The Dust Never Lies
On bikes, identity, and remembering what matters most
It’s been a while since I last rode this bike. It’s been sat in the garage, gathering dust. I mean, actual piles of it. Most of it’s from the woodworking projects I’ve been chipping away at in there. Every time I head in to grab another bike, I feel a pang of guilt. This one deserves more than neglect. It longs to see the world.
The bike in all it’s glory, overlooking Denali
A photo sits on my shelf: this very bike, perched above Denali, Alaska. To most people, it’s just metal and rubber. But to me, it was everything. Between 2018 and 2019, it was my anchor. My compass, post-military. Now and again, I pull it out, brush it down, and remember what it was built to do.
The moment I sit back into that worn leather saddle - shaped by thousands of miles - I’m transported. It’s like meeting an old friend. No awkwardness, no catching up needed. Just ease.
A few miles from home, I ride out to meet a group I’ve grown to love. Weekly rides from a local café. Nothing fancy. No matching kits or racing egos. Just people turning up, as they are, to reconnect.
When I moved here three years ago, I felt lost again. The old itch to escape was strong. With this bike, I knew I could vanish. Ride for months, live out of a tent, talk to a camera, hope people watched. But I remembered how lonely that life could be. The goodbyes. The isolation. I’d tasted freedom and realised what I really wanted now was something else: community, stability, a place to call home.
So I turned back to what I knew. The bike. It had once given me identity and belonging. This time, it opened a new chapter.
Summer rides take us deep into the New Forest. A ribbon of wheels winding through the countryside, occasionally annoying a local driver or two. But it’s not about the miles. It’s the moments. Riding beside someone you haven’t seen in months. Laughing at nothing. Feeling like you’re part of something.
We often end up on a clifftop near my house. Wind on our faces. Pizza in our hands. Just the quiet joy of being outdoors, together.
I rarely film these moments. Pulling out a camera breaks the spell. It turns presence into performance. And the connection isn’t through a lens. It’s in simply being there.
Maybe that’s the lesson.
I haven’t ridden much in the past six months. I’ve been running. Lifting. Moving differently. Telling myself it wasn’t the right season for cycling. Maybe I’d just grown tired of it. Cycling felt too familiar. My body could do it with ease, but my mind craved something new.
I stopped filming. Stopped riding. Moved on.
These days, the bike is no longer my identity. It’s just a tool - but one that carries weight. Emotionally. Spiritually. Especially this bike.
Five years ago, I came back to England as “Adam the bike tourer.” I was making YouTube videos. I was even recognised by a stranger within hours of landing. But slowly, I began building a new life. A new sense of self.
I’m not the bike traveller anymore. It’s something I did. It shaped me. But I’m not that guy now. The final piece of letting go came when I stood on a stage, giving talks about my trip. Sharing stories and making people smile, laugh, gasp.
Giving a talk to friends at my local bike cafe, Velo Domestique
Giving a talk to friends at my local bike cafe, Velo Domestique
I’ve come to peace with the fact that I won’t cycle the length of the Americas. Or ride around the world.
So what makes us who we are? Is it our memories, our stories, the roles we choose? Or the ones that are chosen for us?
To my parents, I’m a son. To my son, I’m a dad. To others, I’m a friend, a colleague, a stranger. We all carry countless identities, many out of our control. Some spend a lifetime trying to shape how they’re seen. Chasing status, crafting personas, trying to belong.
Yesterday, I dusted off this old bike and joined the group ride. And it reminded me: showing up matters. Building something slowly, week after week, year after year, that’s what gives life its depth. Investing in community is exactly that, an investment. And its value grows over time.
Here’s a thought that’s stayed with me:
What if today is what I’ll one day look back on as “the good old days”?
I think it might be. So I’m choosing to notice it. To breathe it in. To appreciate this exact moment.
Because this moment. Right here. Is all we ever really have.
