An Unexpected Start
Feeling faint was something I was very used to. It happened often at school, so much so that the matron would just give me a Polo and send me back to class. So when I told the flight attendant that I felt faint and sick, I wasn’t too phased.
That said, I hadn’t planned on feeling this way on the morning of my bike trip to Sardinia. It was a 6am flight and I had a big day ahead – fainting on the plane was not in the plan.
The Plan
The plan was simple – to bikepack the north coast of Sardinia, alone. I had arranged a bike rental and carefully packed three distinct bags, each with its designated place on the frame – one for camping gear, one for food and essentials, and one for clothes and tools. Over eight days, I would cover 630km and climb more than 8,000m of elevation, cruising through Sardinia’s coastline and quiet inland hills.
I’d camp seven nights out of eight, carrying my little home with me and setting up at different campsites. Along the way, I’d explore Sardinia’s renowned cuisine, fresh seafood by the sea, and espresso strong enough to make even the longest climbs feel possible.
More than a cycling trip, it was an exercise in solitude – a way test what happens when you trade comfort for curiosity.
Back to Basics
My first experience of bikepacking was in 2017. I’d had a bereavement a few months earlier and decided to spend four months on the road. In hindsight, I was deeply depressed after such a loss, and that bike trip ended up shaping my relationship with adventure in a lasting way.
We camped most evenings in the most unexpected places, ticking off European capitals and exploring mountain ranges and the southern coastline of France. In many ways, the movement of travel mirrored the movement of grief – constant and at times exhausting. Being on the road gave me both structure and freedom – the steady routine of pedalling each day, and the space to let my grief surface without restraint.
Since then, I’ve shared bikepacking holidays with friends – in the Scottish Highlands, the French Alps, and the Dolomites. As the challenges of each trip grew – the elevation, the mileage, the weather – my tolerance for tents and sleeping bags declined.
As my business grew, I could finally justify spending a bit more on these adventures — even booking the occasional hotel.
I used to look in awe at people who did that during my four-month trip. The ‘credit card bikepacker’ was often talked about in a slightly negative way, but only because I secretly wanted to be one. Back then the luxury of booking a multitude of hotels was just not feasible.
I wanted to remind myself that I could still enjoy the warts-and-all approach to adventuring. It’s easy to convince yourself that you’ve become someone who prefers comfort but the real thrill often comes from stripping it all back.
Previously, I’d always shared these trips with friends or boyfriends. There was reassurance in that, of course, but this time I wanted to plan something entirely on my own. I’d been heavily influenced by a friend’s spreadsheets, so in the months leading up to my trip I started building my own version. I started filling white boxes with distance, elevation, campsites, and restaurants and at any spare moment, i’d add to it. One thing I learned through that process is that trips become far more exciting when you invest time in planning them.
The Lead Up
The months leading up to this trip I starting getting into the equipment I would need. A good lightweight tent, a sleeping mat and a sleeping bag were high on the list. Like with all my life affirming purchases I looked to Vinted. I was delighted to find a Thermarest sleeping mat for sale. In the past, I’d convinced myself I could go without one, lying straight on the groundsheet as if choosing the most uncomfortable option was a badge of honour. But saying yes to this top-of-the-range sleeping mat felt like a small win – a quiet acknowledgment of how far I’d come, and a purchase rooted in self-care. No more roughing it; you do deserve nice things. Someone I train weekly chuckled when they heard I’d spent more on my camping mat than on my actual mattress at home.
In preparation, I did a practice run in a nearby village named Alfriston. It was a warm summer Saturday evening, and I’d promised myself I’d camp in my Vinted-bought tent as a test-run. I cycled there with my saddlebag firmly fastened, testing the weight of the gear and how easy the tent was to set up. Very easy, as it turned out. It was lovely to see so many families and solo campers scattered around the field. Armed with that small but important piece of evidence, that I could sleep in a tent for one night and cycle 20k home the next morning, I deemed myself ready.
A photo of all my kit went up online. Concerned people wondered what that odd, silicone pink object was – it was, in fact, the only malleable container I could find, and inside it was around 30g of creatine.
I shoved the entire contents of that photo including my saddle into an IKEA bag and sealed it with layers of Sellotape. Staring down at the bag, it was hard to tell that I’d planned this trip so thoroughly, that I’d carefully packed every item and built a full itinerary. Trust the process and embrace the plastic bag, I told myself.
Getting to the coach station at 2am. turned stressful when the taxi driver arrived at least eight minutes late. I had never seen anyone drive so fast down Old Shoreham Road, but I made it to the bus just in time. In any other circumstance I’d have been horrified, but missing that early-morning flight wasn’t an option.
The day ahead was ambitious: coach, plane, collect bike, ride 80km, check into hotel. In classic me-fashion, I’d bitten off more than I could chew. How on earth am I going to cycle 80km after a flight? What if there’s something wrong with the bike? The questions kept flooding in, familiar feelings of anxiety. I knew they’d ease once I confirmed the bike was rideable and I was finally on the road.
Reality Check
When I told other cyclists familiar with Sardinia about my plan, they raised their eyebrows.
“It’s going to be too hot,” they warned.
I wasn’t exactly a rookie when it came to riding in the heat. During my 2017 trip, I’d unknowingly cycled straight into an amber-warning heatwave in Croatia. Still, I was underprepared for Sardinia’s midday sun, and as I stood waiting for the bus, doubts started creeping in.
There was zero question that I’d get it done but how much I’d enjoy it was another matter.
Collecting the bike went smoothly. I stood on the roadside outside a closed car garage for twenty minutes or so, waiting for a man named Giovanni to open the gate.
As I finally rolled away, bags loaded and legs spinning, I thought about what lay ahead and how relieved I felt to be back on my own saddle. Comfort level: off the charts. Who was I kidding? I was going to enjoy every second of this day, heat and all.
As I pedalled through those final few miles to the hotel in a small mountain village called Bono — battling some of the gnarliest headwinds and heat I’d ever experienced — I thought back to fainting on the plane and how differently the day turned out to be. Somewhere between the heat, the hills, and regular glucose doses, I’d found my balance again.
