it in half.
• Give yourself a deadline to leave. And stick to it.

What Not to Overthink:

• Your fitness. It’ll come.
• Your route. It’ll change.
• What people think. They’ll forget.
• How fast you’re going. It doesn’t matter.
• Whether you’ve packed the right t-shirt. You’ll wear the same one every day anyway.
• Sleeping arrangements. You’ll always find somewhere.
• “The perfect setup.” It doesn’t exist.
• Instagram. This isn’t about followers.
• Whether it’s a stupid idea. It probably is. That’s why it’s brilliant.
• Coming home. Worry about that when you get there.

This trip won’t make you rich - monetarily speaking. It might not even make sense to most people. But it’ll give you stories. It’ll give you strange memories, dodgy stomachs, a new tolerance for chaos, and a new appreciation for the weirdness and wonder of the world. It’s not a cycling trip. It’s a life trip. The bike is just the vehicle to take you down the crooked little main vein of adventure! 

So if you're thinking about it — even a little — pack light, point the wheels somewhere unfamiliar, and see what happens.

You don’t need a plan. You need the courage to get SaddleSore.