Returning Home

Is two years a long time? I asked myself this question on the plane home from Sydney. My initial thought was that of course it’s a long time. I pictured the version of myself who rolled away from everything he knew on a second-hand bicycle two years earlier, wide-eyed, clean-shaven, and unaware of what I was actually signing myself up for. That version of me felt like he existed an eternity ago, the innocence towards the hard times that lay ahead, the pain of loneliness, the overwhelming fear, the inner turmoil that was to come debating if this was a good idea, putting my career and relationships on hold while I pursued something I wasn’t even sure was possible, a goal that didn’t have a defined route.

While the way was unclear, the destination was laid out for me long in advance. A career in nursing meant a life in Australia was almost always going to happen. That’s the path Irish nurses are quietly steered onto the day they step foot on the wards. This career choice dictated the end destination of my journey long before I imagined a grand plan like cycling there. It also gave me the ability to see how quickly life can be taken away from us, which led to what gave me the conviction to go for it when the opportunity came about to cycle there.

Returning home was exciting, Seeing friends and family who supported me throughout my journey, sharing stories that could only be told in the back snug of a pub with a Guinness in hand. I enjoyed giving back to my community for all they had done for me by talking in local schools and at events, doing the things I missed the most like swimming in Lough Allen, going to Roscommon GAA games with my dad, and suffocating from the fumes of deep heat in a dressing room with my club team, St Ronan’s.

While all these things gave me joy, there was an uneasy feeling of anxiety and sadness beneath it all. The happiness that was so readily available while I was cycling was nowhere to be found. There was no longer a long-term goal driving me in the right direction when I felt lost. My anxiety soon turned to agitation, and I became difficult to be around. The intent of my return was to give back to my family for all the worry and fear I had put them through, but if anything I was making their lives harder, the opposite effect of what I wanted.

It got worse before it got better. My knee had been swelling up after any kind of impact sport, so I couldn’t run or play GAA, two of the things I had most been looking forward to and associated massively with who I was. My identity was now in question: who am I if I can’t run or be part of a GAA club? Exercise is my escape and how I keep my body and mind in check. Without this outlet I fell out of shape and grew into an even bigger ball of anxiety and agitation. Worst of all, I felt like I lost the one thing I had taken for complete granted during my travels, my independence. Nimrod, my bicycle, was still in Sydney. The route home from Australia had to avoid the Persian Gulf because of conflicts around the area, so I had to forget about my bike when planning a flightpath home. Without Nimrod I had no transport of my own, relying on Mam’s car for everything. The version of me that could negotiate with AK47-wielding Taliban, and embrace endless nights of minus 20°, was now waiting in his parents kitchen for a lift. The me who once felt he could conquer the world was now trapped in his own self-deprecating prison.

One day folded into the next, weeks turned into months. While on the road, there were countless nights I lay in my tent for hours writing about the elderly couple that gave me water, the family that invited me in from the cold, the stories exchanged with those I shared the road with. Every day produced so many new memories that there were dozens of standout moments to remember it by. At home, the days began to look like one another. That, more than anything, was what unsettled me the most.

But I had tools. Two full years of persistent challenges had taught me a few things, even when I couldn’t access them at first. I knew, from the day I arrived at the steps of the Opera House, that hard days were to come. This foresight protected the one asset I couldn’t afford to lose: optimism. Despite feeling like I was in a hole of despair and uncertainty, I knew I would eventually find my feet. The key was to just keep trying. It didn’t matter how many times I failed, or fell deeper into that hole, as long as I got back up and tried again. Optimism is believing there is a way even when you can’t see it.

Slowly, I started to find my way, getting over decision paralysis by understanding that no action is worse than the wrong action. Trying and failing was better than not trying at all. The failures were where the lessons lived. The road had taught me that already, I just had to remember it.

And then, somewhere in the middle of all that, I started to see something I hadn’t been able to see when I first arrived home. The two years weren’t an ending. The Opera House wasn’t a finish line. It was a doorway. Yes, Sydney was the end of one journey, but the only reason it ended there was because a younger me couldn’t dream of anything bigger, he wasn’t even sure if that was possible. It wasn’t by crossing a line that I changed into who I am now, or why others took interest in what I was doing. It was the raw, real-world living. Seeing what certain parts of the world looked like, and how the people there treated both myself and one another. The fresh-faced boy who hopped on that second-hand bicycle was still there, but with a perspective far greater than the one he had left with. The finish line was arbitrary, all it took was a new understanding to inject a feeling of excitement and wonder again.

So I’m asking the question again. Is two years a long time?

I can only conclude that it depends what you spend it doing. Are you making new memories? Are you testing yourself and learning from your failures? Are you leaning into discomfort and exploring your curiosities?

Two years was long enough to change me. Long enough to take me apart and put me back together as someone who could finally stop and ask what he actually wanted. And what I want, it turns out, is not to stop. There are more roads. There are more cultures to dissect and traditions to take part in, whether that’s back in Central Asia or further afield in South America or Africa. There are stories I want to write. There’s a book I want to put together. And there’s another journey already taking shape in my head, one closer to home, built around inspiring others to challenge themselves, build their resilience and keep moving forward even when the path ahead isn’t clear.

So while I slowly gather my thoughts after these two years, I resonated deeply with what a fellow Bikepacker once said:

“Your body may have travelled home on a plane, but your mind cycles back”