I decide to stay close, I don’t feel like rushing more. I cycle to a nearby secluded beach during golden hour, tired from a long day, well fed and with an ice-cream in my feedbag bumping on every pothole. I set-up camp against the pink-blue sky and the waves recovering from a high tempo; rhythmical, breath-like.

Skinny dip, camera shutter firing, memories captured.

“Oh, oh the milky way” reflecting on the still sea.

“Is this what I think it is” I ask myself seeing electric-blue hues on the water.

There is no good time to write my thoughts down. The time to let my shoes go has come. The shoes my mother bought me during a visit to the velodrome in Athens.

I got the most expensive shoes and pedals. €250 each. It must have been around 2008.

I replaced them in 2023. Fifteen years of use.

What remains is my mother’s intention, and what she did to support me, to help me grow. “You’re worth it,” she told me. I believed her.

They’ve seen many kilometers. Wins too. It's not so much about the medals, but character wins. Constant effort. Faith. Pedaling towards my goal. To understand who I am. To express myself through dedication.

How can I let these shoes go? I let them go long ago. They sit in a box and I drag them around. Pulling my fears apart reveals my anxiety about losing what I’ve won. But what I’ve won is always in me. They shaped me. That will remain.

It’s time to let go of the material.

The spirit stays.

Thank you.

I’m grateful.

I have been meaning to collect my thoughts and write this short essay for almost two years — I think of him every day. I long to share my life and my experiences with him. I long to listen to his voice once more, praising me, guiding me, encouraging me.

I used to call him every day after school: “What’s for training today, Coach?”. He always planned it spontaneously — and like magic, it worked. I’m sure he had a plan, but he also had intuition, and more importantly, he assessed my state — my feelings and body.

He saw the good in life. “Everything happens for a good reason”, he told me while I stared at the trees subtly swaying in the wind. Is it still for a good reason that you’re no longer here?

I embraced his wisdom and learned to see the positive side of things. I became optimistic, focusing on what matters, on what’s good — and I always found something.

”You’re at the start line alongside fifty other cyclists. Your heart rate is elevated, your breath deepens, your belly expands — then the gun fires! Uphill, you focus on your legs — push and pull. Downhill, you stay cautious, loose, eyes locked on the corners ahead”. He walked me through this visualization before my first national championship. We celebrated a gold medal, unveiling the road ahead.

His voice still echoes, almost twenty years later: “Πάμε Θααάνο” — “Allez Thano” — running alongside me on the steepest uphill of the race. His presence gave me the energy to switch gears and accelerate, leaving the rest behind and gaining a minute’s lead in the final stretch.

Racing was the facade of what brewed inside me. He had the ability to see — truly see — the good in people, to unearth their potential. I’m sobbing while writing these words. It’s powerful when someone believes in you long before you can believe in yourself.

My coach showed me the magic life could be.

”You’ve gotten what racing could give you; don’t waste your health and youth on competing — live your life.” What coach would advise their athlete not to pursue a professional career in the birthplace of cycling? Maybe not a coach, but a father.

His voice and instructions were enchanting. Though he couldn’t attend major races — I deeply respected his devotion to his family — his thoughts were with me. Racing alone, imagining him beside me, I pushed further. I was ecstatic to hear his voice again after each finish, congratulating me. I cared more about his thoughts rather than the result itself. I always felt connected to him, and I still do.

His gentle foot on the gas, drafting us behind his car at 70 km/h, pushing us bit by bit, more and more — you either get caught by the wind and left behind or push through and stay in the drafting bubble — exactly like the peloton. His car bore the distinct markings from our tires rubbing against the rear bumper; he was proud of those.

He was there for us, at his own expense. He cherished being close to us kids — in our local hills, in the forests overlooking the sea and Olympus. He nurtured souls over athletes.

Tasos was a teacher, not a coach.

You never know when it’s going to be the last time you see someone. I cherish our final handshake, our last hug, his parting words to me, and that closing moment of praise. His guidance — pushing me to exhaustion and pain — meant the world to me. I knew he understood. I knew he had truly seen me.

I’m fortunate to have been part of his life and deeply grateful that he was part of mine.

I cherish our runs during my university years, and once again, he was instrumental in what was to follow. I picked up running because of him, and it eventually led me to the mountains, where his whispers still linger. I wish I could share my adventures with him once more.

My coach taught me how to suffer and when to let go.

I find him in the suffering.

Health

• Always filter water. Water quality in Peru is poor, and you risk getting sick. Choose a filter that removes bacteria, and ideally, one that filters heavy metals. Check iOverlander for rivers marked unsafe due to contamination or consult locals.

• Avoid raw vegetables and unpeeled fruits. I got sick from a complimentary salad and strawberries. Cook, wash, peel, or skip.

• Carry medicine; few cities along the route stock what you might need.

• Plan ahead for necessary vaccinations; consult your doctor.

• Bring probiotics; if you are not used to the local diet, you’ll likely experience gut issues.

• Bring vitamins; nutrition was one of the hardest aspects of the route.

• Iron supplements enhance altitude acclimatization; consult your doctor.

• Full acclimatization after 20 days significantly boosts performance; the first few days just mitigate symptoms.

• During acclimatization, it’s considered safe to sleep at an additional 500 meters of elevation each night. For example, if you are acclimatized at 3000 meters, you can sleep at 3500 meters. It's fine to spend time at higher altitudes for short periods; where you sleep is what matters.

Fitness & Nutrition

• I lost a lot of body strength. I would incorporate body-weight strength training or a gym session when in a city. Few ideas: push-ups, abs, planks, pull-ups, squats, yoga.

• I would be more mindful about my diet, aiming for a balance of carbs, proteins, and fiber. However, it was challenging. I grew tired of canned fish, noodles, crackers and chocolate.

• Peanut butter and calorie-dense foods are city-only finds. Smaller shops mostly offer cola, chocolate, and crackers.

• In small villages, food options may be limited to a single portion.

Accommodation & Logistics

• Ask for “hospidaje” (accommodation); even if none is advertised, locals may host and cook for you at a small

  cost. A smile, along with “hospidaje” and “comida” (food), goes a long way even if you don’t speak Spanish.

• In hostels, towels are generally only provided in private rooms, but you can often request one for a small fee.

• Hostels, or locals, may securely store your belongings, even in small villages. Just ask.

• Don’t book online; it’s significantly cheaper to arrange via WhatsApp (they list their numbers on Google Maps) and pay onsite.

• There’s no nationwide postal service, except in big cities. You can use buses to send items to a city, where they can be picked up at the destination terminal.

Transport

• Due to the mountainous terrain, map distances can be misleading. A 500 km bus ride, for example, might take 17 hours.

• Some buses take bikes, and others don’t, but it usually works out. Hitchiking is common.

• When loading your bike into a bus or van without a box, take extra care. Drivers often want to be done quickly, and your bike could get damaged during the trip — roads are full of bumps and turns. I’ve heard of broken brake hoses and bent discs.

• Colectivo vans depart when full; they don’t run on a specific schedule.

• Overnight buses are common; it’s worth booking the premium seats for a comfortable sleep.

Connectivity

• A Peruvian SIM is cheaper than an eSIM. Register with your passport, and buy a prepaid plan.

• Some areas are covered by only one cell provider; Claro may not have reception in villages served by Bitel, and some areas have no cell service.

• Satellite communication can be handy. I had a Garmin InReach, and it proved invaluable for contacting my doctor when I got sick in the mountains.

Gear

• Be mindful of what you carry; every kilo matters.

• Choose your cooking system wisely and practice using it for the conditions you’ll face. I had trouble lighting my alcohol stove because I didn’t preheat it; if you choose this system, ensure learning about preheating. It took 40 minutes to boil 500 mL of water at 4000 masl in 0˚C! Eventually, I gave up cooking.

• Regularly inspect and oil your bike, ideally before you start or after you finish.

Apps & Resources

• iOverlander is an invaluable resource.

• MapOut (iOS) was excellent for day planning.

• The “Cycling South America” WhatsApp group is an incredible source of up-to-date information.

• Highlux Photo blog is quite insightful.

Culture

• From stories I’ve heard, the police are helpful to tourists. Don’t hesitate to reach out; some are marked on iOverlander and may even accommodate you.

• What you experience on the route contrasts greatly with what you’ll see in Cusco.

• Locals are friendly, whether you speak the language or not.

• When riding near mines, let the hordes of trucks pass; I encountered as many as 30 trucks at a time.

• I felt safe along the route. In cities, follow the advice of locals.

Environment & Climate

• You get 12 hours of daylight. If the weather’s good, it’s ideal for riding; otherwise, you’ll race to finish a typical 50 km (30 miles) day with 1500 meters (5000 feet) of elevation.

• Weather changes quickly on the mountain. I regularly got rained, snowed and hailed at the top of passes.

• Aim to set up camp by 4 p.m at the latest; highly likely it’s raining in the evening. I camped anywhere from 2 p.m to 8 p.m.

• Temperatures ranged from -10˚C in the morning at 4500 meters to 25˚C at 3000 meters.

Money Stuff

1 Euro is 4 Soles (S/), which is almost the same for USD.

• Avoid currency exchanges. National Bank’s ATMs dispense up to 400 S/ with no fee; they are indicated on iOverlander. Bring multiple cards in case an ATM decides to withhold your card.

• A meal along the route costs 8-14 S/.

• A long bus ride costs around 80 S/, and the bike can cost between 10-80 S/.

• Coca-Cola (600ml): 3 S/

• 50g of milk chocolate: 3.5 S/

• Peanut butter (400g): 15-20 S/ (only found in cities)

• Small sandwiches with egg or avocado: 1.5-2 S/

• 1L of bottled water: 3 S/

• Accommodation in hostels: 20-30 S/; private rooms: 40+ S/. Campsites: around 5 S/.

• If you are in Peru for less than 60 days, you may be eligible for a tax refund at the airport.

• Flights from Europe to Lima cost around 1.6k euros including the transport of the bike (~200€ per ticket). I recommend using a single airline for the ease of bike transport.

Misc

• Ignore dogs; they may be intimidating but typically don’t pose a threat. My Greek experience helped! People have been bitten or had their panniers torn; water or rocks to deter them have allegedly been effective.

• Be cautious with lavanderías (laundries). Fellow bikepackers shared stories of clothes being returned dirty or even missing.

• If you want to visit Machu Picchu you have two options:

  1. Book months in advance — difficult if you are riding.

  2. Spend a day queuing from 5 a.m to get one of the 1000 tickets available onsite at Machu Picchu Pueblo (these tickets are for the following day, so you’ll spend at least two days there).

• I packed all my things in the bike box for both flights (AirEuropa — Germany to Peru). Outbound, the box weighed 39kg. The counter agent hesitated but eventually checked it in after asking if it contained only my bike. I explained that I was traveling by bike and had all the necessary gear. For the inbound, I bound my two Ortlieb Gravel panniers (12.5L each) together as a carry-on, within the allowed dimensions, and my bike box weighed 35kg.

  Bike boxes can be found in cities; reaching out to bike shops on WhatsApp in advance can save you some time.

If you have any questions, feel free to ask! And if you have more tips, I would love to hear them!

Enjoy your trip ✌🏼

Everything had become mundane, focused on efficiency and speed, constantly checking the distance to camp. Gone were the days of joy. If I were to finish the route on time, I had to push every day.

This post is the continuation of the chapter below.

Weakened by sickness, with stormy weather shortening the days, the spontaneity faded. I kept going, riding whatever came — exhaustion and pain. Desperate, brief stops on passes, all to make my body suffer and mind to touch my soul.

In rare moments of tranquility, the golden sun touching my skin, warming my body, colouring the sky and filling me with courage. “It’s worth it”.

Finding my pace and joy again was what I needed to reach my steady state — until I got sick again, weakened further, muscles aching from laying in bed, my gut twisting with every breath, dragging myself in the smelly toilet. Walking through the city with shivers, missteps, cold sweat, and powerless legs, asking for medicine and bread. When you’re solo, you need to take care of yourself. “Enfermido, metrozinadole o tinidazole?”.

Had I eaten too many different things on my rest day? It must have been strawberries that poisoned me; regardless, my rest day became six days of recovery.

I was mentally exhausted. I’d lost my pace; there was no improvement but only decay. “It’s part of the journey”, I comforted myself, but my time was running out.

The city noises and smells made me sick. I couldn’t imagine riding in the mountains again. Yet, after six days I got back on the saddle and felt at home.

On my last day of recovery, I met Andy. “Sailed the seas on a sailboat we repaired with seven other like-minded folks, reached our destination, sold it and went our separate ways” was one of the stories he shared. He has been traveling the world on and off with his bicycle since 2015.

Things got strange; I ended up pitching myself to ensure I’m awake. My body moved but my awareness lagged by a few seconds; similar to having had a couple of drinks. “It must be the antibiotics”, I thought. Had I left too soon? I wanted to move; I couldn’t stay in the city any longer. I preferred nature’s toilet over my hostel’s. Whatever I used to ride before was now a struggle, even at 50% of the distance. I couldn’t think clearly or ride straight. Was it a mistake to be riding in this condition?

While planning my trip, my father asked me what I’m scared of. “Electric storms at high altitudes”, was my answer. That evening, I experienced the most intense storm of my adventure. I would see flashes, a second later, the lightning blast would shake my body and press my lungs. I was mentally prepared for such phenomena, and it wasn’t the first time I would experienced them; still intimidating.

I wasn’t feeling like myself; I was only thinking about resting in my tent. Taking photos, something I enjoyed, had become a chore. “This is a nice shot”, I thought many times, only to find excuses to not take it — I just didn’t have the energy.

As I mounted my panniers, I noticed my rack moving more than usual. Inspecting the mounts I saw the crack. I felt indifferent, almost as if I had expected something similar to happen. Fortunately, I caught it early enough to reinforce it — braking could have been a big issue.

I didn’t mind the suffering, but I started to feel unhappy; I was losing my interest, and once more, felt in a rush. I even questioned whether I should fix my bike or not to continue, although I knew it had to be done. “Is this frame damage the end of my trip?”. “I won’t come back on the route once I am in a city”. The damage planted the seed of stopping, making me realize that it was a valid option.

Given my pace and the route ahead, I would barely reach Abancay by late October, just days before returning home, leaving no time for other experiences I wanted. It felt like my journey was coming to a natural conclusion with more experiences and insights than I expected.

There was nothing to “finish”, it was a route ridden by a couple years ago that became established and was given a name: the Peru Great Divide. There was no true start or finish, only suggestions.

I never quitted a race apart from accidents and injuries; I approached them as training when things didn’t go well. But this was not racing. This was about finding balance and making choices best for me.

Suffering forces you to look deeper. The cycling chapter closed; I went with the flow. As I write this in Cusco, I feel satisfied with my decision.

It’s been a journey of self-exploration — a thousand kilometres in the Peruvian Andes. I’m grateful for all I experienced.

The weather has changed — afternoon storms starting with hail and ending with rain — slowly transitioning to the rainy season. The greatest difficulty I faced, though, was nutrition. I’ve been consuming crackers, biscuits, and chocolate while in the mountains, and rice with eggs, chicken, or fried trout when I got the chance in pueblos. Anything fresh would make me sick — fruits and vegetables, although I missed them, I tried to avoid.

Contrary to nutrition, full acclimatization has been like night and day. After a month at high altitude, my body had adapted — I had a wider range of pacing and felt strong at the passes. During my first weeks, I had only one pace, needing to stop frequently to catch my breath.

I’ve been going from one pass to another, doing justice to the route description of being a rollercoaster — in every sense, I might add. Three to five hours per pass, just cycling, watching the elevation rise and the temperature drop.

I love train trips — you’re limited to a few things, and the lack of options makes commitments easier. Cycling passes every day is similar; the absence of any other activity leaves space to think. It’s not that you force the thinking, but like clouds in the sky, thoughts come and go. Sometimes they thunder, and that’s when things click. This is when mountains manifest as a mirror, reflecting you.

Mountains do nothing; they are there whether we are or aren’t. We give our energy and get no response. Mountains are a way — a way to suffer. Learning the way of the mountain is learning how to suffer, and this has a broader impact on our lives. Ultimately, mountains are a tool.

How can you appreciate the sun when it’s burning you all day? You appreciate the sun when it dries you from the rain, when it warms you from the cold, when it lights your way.

Up and down, warm and cold, wet and dry, peaceful and anxious — a rollercoaster indeed.

This post continues my journey from Marcapomacocha. You can read the previous section below.

What’s there to describe about a pass? The last village that’s left behind? The monotony of going to 4000 meters, where it usually becomes more visually appealing? The hours spent listening audiobooks? The times you need to stop to put on your rain jacket, pee, drink or eat? Whatever it is, you learn to go through it, and sometimes enjoy it.

It had been a while since I last met another cyclist. Marin, a French adventurer, has been in South America for 9 months, hiking and volunteering. She decided to start the Peru Divide, coming from Abancay and heading north to Huaraz. She bought a bike, fitted bags, and took off — admirable!

We both felt joy in briefly sharing our stories. She would camp around the area, and I would continue to Tanta — still quite a distance for that late in the day.

Having a short day in Huancaya, I enjoyed two warm meals and local treats. Unfortunately, I paid the price for being careless and satisfying my appetite. I spent the night in the shared bathroom, alternating between diarrhoea and vomiting.

I felt better the next morning and continued my journey in the afternoon.

I reached the village and immediately looked for a hospedaje —accommodation. The lady found me sitting on her porch in fetal position. “Please use my bathroom, regardless of where you stay”, she told me in broken English. I barely managed to leave my bike on her stairs, blocking the entrance, and rushed into her bathroom. I spent an hour in there and was grateful for her understanding. Naturally, I stayed at her hospedaje, which turned out to be a beautiful place to recover for the next three days.

After spending three days in bed on a BRAT diet, my stomach and gut finally stabilised. During the day, I found comfort mainly in watching a game on YouTube I grew up with — Warcraft 3. It intrigued me how relaxing it was, despite not having played the game in nearly 20 years. Worries occasionally flooded in about how much time this sickness is costing me, and how it made cycling even harder. I realized that the hardest part of my journey was nutrition.

“This, too, shall pass” I thought, as I shut my mind off in the familiar scenes of Warcraft 3.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

An old friend informed me about this diversion — instead of following the main route of the PGD, I would ride near the Cordillera Huayhuash trek route, along the tracks of the mules. I was mentally prepared to push my bike up long, steep trails, with the promise of epic views and world-class singletracks.

I can’t remember if hike-a-bike has always been a pain. I’ve had to push my bike during races in steep sections, but I can’t recall how hard it was. Certainly, being days on the road and carrying triple the weight of a racing bike makes it a chore.

Huallanca

On my first attempt to start the route, I planned an easy day, aiming to sleep at 4000 meters being cautious with acclimatisation. At that altitude there were only fenced cow fields, so I decided to camp in one. I asked a campesino further down the road, and he gladly permitted me to sleep wherever I liked.

Cozy in my sleeping bag, checking the route ahead, and realizing my mistake of carrying too little food for the days ahead, I suddenly heard barking and whistles, and a torch lit up the inside of my tent.

The owner of the land, Gabriel, came to check who was camping on his land.

I immediately apologised and asked for permission to sleep, “lo siento — ¿puedo dormir aqui?”. In all his seriousness and alertness, he said “claro” and we both smiled.

He was curious about my journey. “Why are you doing this?” he asked. “Buena pregunta” I replied — “good question”. How do you explain to a farmer living at 4000 meters that you enjoy adventure and all the insights that come with it? The campesinos live in the mountains, face the challenges of the weather and livestock, and use infrastructure primitive by Western standards. Then there’s a guy on his bike seeking challenges and adventure — it was incomprehensible. I tried to give a simple answer: “I like the mountains and exploring”. His face showed anger as he repeated sentences with the word “Diablo”.

“¿Diablo?” I asked. “Are you here to find gold?” he slowly repeated in Spanish which I wrote into Translate. “No, I’m not interested in that”. The next day, I would better understand his concern.

He asked me whether I travel alone and he was perplexed when I replied “solo , si”. Why would someone travel so far, with his bike, in the tough mountains of Peru to be by himself?

He continued with asking about my wife — which he assumed I had. I told him that I’m single. “Oh I have two” he proudly replied. “Your bed is better shared with an esposa” he advised.

I asked him about his life there. “Mucho frio, mucho caliente” he said, it’s too warm and too cold up there. Eventually, he decided to get back to his warmth and two wives.

He made clear that there is no food on the way to Oyón,and that sealed my decision to go back to Huallanca and resupply.

Rarely I get to enjoy the full camping experience. Usually, it’s setting up camp late and leave early. It was almost 11, having a second coffee, listening to music and enjoying the sun. I headed down to the town shortly.

I felt relaxed in Huallanca and joined the locals for a warm slushy drink — I couldn’t get the name or what it was made from, but it was warming. I sat on the stools next to them, overhearing their comments on the gringo traveling with his bicicleta and wondering where he came from. “Soy griego” — I’m Greek, I noted, and they smiled, thinking I wouldn’t understand! I’m glad I took a few courses so I can have at least minimal interactions.

Entering Cordillera Huayhuash

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

First, a truck spills water on the dirt road as it passes and salutes you. Then, a horde of mining trucks spoils the silence. That’s why Gabriel was saying “Diablo.” I stood at the side of the road, waiting for the trucks to clear and the dust to settle.

While crossing a farm, the campesino asked me the usual questions, and after a brief chat, he requested a payment of 10 Soles to cross his property. In the Cordillera Huayhuash, the communities issue tickets that cost, on average, 30 Soles. The system is designed so the community earns from tourists, which incentivizes them to protect visitors. As I read in a guidebook, there were armed robberies, but since the introduction of the tickets, the incidents have been eliminated.

However, there are also “scams” where farmers request a payment without issuing any ticket, which happens outside of the community. Even though 10 Soles is not a large amount, knowing you are being scammed and having no other option felt bitter. Fortunately, this was the only scam along the way.

Due to the threat of an electric storm, one of my least favourite phenomena in the mountains, I set up camp just below the pass at 4600 meters. I was still acclimatising at that altitude — during the night I kept waking up gasping for air. Opening the door of the tent and letting fresh air in helped.

On a different note, that evening, I enriched my auditory palette of birds — nearby, there was a lake with species whose cries I had never heard before. They woke me up the in the same way, their rich sounds blending with the cold air flapping against my tent.

In the Cordillera Huayhuash

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

And there I was, the top of the pass revealed glacieted peaks, the sun was breaking the cold, and my mood was lifted to the top.

Soon after the downhill ended, I entered a community area, got my ticket, chatted with the locals and finally met three trekkers from Brazil. It was such a delight to have a conversation in English and share a bit of our adventures.

And soon I was greeted with steep terrain, pushing my bike against a background of six-thousanders.

Just before the next pass I met a lovely company from Chech Republic. We briefly chatted about our routes and focused more on photography!

I also got my picture taken — trail magic. It was so refreshing to meet people along the route that I could communicate with.

A singletrack with those mountain views — I was ecstatic! Usually, I crave the thrill of the trail, releasing the brakes and feeling the speed. However, this was a different style of riding, ensuring that my bags stayed in place and I could get frequent glimpses of the white peaks.

As I set up camp at a vantage point overlooking the peaks, three trekkers came down from the mountain. Australia, Portland and the Netherlands, having met on the trail and hiked together. I had their company that evening and we enjoyed the vistas together. I consider the part of meeting people on of the most interesting and beautiful aspects of the trip.

The steepest, and most awkward uphill trail followed. Two hours of pushing, dragging, and balancing in the narrow trail on either loose rock or fine dirt — it was mentally exhausting. I haven’t moved slower in the mountains, even in climbing I couldn cover more elevation per hour.

That day I decided to camp at the predetermined campsites, which offered basic toilets and primarily served to manage trekker’s waste. Many hikers were around, and I met a couple from Munich that was on the trek — small world. Before setting up my tent, I started cooking, as it takes a lot of time to heat water with an alcohol stove at those altitudes.

A little girl who lived in a small settlement on the hill joined me with her baby sister. She was curious about what I was cooking and she wanted to help me setup my tent. Her mother picked her up eventually as I was finishing with the tent. Hungry as I was, I checked the noodles and they looked ready, after all they didn’t need to boil. I also added some protein in the dinner, a can of greater sardines — it felt wrong, like cat food, but hunger is irrational. I mixed everything and called it dinner.

I went to bed early to rest and the sound of trekkers having fun in the big tents was a lullaby. In the silence of midnight, I woke up with nausea, and in a few seconds I threw myself out of the tent, chest on the ground, vomiting everything I had eaten four hours earlier. I realized the water I used was from a stream further up, near animals and their feces, unfiltered and unboiled — two mistakes I paid for.

I immediately sent satellite messages to two doctor friends, informing them of my situation and requesting advice. The ability to communicate provided immediate relief.

Diarrhoea kicked in too, and on my way to the toilets I couldn’t stand and vomited again. I felt horrible, weak, cold, and still full. After another cycle of vomiting and reaching the toilets and it was already morning. I hadn’t managed to sleep, and it was obvious that I wasn’t going anywhere that day. I took antibiotics, and slept through the day. While the midday sun was cooking my tent, I was deep in my sleeping bag not breaking a sweat.

“Amigo”, the campsite warden called to me. “Boleto”, he said, requesting that I get the ticket for the area. I explained my situation after paying and he checked on me a couple of times during the day — I was doing better.

The day passed with filtering water, shaking electrolytes, and sleeping. I received support messages from friends and family — heartwarming.

Being sick in the mountains on my own was a first. I wanted to move and get out of the route. The next day, I had recovered from the poisoning but I was weak and cold. Pushing the bike became even tougher but this was the only way forward.

I felt better when the sun was out, being in the mood to take photos was certainly a good indicator.

After days, I checked my temperature measured by my watch, I was 2.5 degrees above the baseline that night, indicating fever which was exactly what I felt.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Poem by Robert Frost — The Road Not Taken.

I followed the route indicated in Highlux Photograhy blog — many thanks!

The journey continues.

I want to reflect before I forget.

This blog starts at Oyón, arriving weak, hungry and still recovering from illness.

I spent three and half days there, in a small town that is the largest for kilometres to come.

On my second day, I met Alwin from the Netherlands. “Small world” we said — he lives in Groningen where I also spent 6 months during my internship a few years back! It was such a joy to converse — instead of only trying to get around with basic Spanish.

This was not the type of breakfast that I was accustomed to but it was growing in me.

Eventually, we discovered a pasteleria that made crepes. We ate there twice a day.

After three nights in the town, and feeling healthy I decided to depart and join the main route of the Peru Divide. Unfortunately, Alwin couldn’t join due to an old knee injury that resurfaced — solo I was.

I took off late, after a long breakfast, and started the mundane climb. I was feeling uninspired, maybe I wasn’t fully recovered, or maybe the town had spoiled me. Regardless, I had a lot of time to think.

Suddenly I felt alive — a similar feeling to when I found a legendary Pokémon as a child! This time it was alpacas, seeing in the wild for the first time!

The long climb continued, realizing that I could finally keep pace at altitude. During my first pass — Pastoruri — I felt like drowning, gasping for air every few minutes.

I had to cross an abandoned mine that was blocked by one and a half meter walls at the entrances. Tired, and running out of daylight, I had to unpack and manage my heavy bike across the walls — things that can be trivial with two become a challenge solo.

I was rushing through the mine as there were minutes of daylight left — spending the night there wasn’t appealing.

A smooth downhill followed in the twilight. The first village I reached — Rapaz at 4000 meters — felt inviting. I played my practised Spanish scenario with a few locals “¿Hay habitacion?” asking if there is a room to sleep. A couple of villagers pointed me to a lady that supposedly offered a room, however she told me there is none in Rapaz. “Ok, I will get some food and sleep further down the road” I thought and went at the square. On a bench, laughing and on their smartphones, three girls noticed me. I asked “¿Hay comida?” asking for food, and they immediately offered help.

Things were going well, the girls found a place for me to eat in one of her aunts and they took on the quest to find a place for me to sleep. There was a lot of Google Translate involved and my Spanish sentences made us laugh.

When I arranged my trip in Peru, I started Spanish lessons. In a few hours of private courses I managed to learn the basics. My motivation was to interact with the locals and have a richer experience.

I had dinner at seven — the time that the hostess’s family had dinner — she prepared an extra portion for me. She also found a place for me to sleep — at the owner’s of a Bodega named Grecia! An elderly woman that climbed stairs that were too steep for me, showed me my room.

I was glad I had a place to stay since it was late and freezing cold. That night was richer than having set up camp down the road and eat noodles! I had a glimpse of the lives of the locals, practice Spanish and share laughs!

What I like to ask people I meet is “¿Como esta de la vida aqui?” — How is life here? The girls told me “tranquilo” — peaceful, and it was how Rapaz felt.

I had breakfast prepared by the hostess and chatted with her husband. He was curious about my bike and navigation. He works at the mines as a driver, 12 days working followed by 7 days off — he was pleased with his job. I’ve heard opposing opinions from other locals — depends which side of the mining business they are at. His two sons dream to become football players and famous like Messi. I thanked them, payed for my food and took off — and just before I left, the couple packed lunch for me “para el camino — for the road” they exclaimed and put it in my bag. I thanked them once more and continued my way downhill.

Another monotonous climb: steep gravel road, few animals, many feces, occasional smell of a carcass and either too hot or cold. I was zoning out — which is partly where I find joy in these climbs. The body is busy and the mind roams free. This brought nostalgia to the foreplay, and I had the perfect podcast in hand — a tribute to two famous television writers that created iconic Greek shows in the 90s.

I decided to split the climb into two days and set up camp next to a river, 300 meters below the pass.

The night was freezing — on clear skies I get out of the warmth of my sleeping bag, put on my iced clothes and take a few pictures. That night I managed to get my hand out of the tent and that was enough to get me back into coziness and comfort.

The idea of breakfast and warm coffee got me out of my sleeping bag just before the first light of day. There is a sequence that I optimize each time: get the stove on my skin to warm it up so it lights, deflate the sleeping pad and roll it while still covered with the sleeping bag, roll the sleeping bag in the dry bag and finally light the stove with the liner covering me. All this to optimize warmth and packing.

Top of the pass and a short break to enjoy the surroundings. With the slightest breeze and I was cold at that altitude, even under the intense sun.

I was taking my time to get to the next climb, and had a short window of cellular reception. I spent almost an hour catching up with friends and family.

The next climb started and my mind was still in the chats I briefly had. I wasn’t ready to move on but I had to.

The scenery changed and mountains looked once more sharper, contrasty and inviting — maybe it was my mood. However, fatigue came in slowly.

Almost 350 meters before the pass and earlier that I wished, an eminent storm that has been brewing rushed me to a stop. I was lucky to have a flat spot and setup my tent just before the first drops. However, I was even more lucky that the storm just passed by and I was able to cook.

I had canned fish fillet and noodles for dinner. Last time I had a similar, I was in the Cordillera Huayhuash and got food poisoning, likely due to unfiltered water. Maybe it was too soon to repeat the same meal that I puked a week before, but that was all I had. I felt sick for two hours after eating it. With food, I’m easygoing but I’m having a hard time in this trip — biscuits and noodles are of little tolerance nowadays.

One thing I appreciate is that I can sleep from eight o’clock - sunset is at six and I aim to stop riding around four.

That leaves me with a good sleep window and epic late night or early morning views.

With a half an hour earlier than usual start, I receive the morning warmth of the sun and I feel grateful! A few meters left to finish this pass.

What’s a good spot to take a break? You feel it, there is no wind, the temperature is just right, there is something to observe. And such I filtered water watching the cows in the distance and long-winged birds flying over the reddish hills. These are gifts that I openly receive.

Another intention of this trip was to slow down, appreciate the moments and the small things. That fuels me to continue through the hardships that show up — and the cycle continues.

Soon enough, I’m riding the next pass, motivated to reach Yantac and get a warm meal.

Last pass was down and what was left was a long distance to cover.

Next was habitacion, the room which I spent the night. The hostess, Katy, was accustomed to cyclists passing by and spoke some English.

When Katy, my hostess, heard that I was still hungry, she invited me for a warm milk and crackers. I asked her about the life in Yantac and she responded that it’s hard, and life is expensive. She goes weekly to Lima for additional work which is three hours away.

Hunger woke me up before dawn. I had the chance to talk with family and friends and eventually get breakfast — the perks of being in a different time zone.

Well fed, packed and with a lubricated bike, I took off to Marcapomacocha — a village only an hour away that would accommodate my rest day.

I spent the rest of my day there, eating, resting and writing.

Progress so far

P.s. I took the highlighted route in the Cordillera Huayhuash — that’s a story for another post!

The rhythmic splash of waterdrops on concrete woke me. It was dark outside, the storm had passed, and I had enjoyed the best sleep so far, although only six hours. Throughout the night, the cold pressed in and despite layering all my clothes, some warmth escaped. The chill air rolling downhill woke me fully. The serene morning, with the mist blanketing the valley made me reflect on the rarity of such moments and how many more await me.

Such mornings, whether damp, dark, or cold inspire me with optimism for the day ahead. Each night, as I fall asleep, its as if I press the ‘Save’ button, awakening refreshed to continue — its important to sleep for more than seven hours.

I cycled towards St.Anton, on dedicated cycling lanes alongside a small river, resting my forearms on the handlebars — always mindful about my position. Despite years in Germany, the cycling infrastructure still amazed me. I come from a place where cyclists ride alongside drivers unfamiliar with sharing the road. My training on the road was fraught with close calls, as cars and lorries passed dangerously near and their turbulence shifted my balance. I’ve been in accident scenes minutes after they happened, and from sheer luck, I was not part of them. Constant watchfulness for potholes and opening car doors was a necessity; this driver-predictive intuition, anticipating their actions, remains with me. After I stopped cycling in Greece, where fatal accidents involving cyclists were not unheard of, the contrast became stark. Greece, with its scenic beauty and climate, is ideal to explore on a bike, yet lacks the needed infrastructure. Thus, riding on dedicated lanes by the river, free from such dangers, remains a privilege I deeply appreciate.

The sun, still hidden behind the mountains, began to show its glow. When I arrived at St.Anton its beauty unfolded. Known among skiers for its powder and its luxurious amenities, St.Anton has its appeal. While I would be drawn to the exceptional snow quality, the luxury seems distant from my values. I seek experiences earned through training and commitment and not through my 9-5. While I recognize its allure to others, it simply has never resonated with me. Still, a specialty coffee would have been enjoyable, had I not arrived too early.

“Ride to my heart’s content” was my desire and long days were my aim. Looking at the last two days, there was no time to spare and I still hadn’t eaten breakfast. Just before the dirt road, there was a sunny picnic spot that made my breakfast ideal. I savored bread, peanut butter and dried fruits, all while bathed in sunlight, accompanied by birdsongs and the murmur of a fountain. It was more than I hoped for.

And that moment, it open-handedly gave and I received.

I was finally back on riding in the mountains. The roads were busy with families and seniors in guided MTB tours, the majority on e-bikes. I think of e-bikes as a collective upgrade to everyone’s well being — lowering the barrier for people to workout, spend time in nature and also commute. Perhaps I’m romanticizing, I’m aware that opinions vary but I prefer to see the bright side.

Soon, I witnessed one of the most prominent mountains I have ever seen. My first thought was to come back here and spend more time climbing. This season, I often felt grateful and content and that was just one more time doing so. I had to take a break and shoot a couple of photos — capturing, for me , is a way to inhale my surroundings. A road by the river, and a majestic mountain in the background — this looked familiar.

The only influence I had of the Alps growing up, was seeing a painting hanging in our living room — a hut next to a forest road with a mountain in the background. Now, I live in such paintings, weekend over weekend. Who would have thought?

Upon arriving at Konstanzer Hütte it was time for a coffee. While I appreciate specialty coffees, hut-coffees are special in their own right. Immersed in beauty, gazing at the mountains, warmed by the sun, I deeply enjoyed the beverage. It was one of those moments when I felt free, independent, and deeply grateful for being there.

After taking in the landscape, and feeling the high from the coffee, I continued my journey. The roads where at their busiest; e-bikers were overtaking me at the uphills without a sweat and I was overtaking them going downhill. The first uphill trails were a joy; I was cautious about when to ride and when to walk. My gears were not tuned well enough and I couldn’t use the lowest ones. Thus, I was cautious to not break the chain — walking it was.

Excited by the descent, I wasn’t paying attention to the GPS and lost the track for almost two kilometers. It was the peak of the heat, and climbing again was not my favorite part. Nonetheless, I was drawing closer to the next mountain, with plenty of daylight left and yet no place to sleep.

From that point on, I was riding on tarmac, covering distance significantly quicker, and soon I arrived at Ischgl — a popular mountain town known for its après-ski and the COVID-19 outbreak in Europe.

While having lunch and checking the maps, I noticed that Heidelberger Hütte was on my way. "Great!". This meant I could spend the night at a proper DAV hut with affordable bedding (around €15/night), including options for dinner and breakfast. "It will be good to replenish my batteries there," I thought. Such surprises are the outcome of only having checked the specs of the route but not the route itself. A climb of 1,000 meters awaited me, during which I would cross into Switzerland and eventually reach the hut.

In a couple of hours, I had left the ski resort behind and was back on dirt roads. There, I was immersed in the alpine vistas and roads of which I have only dreamt of. I was on a plateau at 2000 meters, with peaks rising above 3000 meters. This was what “riding in the mountains” meant to me. Despite my tiredness, I was engaged and energetic.

My usual habit was to be quick and keep moving, which is the right mindset for committing routes, but I wasn’t in such a situation. I could afford to take a break and embrace the scenery. So, I took the time to take a self-portrait — a form of photography of capturing oneself that I rarely practiced.

My brother introduced me to cameras and instilled in me his passion for capturing moments. He encouraged me to start shooting when I was around ten — around the time Nokia 7650 was released. During the years he lived abroad, he would occasionally send me videos from London, as a way to keep in touch. I consider a dedicated video to someone as the modern letter. It’s effortful, intentional, and rich in information. Admittedly, I haven’t been doing it as much as I would have liked. Taking out my phone, I made a few videos for my family and friends. I had to share what I was experiencing. Even though I was tired and sleep deprived I felt rejuvenated — this is life, this is worth it.

Sometimes I engage in the following thought experiment: Would life hold meaning if one were in their defined paradise but devoid human contact in their lifespan? Regardless of what you experience, learn, or whatever joy or pain, it would be solely for yourself. Is this meaningful? Is this truly life? This contemplation reminds me of something I read in one of Irvin Yalom’s books, “Momma and the Meaning of Life”, suggesting that the perception of being observed, or the lack thereof, significantly influences the construction of meaning in our lives.

When sharing such videos, my loved ones are happy to see my delight. Children are special because they easily get excited, their capacity for joy is contagious. Growing older, this ability fades, making it all more significant when we can reach this state. Paying attention to what brings us to such moments is ought to be explored.

“There, I can see the hut!” I told my brother in my recording. The place was full with cyclists and hikers. I registered myself, and got a bed for the night and breakfast for the next morning. What stood out to me was the hut manager’s request for my sleeping liner, he microwaved them to prevent any bed bugs infestations. Hearing stories of visitors leaving with bed bugs and infesting their homes, I appreciated those precautions.

The hut provided a bike service station equipped with tools and water supply. At last, after years of living in Munich, I found a place to wash my bike. My small city apartment doesn’t offer the space for bike cleaning, so my bikes remain dirty. During my cycling years, I diligently washed my bike every other weekend and joked that doing so would inevitably bring rain.

Upon inspecting the bike, I noticed something amiss with my rear derailleur, which, surprisingly, pleased me. This explained the weird sound and vibration I experienced when using the lower gears. I had incorrectly routed the chain behind a separator, causing it to rub. I shorted it out in two minutes, providing immediate mental relief — I could enjoy riding in quietness and make full use of my lowest gears from then on.

These moments are rewarding. Identifying a problem and solving it boosts confidence. You attempt a fix, it succeeds, and you’re encouraged to try more. The independence gained from this knowledge is invaluable, allowing me to repair what I use, especially in situations where I’m the only option. Of course, there are still tasks I’ve yet to attempt, like truing my wheels. But that’s a “yet”.

The evening at the hut was exceptional. Typically, I arrive late, have dinner, and retire early. That night, however, free from pressure, I enjoyed a delightful conversation with a roommate. He and his friend were on a long-distance hike and were also spending the night at the hut. There are so many stories to be shared when you have the time to listen. And there I was, lying comfortably in a bed with a warm blanket, with a clean bike awaiting me and an unfolding adventure.

I was learning to slow down.

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In the pre-dawn chill, I twisted at the edge of consciousness, shivering into wakefulness, cycling through this pattern until the stars faded. ”I decide when to start, how long to ride, and when to stop” — this was my chosen freedom. Despite my meager five hours of sleep, I awoke energetic, enveloped in a blanket of optimism that had eased my worries overnight. The droplets of morning dew that covered each blade of grass, scattered the light, casting a sparkling orange glow over the day and lifting my spirits.

This energy nudged me to my daily bike maintenance routine. My saddle bag, like a stack in programming, was accessible only from the top. Conversely, the handlebar bag functioning like a double-ended queue, allowed access from both sides, requiring thoughtful arranging to ensure even weight distribution for unhindered steering. Packing would become my daily optimization problem, intriguing me with balancing accessibility and weight distribution.

However, my immediate task was to retrieve the oil and cleaning cloth from the bottom of the saddle bag. Once out, I began slowly rotating the crank backwards, carefully applying droplets of the semi-viscous, all-weather oil onto each chain link. The gentle click-clack of the freehub provided a rhythmic score to this routine. The final and crucial step was to wipe away any excess oil, necessary to prevent the accumulation of dirt that could further wear my old gears.

After repacking and securing everything, I was ready to set off. The click of my pedals and the soft glug of the last water drops from my bottle added to the morning’s bird chorus. I had longed to wake up to birds, a stark contrast to the abrasive urban cacophony of honking and 110dB penetrating sirens. I was weary of the relentless city noise, the narrow frequency of 420Hz often laden with frustration and anger. I yearned for the tranquility of nature, to fall asleep without earplugs, to exchange the unending rumble of the rubber on asphalt to the whispers of the wild.

Gladly, the morning freshness eased my irritation of pedaling uphill in low gear. This was partially because of my lack of sleep but mainly due to a vibration from the chain and a rubbing noise from the rear derailleur — the component responsible for shifting gears. I had long struggled with a similar problem and thought I had fixed it. The chain could abruptly jam, risking breaking it with each push.

A year ago, I addressed my longstanding technical debt by replacing the rear derailleur. This fixed my initial problem, allowing me to use the lower gears once more. Yet, the annoying worry of the chain getting stuck persisted. For the moment, I had no choice but to push these concerns aside and keep moving.

Gradually, my worries peeled away like the rubber from my tires, left behind on the trail. As the fun took over, each turn and jump unleashed uninhibited “wooohooos”. In those moments, confidence in my set-up grew — bags and all remained firmly attached, the green light to ride faster. But this burst of trail joy was fleeting soon; the forest path smoothed out, giving way to the steady hum of my tires on tarmac towards Ehrwald.

Mountain towns, nestled among peaks have always captivated me. Lost in contemplation, I would study the mountain faces — tracing lines, watching the clouds embrace the peaks, and follow the treeline. Mountains have always made me look up. Vivid memories of hanging from anchors, midway up a mountain face, gazing down at the valleys below where I now stood, would surge back. All these reflections seemed to call for one thing — a good cup of coffee.

I had two desires: to find specialty coffee and enjoy it with a scenic view. I missed the coffee culture of my home, where I took my time to enjoy the coffee, gaze at the sea and distant mountains. Naively, I believed this would be my routine crossing towns but few offered this kind of coffee experience. Due to my sensitivity to caffeine which led to either an afternoon energy crash or a degraded night’s sleep, I preferred quality over quantity. Today, however, I needed the extra caffeine even without the roasted coffee aroma or the views of the mountains.

As I sipped the Kaffeemaschine brew, I thought about the practicalities of my journey. How could I leave my MTB for groceries in a busy parking lot? I haven’t left any of my bikes unattended, except my city bike, since my MTB got stolen more than ten years ago. Thankfully, a friend retrieved it, and I’m still grateful. Since I would be riding in countries with cycling culture, my bike could be just another bike in the parking lot, so I opted for a cheap and lightweight bike lock that would discourage such attempts. Indeed, after walking out of the supermarket with peanut butter, Pumpernickel (a German dense bread), fruits and lunch for the road, my bike was still there, next to a couple’s unlocked 5000€ electric bikes.

Ten o’clock, and I felt late, but without having any schedule, it wasn’t about being late or early; I was on time. However, a sense of lateness still echoed in my mind. As I continued my journey, I observed the liveliness in the forest: people walking their dogs, hiking, running and cycling. In the Alps, this embrace of nature contrasted with my urban Greek upbringing, yet I found it deeply resonant.

Along the way, I met a diversity of cyclists, of all ages and all fitness levels. A feeling of hopefulness surrounded the image of a senior couple enjoying the forest on their e-bikes. “Isn’t this something?” I thought — a couple that has probably been together for the best part of their lives could still enjoy a ride together. Being here felt like a jump into the future; e-bikes were a thing, and those who might have been deterred by fitness could now appreciate the freedom that two wheels bring.

That day, I embraced the “I stop where I want” mentality. I stopped by a lake to feed the ducklings and call my mother. I took the time to align the disc brakes of a family's bicycle that had trouble. I stopped to observe and capture a cluster of mushrooms on a stump. I stopped when I saw two inviting benches surrounding a cross, perfect for my lunch break.

“Maintain the average speed”, “get back home for chores”, “be back in time for the after-lunch meeting”. Letting go of those ingrained thoughts was a mindful practice, making a conscious effort to listen, to be present. But despite my efforts, the familiar rush often prevailed, like a needle settling into the groove of habitual speediness.

This speediness, I inherited from the woman I admire, the woman who made things happen on her own, and speediness was her way. Looking back at our ways and where we came from, brings understanding of ourselves and others. Indeed, sometimes, discovering the origin is enough to let us set sail towards our own direction.

I wanted to get out of my grooves, leave my patterns behind, patterns that have helped me navigate adulthood. From an early age, my mother urged me to seek contrast. Slowing down would add contrast to this ever-accelerating life. 24 hours ago, I was at home in a meeting. Now, here I am in Austria, on my way to get myself unstuck from those patterns.

The themes gradually shifted towards the end of the first stage in Landeck. The journey transitioned from dirt roads and trails to tarmac, and my mindset shifted from worrying about the unknown to things falling into place and gaining confidence. I felt empowered and excited. We need to push through the worries and uncertainty; the key is to try, for that's all we can do.

Finally, I arrived at Landeck, just another city in the valley to my eyes. I hadn’t heard about it nor had I looked it up. There must have been history behind it, or maybe there wasn’t. My aim wasn’t to be a tourist and read the travel guide books. “History is important, it’s relevant, but not for me, not now.” I’m not traveling in the usual way; I want to experience things that don’t have a name; I want to see roads that don’t have an address; I want to be where it’s hard to describe.

My sightseeing in the city ended quickly as I stopped at a supermarket to pick up dinner. “What’s the simplest healthy meal I can get?”. The answer was humble Semmel (bread roll), cheese, turkey and a tomato. It might not have been the epitome of health, but it felt right. I was still figuring out the right amount of food to carry and consume. By riding slowly, staying in the lower end of Zone 1 where I easily breathed through my nose, I primarily burned fat. It felt odd to spend all day on the bike, eating only a couple of Brezen, a few fruits, and some nuts without feeling hungry. I thought, “I could keep this up for days”.

Continuing on the second stage of the tour, the road to St. Anton had become mundane, steadily uphill on tarmac alongside cars, with only the weather changing. I had been checking the forecast multiple times per day, which consistently predicted overcast skies. However, looking into the distance I disagreed; dark clouds loomed, and further, rain. “That doesn’t look good” I thought. “I don’t have a place to sleep yet and the entrance to the mountains is hours away.”

It's common for spontaneous and occasionally severe thunderstorms to form in the summer heat. So, I took a moment to brace myself. After a quick snack, I put on my waterproof, grabbed my torch and clear glasses, and started making plans. Without a place to spend the night and with the mountains still a great distance away, my only choice was to continue riding. I headed straight into the storm. It began with sporadic, chunky droplets falling from the gray sky, and within a few minutes, I was soaked, my lights on, as cars passed me by.

Riding in these conditions isn’t my cup of tea; avoiding unnecessary risks is my priority. Shortly after the storm began, I found shelter under a wide bridge and took it without hesitation. Finally, my phone showed weather alerts, classifying the thunderstorm as moderate with the comment: possible threat to life or property. “Great”. I leaned against the foundations and blurred my sight on the rain hitting the tarmac. With about an hour of daylight left and the mountains still distant, waiting out the storm seemed unproductive. “Time for dinner,” I decided.

The day before, my closest friends and my girlfriend had setup a group chat for support and to stay connected. So, I updated them about my situation and we explored available options. A chapel, a few kilometers away, was open 24/7 according to Google Maps. “Worth a try” I hesitantly thought, given my limited options. My situation reminded me of a Greek idiom: “Τέτοια ώρα, τέτοια λόγια” which translates literally to “At this time, those words” and effectively means “oh well” or “nothing I can do right now”. As the storm eased momentarily, and after enjoying my modest dinner, I turned on my torch and set out to find the chapel.

After 13 hours on the road, with 9 hours of cycling, I had covered 90 km and 2000 meters of elevation. Tired and cold, I could use some rest. Fortunately, the chapel doors were unlocked. Inside its small space, I found solitude, surrounded by the rumble of the thunderstorm and the luminescent flashes of lightning. It was a relief to have a shelter and to feel watched over.

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I first heard of the Transalp at 16 when my then-girlfriend’s father, who had just completed the race, gave me a cycling jersey from the event. I wore it with pride, though it no longer fits. Back then, the race, spanning several days in the Alps, seemed prohibitively expensive. But now, the jersey folded in my drawer symbolizes the origins of an adventure within my reach.

After fifteen years of holding onto the jersey, a nudge from a colleague who shared his own cycling adventures brought this dream to the forefront. My route criteria were simple: start in the nearby Bavarian Alps and ride through the mountains. I found a fitting route online, one that would take me from Garmisch to Riva del Garda in Italy. Covering 500 km,14000 meters of elevation in seven stages and crossing three countries seemed like an appropriate challenge for me.

The style of the adventure was minimalistic and deeply meaningful to me: ride to my heart's content and be in the mountains. No reservations, no destinations, no deadlines, just the liberating experience of being fully present, here and now. This included the ability to bivouac; sleep under the stars with minimal gear. Usually, this comprises a sleeping bag for warmth — which I chose to forgo — and a layer of protection against the elements. Of course, the ethics of the outdoors dictate that one must leave no trace, disturb no one, and respect the natural rhythms of the day, settling down at sunset and embarking anew at sunrise.

In preparation for the journey, I seized every opportunity to consult fellow bikepackers about their setups. Eager to explore what would work best for me, I ordered a selection of bags online and settled for the reliable handlebar/saddle bag combination which suited my full-suspension bike well. Undertaking the necessary maintenance, I replenished the long-neglected sealant in my tires and bled the rear brake. In Munich spontaneity often falls short — be it restaurants, cafés, or bike shops, reservations are almost always necessary. Thus, my hands-on experience proved invaluable once more. I’ve found it more efficient and rewarding to handle things myself, rather than spending time seeking someone else to do them for me.

When finally a window of favorable weather appeared, during August’s storms, I grabbed the opportunity as if it were a golden ticket. The moment I set a start date, everything became real and a wave of excitement washed over me. To ensure I would reach the starting point of the route well before the sun set, I left work early on a Friday. This was to account for known train disruptions as I needed to ride between two train stations. I always preferred to start my adventures as early as possible — even a few additional hours can significantly add to the experience.

As I set out from Weilheim, a surge of joy flooded through me, harmonizing with the sun's golden beams that signaled the unfolding multi-day adventure ahead. Although eager, I exercised caution, testing my setup to ensure that my bike bags remained securely in place and that my bike functioned flawlessly. After all, it was just the previous day that I had done work on it.

Upon reaching Murnau, I found myself time-trialing the final kilometers to catch my train. But, I arrived thirty seconds too late and watched the train pull away. Carrying the day’s stress, I realized there was no real need to push. The next available connection was only half an hour later and it marked the end of my reliance on public transport. From then on, I knew I could depend solely on my bike for the adventures that lay ahead. Eventually, I arrived at Garmisch and started off on my planned route. As I gazed at the Zugspitze massif, I felt a newfound sense of awe and wonder. “For the next few days, the mountains are my habitat,” I mused. The thought filled me with a surge of optimism and euphoria.

Soon, the mountain pass to Ehrwald in Austria began in earnest, and I quickly realized that the challenge was greater than I had anticipated. My aim was to keep my exertion levels modest, targeting the lower end of my heart rate spectrum, specifically Zone 1. My main concerns were the inefficient use of my energy stores and the risk of injury from overuse. The added weight of the bags was almost eight kilos, bringing the total weight of my bike to just under twenty. This extra weight, along with the steep inclines, pushed me into Zone 3. In this higher exertion zone, my body burned through its easily accessible glycogen stores faster, reducing my fat-burning ratio and increasing my hunger. Apart from the trip itself, I had a training goal in mind: I wanted to improve my endurance and metabolic efficiency. In other words, ride slow, ride long, and eat little. I consider every activity as training towards my mountaineering goals.

As the sun began its descent, uncertainty clouded my thoughts. My minimalistic planning had me questioning my choices, particularly my sleeping system. Would it be enough to get me through the night comfortably? Even with the excitement of the journey fueling me, as I stepped away from the urban rush into the tranquility of nature, I found it hard to shake off the mental fatigue that seemed to set in unusually fast today. 

In the city, I often played recordings of bird songs and forest sounds in my apartment to mask the urban uproar. Now, far from the pollution, I could hear their authentic melodies harmonizing with my breath. The avian chorus had always been a warm, vibrant hue in my soundscape. Here, in the heart of nature, the auditory and visual vibrancy aligned perfectly.

The birds along with the beauty of the sunset over the Alps brought ease. Growing up in Greece, I would take every opportunity to marvel at the shades of pink, red and orange painting the Thermaic Gulf and Mt. Olympus rising in the distance. The hills of Thessaloniki and the region's pleasant climate made these natural spectacles a regular part of my life. However, since moving away in 2018 to start my career, the frequency of these experiences dwindled to just a few per year. But this evening was different; as I watched the sun set over the mountains, I felt a sense of contentment wash over me, the familiar views eased my earlier worries — “this is home” I thought.

The awe that sunsets inspire in me is only surpassed by the rare beauty of a starry sky, an experience I had the privilege of enjoying tonight. It was a magical moment that took me back to my first year of university. With cycling taking a backseat, I had the time to delve into various interests. I found myself engrossed in "The Scale of the Universe" by Salman Khan and Carl Sagan's "Cosmos." Every time I look up at the night sky, a sense of awe surrounds me, reminding me of a profound truth I once heard:

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