The ancient caravan route winds upwards, a thin pinkish ribbon lacing this way and that across the wall of mountains ahead. The intimacy and comforting shelter of the forest canopy is now far behind and a desolate landscape stretches out ahead. There is a scale to the vista that feels powerful, perhaps threatening. The clouds rising off the rippling flanks of folded rock feel like a warning cry as the early light dapples the scene with an uneasy shimmer. The skies on the ridgeline are darkening; but it’s too late, I’m committed. There is not a soul around nor a sound to be heard, no longer the chimes of nomadic herds jostling in the valley, only the occasional tremble as distant seracs splinter and settle.

The air is thin and colder now, breathing gets harder as intake sharpens, speckling my throat with the rusty taste of blood. There isn’t a muscle that doesn’t ache, sinews have stretched to tear and twist and my eyes are stinging from being open for too long.

The pain is somehow reassuring, forcing the mind in-sync with the body creating a feeling of pure focus. As the senses react and heighten, I feel myself rising from the saddle, stamping the pedals with a strength I’m finding anew with every tiny circle. I feel weightless in the grand amphitheatre of the valley as trails of spit and snot flare and freeze to sting flushed cheeks. I stare down the stem, internalising thoughts till the spectre-of-self gleams through glycogen depletion.

There’s a saying in climbing that ‘mountains are mirrors’ for it’s in these moments of vulnerability that the choppy waters of modern and busy lives calm and a reflection becomes clear. Through the blurry vision and weary limbs, a clarity arrives in the simple task of turning one pedal in front of the other towards the horizon.

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Around 8 years ago, with my first proper pay-check I bought a bike and turned up at the local club ride. New socks, fluoro jersey, matching decals. This was it: I had decided I would be a cyclist. Halfway through the planned 100km and with the sticky residue of half-eaten gels and melted snickers staining my pristine lycra, I stopped to reassess. Given my tyre was losing air and I had no idea of where I was or how to fix it, I was extremely thankful of a fellow rider stopping to help.

The rider looked fit and sharp with a calm sense of self-confidence that was reassuring. He chuckled at the proprietary reflectors still on my race wheels as he effortlessly thumbed a new tube back on to tight rims with speed and ease. We rode to a petrol station where he ordered a miracle concoction of snacks on my behalf and we cycled his memorised version of the route home. He spoke with the quiet confidence that belies a wealth of experience and stories and his wry smile hinted at wisdom and mischief. This was a cyclist.

I returned home that day, some four hours overdue, salt stained and delirious. Little did I know that this was the beginning of a love affair with the peripheries of my capabilities on two wheels. Despite my weekends continuing in this fashion for some time, I’ll always remember that day. I remember the sharp jabs of cramps in muscles I’d been previously unaware of, the iridescent prickles behind my eyes of a migraine that threatened to blind me and the uncontrollable shivers and nausea of heatstroke. I remember the faces of the other riders non-plussed by what had just been a life-affirming physical effort and how inferior that made me feel.

One thing I also remember is reading the Strava profiles of other riders in the group; my misty-eyed saviour that day had a kilometre tally into six figures. This equated to over 4,000 hours in the saddle and given I had orbited my emotional range at least three times in one 6-hour ride, it’s safe to say, I was impressed.

Ever since then, 100,000kms has always been some kind of personal goal and landmark, one where I might finally be able to call myself a cyclist or perhaps more importantly look like one.

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I’ve spent a long time in front of the mirror since that ride – contorting my feet to check the calves are shaping into those glossy photos I pour over in L’Equipe and Rouleur. As a visually obsessed culture, the two percent of us that shows on the surface is given disproportionate significance. Especially in the western world, sight is given false importance over our other senses. Plato regarded vision as humanity’s greatest gift and philosophical writings have long since associated knowledge with clear vision and light as a metaphor for truth; but in the long bike races I now ride, it is the darkness that provides the most honesty. It is here where I stare myself down and find out about who I am.

Hardship, even when self-inflicted, provides the most humbling of reflections and whilst not always pretty, it is perhaps more interesting, abstract and complex than any image could be. It is definitely more rewarding for it takes effort, patience and courage to see.

Thinking back to that first ride, it wasn’t the cyclist’s razor sharp calves’ and perfectly fitted jersey that left the biggest impression. It was his demeanour, his quiet conviction and knowing smile that I remembered most. There was an unspoken understanding that is now familiar, but likely went unnoticed at the time.

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According to Strava, this week marks my arrival into that six figure club; one hundred thousand kilometres. What I’ve got out of those 5000 hours in the saddle has been so much more than the visual; a cyclists’ aesthetic of bad tan lines, scarred knees and assured sense of sock choice. It’s even more rewarding than the places visited, the mishaps and adventures, the bonds and camaraderie of those I’ve ridden with, and the anthology of stories collected. The bike has, through it all, been the tool I’ve used to navigate the nuances of adulthood that no one can quite prepare you for. I have ridden through grief and loss, released stresses and frustrations one pedal stroke at a time and figured out decisions I’ve found difficult to make just a few hours before. But I’ve also articulated hopes and dreams, exclaimed shouts of joy on both quiet and busy streets and chosen paths I might otherwise not have had the confidence to ride. The bike has been there in the headwinds of change and in the sunny winding lanes of contentment. It has been my constant in the often chaotic world I create for myself. There is balance to be found in the simple act of riding a bike and it is this that I cherish most.

Whilst I don’t always get it right I like to think I‘ve learnt a lot staring at those hundred million metres pass under my wheel and the reflections they have offered.  The bike is the mirror in which I see and understand myself, the good, the bad and the ugly. At the end of the day, I like what I see when I ride a bike and it is this above all that gives reason to ride 100,000 more.