Sean's News Blog

13 December 2009
Epilogue

Let me tell you a story….

Let me tell you how I sat and cried half way up a mountain in Northern Spain because I never thought I would never get to the top of it.

Let me tell you how I ended up in an Irish bar in Tangier owned by a Moroccan.

Let me tell you how I cycled close to 2000 miles when I was 21.

You’re right; it’s not a very good story.

But it’s mine.

When I was 20 years old I decided I would cycle to South Africa. I don’t remember when I decided to do it or why. Every time I came up with a reason it was different. When I was 20 years old I laughed at everyone who told me they ‘found themselves’ travelling and I pitied them. Were they that insecure that they didn’t know who they were already? When I was 20 years old I planned a trip so thoroughly and with so little regard for other people that I alienated my family and friends and, what saddens me the most, the girl I loved.

When I was 20 years old I was naïve. I had never done anything on my own. I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted. I was told that if I went to university and played some rugby, enjoyed myself and got a degree I could have any job I wanted. And I believed it. When I was 20 years old I walked through a crowded room full of friends and realised I had nothing to say.
I think, honestly, I just wanted to do something. Something different, something that made me stand out.

I have always been scared of three things: failure, myself and never having achieved anything; never having a story of my own. And I didn’t, I lived my life through books and film wishing everyone else’s happy ending was mine. I used to well up in films, not cry, but I could feel the emotion pressing on my skin from the inside out. But not at the sad bits of films. I would well up when I saw the retired quarterback come back for one last game and throw the winning touchdown pass. I would feel it when the boxer that didn’t stand a chance held his own against the Champ. Most of all, I would get that feeling when I saw someone receive a standing ovation. It’s because I wanted it. I wanted to achieve something and was always scared I never would; watching someone else do it was almost enough.

I was scared of myself because I didn’t know anything about myself. I would really want something one day, and have no interest in it the next. I didn’t know what I liked or why, or what I wanted in life. I didn‘t know what I wanted my standing ovation to be for.

And most of all I was scared of failure and because of that everything I have achieved so far in life came easy to me and I never pushed myself to see just what I could do.

When I was 20 years old I planned the trip of a lifetime and when I was 21 I didn’t make it. There is no doubt in my mind that I could have made it though. I can cycle 50, 60, 70 miles a day no problem. I can deal with the attention you get on a loaded bike, with the kids throwing stones, with finding hostels or campsites but for once in my life I’m not going to be selfish. I can’t go further south without insurance: not for me but for my family who would have to bail me out if something went wrong. I would love to go further south and I would love to think that I could be like Andy McNab on wheels, cycling through the desert evading capture until I got to the relative safety of West Africa… but why risk it?

When I was 20 years old I thought the whole world was against me because I was too caught up in myself and what I wanted from life and it wasn’t coming quick enough. When I was 20 and people worried about me I thought they were holding me back, when they gave me advice I brushed it away because I thought they doubted me. When someone gave me their business card and told me to send them a postcard from Senegal and laughed at me I got so angry I couldn’t sleep. When I was 20 I was very different.

I haven’t ‘found myself.’ I still don’t know what I want, or why. But I know what I have and what I had. I haven’t got my story yet, because I’m 21, but I have a couple of chapters. And I haven’t achieved everything I wanted to and I haven’t got my standing ovation. But I will. One day. For something. And I’m proud of myself.

I’ve never felt lower as I have on this trip. Never have I felt so emotionally drained, but equally, never have I felt such elation and such pride. I was half way up that mountain on my second day and I had run out of water, I had no food and I had no idea where I was. There were no road signs, no houses and I wanted to go home. But I got to the top and I’ve never been more proud. Never have I been as happy as when a little head teacher invited me into his home for food. Never have I smiled wider than when I saw the sign for the ferry to Africa and never, not once until now, have I achieved something that I doubted my ability to do. And I did doubt myself. For six months I planned my trip and I forgot that at the end I would actually have to cycle, the day before I left I was frightened, I’d only cycled 50 miles once before and then it was on an empty bike.

And yeh, I didn’t make it to Cape Town. But I don’t consider that a failure. I truly believe I could have got there and I didn’t mind taking risks to do so, but calculated ones; the juice has got to be worth the squeeze and in this case, the risk outweighs my desire to push on. I’ll take a few knocks on the chin for it, I’ll take the digs and the I-told-you-so’s because I gave it a go.

Not one person told me I could do this when I started. It riled me. Every day I would be told I couldn’t do it and everyday I wanted to prove people wrong. ‘Naive’ is how one cycling magazine described me: ‘affable, eloquent and good humoured. If a little naïve.’ And I was. Although perhaps they got the ‘affable and good humoured’ part wrong. I was before I started planning the trip and I am now but I would do a lot differently if I had the time again; I would have relaxed on holiday in Spain in the summer and not been constantly on edge, I would have been nicer to a lot of people and I would have let the people I love know I cared about what they thought.

The security situation was stable when I left and my insurance valid in all but one country, which I could have bypassed, now the British Foreign Office website tells a different story. As a politics graduate - and after reading countless books about Africa’s turbulent history - I should have realised the volatility of the area but I didn’t think about it. But if I hadn’t have tried I would still be the angry 20 year old with a point to prove, with a chip on his shoulder: who just wanted to prove people wrong. It turns out they were right all along and I didn’t want to see it. I’m glad I gave it a go and I’m glad I got as far as I got. And I’m glad I’m not him anymore. I’ve realised so much, a lot of it too late, and I have a lot of apologies to make. Unfortunately some people will hear, but they won’t listen. Too late, to some people, is the same as never at all and there are some things which I let go which I will never get back.

I think the one thing I have realised is that you never do things just for yourself. Everyone you love and care about owns a little share in you and you need to take that into account. You parents, your friends, your family all have a little bit of you that belongs to them and you have a little bit of them which belongs to you. I wish I realised that before. I’m not good at apologising, or I wasn’t, but to my family who were forced to put up with my single-minded arrogance in the planning stages: I am sorry. For the friends I didn’t meet up with because I was saving money or waiting for an email: I am sorry. To everyone who read this blog or donated equipment for me to use: I am sorry. And most of all, to the person who gave me a list of Spanish phrases on a scrap of card, which I read now just to look at your handwriting, I am eternally and unwaveringly sorry.

As soon as I set up a website for this trip I got emails from all around the world telling me I was ‘an inspiration.’ I hate that word. But if people want something to inspire them take this: try. Try anything and everything you want to try. And if you don’t succeed: learn from it.

I have achieved something I am proud of, but compared to other peoples achievements it is nothing, I realise that. But for once I don’t want what other people have, or what they are doing, I am happy in my own skin knowing I have done something. Other people are cycling through Africa as we speak. Maybe they are foolhardy, maybe they are braver than me, maybe they see the risk differently and at least one has said I am throwing in the towel too early. I disagree. I’m 21 now and I have plenty of time to try this trip again, and maybe I will. I do want to see West Africa. I have read all the books, I have the malaria tablets and the equipment and the hunger and desire are there but I can’t take the risk, not now. Not yet.

At my secondary school there was a sign on the door to my history class:

“It’s better to aim high and miss than to shoot low and reach your goal.”

I used to laugh at it and the black and white image of a basketball player and the pealing laminate and frayed edges. And I suppose I have missed. But this is the first time I’ve aimed high and pushed myself. And it won’t be the last.

There is a phrase about going to a country which says you have to ‘take only photographs and leave only footprints.’ I have left behind a lot of teenage angst which I should have let go of a long time ago and taken with me a sense of accomplishment the like of which I have never felt. I have taken a lot of memories, some good, some bad. I have left behind the chip on my shoulder. It’s not the story I wanted, but it’s mine, and I hope you enjoyed reading it.