Dave Cornthwaite | The Creative Explorer

There’s something almighty rewarding about perching in a $22 tent from Walmart, a few metres off the side of Highway 95, 18 miles south of Beatty, Nevada, and perhaps more importantly less than 100 miles north of Las Vegas, our final destination.

The sky is almost dark now but the moon is nearly full and gives us enough light to find laptops, cameras, torches, clothes and snack. There is no wind and apart from the frequent roar of a passing night truck we are in complete silence bar the tapping of fingers on keys. I love this. Writing in the night, in the wild, in the open, my chest bent over my knees and happily sore thighs. Every bit of me aches but I don’t feel at all sore, I’m content right here.

Seb just reminded me of the man in the bike shop near his house in Manly, Sydney. During an infrequent training ride prior to this journey Seb popped into the shop to have his tyres pumped up (already you see the levels of preparation that went into this, Seb doesn’t even have his own pump) and on telling the man what he was training for the response was, ‘Mate, you’ve got to use a bit of realism about these things, that ain’t gonna happen.’

This afternoon, in Beatty, a Wild West Town with the desperate trimmings of commercialism, I looked into the wide eyes of a young man who was serving me a Subway sandwich and heard him say those now ever-so-frequent words, ‘I’d love to do something like you’re doing.’ The usual suspects that deter the folk who speak and don’t act are money, time and the daunting fear of the unknown. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start,’ said the chap.
‘You just start,’ I said. And if this Tandem Journey has proven anything, it is that a remarkable, difficult, satisfying and geographically wonderful challenge can be cooked up and completed with little more than a cheeky grin and an eagerness to experience stuff. ‘Get a map,’ I said, ‘look at it a bit, and then buy a bike, even a second hand one.’
‘One day I will,’ he said.
‘One day is never,’ I said, sucker punching him with my finest cliché, ‘mate, you’ll never regret doing something like this, you will look back and remember it for the rest of your life.’

And then I ate the sandwich, and it was good, and I popped up to the counter to tell him so. He should do his ride, but not give up the day job, because he’s splendid at it.

There have been several times on this journey when Seb and I have been psychologically on our knees. That second day where we were kicked off the Freeway in Seattle by a jolly cop and then proceeded to get outstandingly lost in the rain. My trainers began to simultaneously fall apart and fill with water. My toes, somewhere deep down in two pairs of socks and a holey shopping bag, they began to resemble prunes.

And then there was Day 8, the long push to Mt Shasta, first over the top of the Siskiyou Summit, a two-hour climb to the highest peak on the Interstate 5. And then we descended fast into California and became pummelled by headwinds on a long, flat prairie. Three hours, it took us, to pedal less than 10 miles. Heartbreaking. Mt Shasta was up there somewhere, in the hills we had been staring at all day, the ones that began almost as hazy clouds and then defined themselves as we edged closer. We climbed through the snow, still fighting the wind, pausing often to rub the cold from our fingers. We were both haunted by the next day’s challenge, the Cascades Range, a 135 mile stretch of mountains that lay between us and the flatter – we hoped – Nevada desert. Our spirits fell to our sodden shoes, our bike Tinkerbella continuously played up, offering resistance to which a solution could not be found. We were two men on an adventure at its lowest ebb, which is a good place to be if your intentions are decent, because there’s always an angel waiting to pick you up. In this case, the angel was named Kevin and he owned a pizza shop in Mt Shasta. We thought there was still a good ten miles to go when he pulled up in one of those unnecessarily enormous American cars that everyone here seems to own, and I struggled not to hug him firmly when he said that town was barely a mile away. Later, he brought us pizza, because he happened to own a restaurant called Say Cheese. We ate, we slept, we woke, we took on the mountains. And we won.

Seb and I haven’t cycled much before, certainly not seriously. Sure, we both keep ourselves relatively fit, but we’ve both got some muffin tops to offer round. Once upon a time we both decided to do something different and exciting and new. Something that scared us. That first thing is the catalyst, and since then we’ve both been saying yes to self-made opportunities far more than we say no, because once you realise that you can. Well, you just do.

Two weeks ago we were both en route to Vancouver, Tandem Bicycle Experience at a level of 0 out of 10. 12 hours before we were due to start our bike was in a box. The next morning we sat upon her and then fell into North America. Somehow, and here in our tent we can’t fathom how this is possible, we have now been pedalling for 13 days. We have covered 1296 miles, passed through cities, grasslands, mountains and desert. We’ve frozen our butts off at six in the morning and ended the same day in thirty degree heat. We’ve been inches from passing trucks, or they’ve been inches from us, and at times our pace has topped 45 mph and the slightest loss of focus could have ended everything.

Tomorrow we ride into Vegas, and all day long I can guarantee you that we will have wide grins on our faces, even on the longest, straightest roads that never seem to end. This has been the most ridiculous journey of my life so far and for at least 50% of the time it’s been a pleasure to ride with Seb. The other 50% has been less enjoyable, mainly because I’ve been sat behind him gazing open mouthed at the scenery when he made the decision to release the most toxic fumes known to man. And if you’re familiar with the nature of bike seat farts, you’ll know that they produce considerable squeezing noises that make the whole sensation quite unpleasant.

Still, let’s look on the bright side, we finish tomorrow, unless we get our first flat tyre. That might prove to be an issue, because this morning we accidentally left the bike pump behind and we still have 100 miles to cycle on America’s Loneliest Road.

Find out more on www.davecornthwaite.com, and meet Seb Terry @ www.100things.com.au

Last night, in the sleepy evening Lakeside suburb of Pokhara, Nepal, my friends and I were joined by a skinny English public schoolboy with about 56% of his boxer shorts peeping above his shorts. He was on a Gap Yah and, he was proud to tell us, his objective of the night was to seal a ‘business deal’ with the bar owner. I daresay the object of this deal was plant-related.

A little while later, having exhausted all hashish-related information out of one of my very knowledgeable compadres, he asked me what I did for a living. Until then I’d been in silence, picturing myself when I was a 20 year-old in a new country. My drug of choice, even then, was life, and I felt an arrow of sorrow for this young lad who would undoubtedly return home full of ‘Yah it was sah great in Nahpaul, I fully recahmend aht,’ when in truth I’m not sure if he’ll remember any of it at all. I wanted to help him, somehow.

By now his eyes were wide, floppy hair falling about his forehead, as I delivered a short and not exactly definitive description of my job. I said, ‘I’m a doer of projects and a writer of book.’ Yes, I said book, because although I’ve written a couple, only one has been published so far. He didn’t recognise the lack of an S, instead, if it was possible, his eyes widened even further and a hazy shock of recognition crept across his face. ‘You’re not Dave Gorman, are you?’

I looked at him sideways, with a face that said two things: 1) You’re a fool. And 2) There’s absolutely no way I’m going to tell you I’m not Dave Gorman.

Luckily, I’ve read Gorman’s books so I managed to deftly field any questions that came my way, such as: ‘Can I see your tattoo?’
‘No.’
And…’Do you know Danny Wallace?’
‘We used to live together.’

These answers impressed our young friend, and his questioning eventually gave way to a strange bout of man-love, which naturally wasn’t consummated. One thing is for sure, if I was Dave Gorman I’d probably be sick to death of people asking me about Danny Wallace. I’m a man in my own right, godammit!

In case you don’t know who the real Dave Gorman is, he’s written a few books, is a presenter of shows on TV such as Genius, and has basically made a living by being funny and undertaking random social projects, like Googlewhack and Are You Dave Gorman?, the latter of which involved our Dave shooting around the world meeting other people called Dave Gorman. I wasn’t one of them.

In 2005 I wrote to Dave Gorman and asked if he’d mind commenting on my upcoming skateboard trip across Australia, his reply was the following: I’d consider doing this. If the skateboard had an engine. And a roof. And maybe sleeping quarters. Basically, if it was a camper van. But it’s not. It’s a skateboard. So I wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole. So you can be glad that another Dave is.

It was very nice of him, to send me that message, and a couple of years later I zipped along to the launch of one of his books – America Unchained – and at the end approached him to say thanks. He seemed ever so incredulous that a member of the public could approach him with anything but menace and he leant away from me as I said my bit. He was practically doubled back into a matrix position when I handed him a copy of my book, which to me sealed the thank you. He didn’t say anything, took the book, gave it to his publisher, and brushed past me quite rudely. I didn’t quite understand, how had this man capable of being so funny about meeting new people become so poor at even accepting praise? I’ll be honest, I was a bit hurt and disappointed, because up until then I’d respected Dave Gorman for living life to the full and now he appeared to be just another unapproachable celebrity. I hope he was just having an off day.

Back in Nepal, last night, we were talking about how famous I, Dave Gorman was. ‘D-List?’ suggested one of my friends?
‘Nah, more like E,’ I said.
‘Have you ever been asked for an autograph?’
‘Sure I have,’ I replied, not lying.
‘What’s the best thing you’ve been asked to sign?’
‘Either the breast of a Kiwi or the forehead of an Australian schoolboy.’ I still wasn’t lying.
‘Don’t you wish you were more famous?’ asked our Gap Yah friend.
‘Not really,’ I said, ‘but I think there are good reasons to be famous.’
‘Really? Like what?’

This was the point where I began to fuse mine and Dave Gorman’s personalities and experiences together, and as our little friend obviously didn’t know that Dave Gorman, as well as Googlewhacking himself around the world, had also skateboarded across Australia, it made life much easier.
‘Well, I skateboarded across Australia and raised £25,000 for charity, and David Walliams can swim the channel and raise more than one million. That’s a good reason to be famous, isn’t it?’
‘Ah, yah,’ came the positive response.
‘But you know what,’ I said, ‘it doesn’t matter how famous you become, you should always be approachable, you should always be nice to people, because you’re still a human.’
‘Yah, a human. I like that you’re approachable, Dave Gorman,’ he said.
‘After all, my friend, I am just a human.’

Walking down the street, the young man gave me an opportunity to change his life, which I realised was yet another good reason to be famous. If only I was the real Dave Gorman! I could change people’s lives for the better all the time!
‘Can you give me a challenge, Dave Gorman?’ he asked, and I liked the way he addressed me with my surname, too, because it felt almost reverent, even if it wasn’t really my surname. ‘I want to do more with my life, you’ve inspired me to do more.’
‘Ok, Gap Yah,’ I said, ‘ I am going to give you a challenge that will develop you as a person and make you a better human being. Are you ready?’
He nodded, almost vomiting with excitement.
‘I would like you, starting tomorrow, to do one new thing every day for the next year.’
‘Define a new thing.’
‘Well, if you haven’t done it before, it’s new. But it has to be definitive; it can’t be “oooh look, I stepped on a paving stone I’ve never stepped on before.” Something good, something you’ll feel glad about doing. 365 new things, beginning tomorrow.’
Our new friend looked pleased as punch, then informed me that in one year’s time he would write to me and tell me all about his year of newness.
‘Excellent buddy,’ I said, glad he was playing along, ‘my address is dave@davegorman.com.’

One day, in about a year, I hope the real Dave Gorman receives an email from a young man whose life he once changed. It’ll confuse him, but I hope it makes him happy.

‘I’ve decided to make a video blog about these 365 new things,’ says Gap Yah. ‘Will you meet me at six O’Clock tomorrow to be in my first video?’

I haven’t decided whether I’ll go, yet. Should I?!

Nb. I don’t condone pretending to be someone you’re not. But sometimes, in a time of need, perhaps it’s okay to use someone else’s powers for the force of good. Good luck, Gap Yah.
Nbb. Even though he didn’t seem to like me in person, I fully recommend visiting www.davegorman.com, because he’s quite a funny man
Nbbb. My real name is Dave Cornthwaite, and you can read about the real me right here

More than ever before, these past few months have thrust a few new lessons into my path. How does one gauge the balance of feeling between two poles of emotion: a rush of excitement, then loss, and then both returning again and again? This isn’t an article for dwelling on anything, but my God I’ve had to reconsider a few things recently.

Amidst the uncomfortable moments, days, weeks and months of the hardest break-up I could ever have imagined, death has begun to deal his hand. What are you supposed to feel, when grief layers up on grief?

I found myself alone again. Re-assessing a fresh path, for the first time in my life laying down plans further away than tomorrow. Success can sometimes be a reward for luck, but if you’re prepared to admit that hard work is a catalyst for luck and then that hard work mixed with structure is a recipe for success, then a light begins to shine.

I’ve done a fair bit of hiding this last half a year. From myself. From others. It’s necessary, sometimes. But now, new groundwork laid, I understand that looking ahead to where you want to be and then working backwards is a beautiful way to fill in the missing pieces of your current puzzle.

It’s the same with death – death of any kind; human, relationships, spirit. I was faced with it long ago, but in a very different way; an overturned truck, tens of strangers curled up, banged up, lost, all around me. And what did I have? Scratches. It never seemed fair, but I tried not to feel sorry for myself – in fact I realised that the only thing that can truly put death in shadow is love. I left the self-sympathy behind on a bridge at boarding school, to where I crept time after time, considering flinging myself off. Selfish, it would have been. Life stretched ahead back then, offering hope and possibility, but at the time I would have given almost anything to avoid reality. Now, more than a decade on, life is more real. Thankfully, I now understand the worth of it, too.

In December news filtered through from Central Africa about the death of Hendri Coetzee. He was kayaking on the Lukuga River in the Democratic Republic of Congo and was taken from his boat by a crocodile, estimated at 15 feet long by the guys he was with. He went quickly, they think. I hope so. Outside have just published a wonderful article about the guy, it’s a choking read, but I couldn’t recommend it more for anyone trying to understand the internal nature of breaking boundaries. I had always been intimated by Hendri. Not because that was his style, but because in 2001 when we met, Nile-side in Uganda, I was just finding my feet. He always appeared so confident with a long-stare and apparently complete comfort with his surroundings, on land and in the water. I didn’t know him well enough to comment on his death, but his diaries suggest he was ready to face anything, including his own failures. Perhaps if he’d truly known what was about to happen he wouldn’t have put his kayak in the Lukuga that day. But it’s just as likely that he would have. We know the risks of doing these things, but we don’t truly believe that anything will happen to us – risk isn’t certain, and therefore why stop living for the sake of it?

At the turn of this year I had two Grandparents remaining. Then, six weeks apart, they’re both gone. First was Grandad, my Dad’s Dad, then just ten days ago Mum’s Mum went her way. Whatever space has been hollowed out within me, I can’t compare my loss to my parent’s. I can’t stand their pain, I’d do anything to have them healed; so many uncontrollable tears in our house this year, but there can never be too many. Someone special once told me crying is ‘cleaning the windows of your soul.’ Must be a shiny soul, by now.
‘I wish you’d known her back then,’ sobbed my Mum two days ago, after I read an early draft of Grandma’s (we called her Muv) eulogy full of hilarious memories, the happy kind that should sum up a person’s life.

And then the focus turns to me as I plan adventures into the unknown. My Mum looks at me, stern with eyes twinkling, ‘If you die now it’ll really piss me off,’ she says.
‘If I do, I do,’ I shrug, ‘but I’ll be careful.’ I know if I stayed at home pretending the world didn’t exist it’d piss her off even more, and she knows I do what I do to face down the unknown, the fear, because that’s what holds us back more than anything.

What does death really mean? My death? It doesn’t bother me; the adult me is not the type to have a death wish but I refuse to live in fear of it. If it happens early, it happens, and once it does I won’t know a thing. If I’ve learned anything from these last two months it’s that my death isn’t about me, it’s about everyone left behind, they’re the ones who have to deal with it. With a few trips, journeys and new challenges approaching this year I’ve just made a will, left some instructions, even spent a while preparing a page for my website in the event of my death. It may sound morbid – I won’t lie, it wasn’t fun! – but in true Roz Savage style the simple act of considering your own obituary confirms whether you’re on the right path in life. I’ve still got plenty to do and can still see myself bobbing a grandchild or three on my knee somewhere down the line, but that’ll probably take place between paragliding sessions!

Al Humphreys recently wrote a blog called ‘What would you say if you only had five minutes left?’  There are some fine lessons there, but it reminded me of my early twenties, when I was determined to leave some kind of legacy. What’s the point in living if you leave nothing behind? Maybe that thought drove me to writing; but perhaps creativity has driven me to living? A different set of principles drives me now: I want to live hard (but not too hard). I’ll take every positive opportunity judged on the regret I’ll suffer if it isn’t taken. I never want to be the person that says, ‘I wish…’ And I’m going to try my utmost not to leave any rubbish behind, emotional or non-biodegradable. I’ll make mistakes but face up to them if I’m man enough. The thing is, as you get older you have more hindsight than foresight, so the excuses of youth shrivel up eventually. Remember, staying young and refusing to grow up are very different things, indeed.

So, what do you do when grief layers up on grief? How are you supposed to feel? Simply, I’ve considered my own mortality and here I am, alive. It’s great! There’s nothing that makes the hurt shift faster, all you can do is stay busy and keep it slightly out of mind. It’s lovely to have a focus when there’s plenty of stuff you’d quite like to dismiss, and yes, it’s been a hard few months, but it’s been productive, too. However busy, however ‘in the zone’, I’ve always taken some thinking time – I did say to keep the crap slightly out of mind, not fully, because it needs to be dealt with, and with that only time will bring true peace.

So, how do you sum up a blog about death? Go and live a bit, I think! I’ve just landed in Nepal for three weeks of learning how to paraglide, in preparation for a 1000 miles of flying across the Himalayas. The concept of flying is beyond any excitement I think I’ve felt before. The concept of being up high, with so much space to fall into…well, it terrifies me, pesky vertigo! I daresay some photos and video will find their way online shortly!

Thanks for reading, just over one month to go before Seb Terry and I ride a tandem from Vancouver to Vegas, and four months until I start a 2400-mile descent of the Mississippi River, by Stand Up Paddleboard. 2011 will definitely get better

As always, to follow my antics, check out www.davecornthwaite.com
And if you’re a Tweetie Pie, you’ll find me on there as @DaveCorn

Here’s a February 2011 article on me by Adventure Magazine Beyond Limits

Many of us putter along through our lives searching for meaning, wondering if there is more to do out there.  We put off our dreams and travel plans, referencing careers and responsibility as reasons to not achieve our potential and our ambitions.  Several weeks ago I watched a talk by Dave Cornthwaite.  Dave had decided to stop waiting to do what he wanted to do and set about fulfilling his dreams and creating new ones, whilst making a life that is both sustainable and fulfilling.

To read the rest of the article, click here

‘He’s dying.’

The call from the hospital wasn’t surprising. Grandad was on his way. I’d seen him two days earlier, my brother and I shocked to tears by the shrunken sight of a once strapping man, such a frail body cocooned in blue sheets. I wasn’t even sure if it was him, at first. His teeth sat in their pot by the sink and his gums, now unsupported, sucked in the frustration we all knew he felt. A strong man, betrayed by his body. Behind the milky eye that wasn’t welded shut he was no different from the Grandad I’d known and loved, and although he couldn’t shape his mouth around the words he so dearly wanted to share with us his dry humour and familiar sideways glances were there. Barely, but they were there. We knew, because he reacted to every mention of gin.

When I was seventeen and running hurdles for the County we had a track meet in Oundle. It was rare we were this close to his home and he’d not made it to an event before, but as I lined up at the start my focus was taken off the first hurdle by a familiar shape up on the bank, hunkered into a deckchair with a small flask and a blanket at his feet. He caught my eye and nodded, one of those nods that says ‘right lad, you’ve seen me, now get on with it and run like the clappers.’ I’ve got twitch fibres like a tortoise but loped out of the start and clattered straight into the first hurdle. Luckily I struck it square with my leading heel so the impact didn’t fling me out of the lane. I imagined him up there with an unchanging face, willing me on silently, Cornthwaite-like. I won. It was the only competitive hurdles race I ever won, and I tried about seventy times. Later, I won the High Jump too, first time for that one too. ‘You should come every week Grandad,’ I said later, nudging him with a friendly elbow.

‘Banana?’ he asked, dipping an arm into his bag before an answer came.

I suppose nobody is surprised when a grandparent passes, but that doesn’t make it easier. In direct contrast to our body age gains pace as time goes on and all too quickly, it’s over. In 91 years there are an abundance of stories to tell and occasionally I’d attempt to pick Grandad’s brains in order to piece together the story of his life. He was largely reticent, possibly because that was his style, possibly because it didn’t interest him any more, but now and then he opened up with some gentle pressing. Only Grandad could have motored away from his wedding to his new wife, my Grandmother, only to drive into the largest pothole in Ranchi. They spent ten days in hospital instead of having a Honeymoon. At Entebbe’s golf club Grandad fondly remembered that his ball would occasionally end up in a hippo footprint, ‘right pain in the arse,’ he told me, ‘but better than it being in a crocodile.’ In Kampala he was a member of the same boxing club as Idi Amin and delights in suggesting that he bopped the old boy on the nose a couple of times. When I asked if Amin had any presence about him back then (years before he became dictator) Grandad just shrugged and said, ‘No, I thought he was just a big fat bastard.’

The last thing I did for him was to remove his fleece. His arms were toothpicks in a cave. The effort of lifting his shoulders away from the sheet left him gasping. He lay there, the fleece an extra layer to his back, its empty sleeves stretching out sideways, escaping from the duvet that my Dad and I tucked around his shoulders. I hugged him gently, ‘See ya soon mate,’ I said. He looked up as we left the room and raised a bony hand, a still wave. He nodded, one of those nods that says ‘I’d die to get out of here.’

A few days ago, he did. See you in a while Grandad, rest in peace.

Norman Cornthwaite – 20th September 1919 – Friday 7th January 2011

As part of the Adventurer’s Blogging Chain, I’ve just had a guest post on Tim Moss’ The Next Challenge website entitled ‘New Year’s Message. If you fancy a glimse at my brain at the age of 8, read on:

I’ve always had an unflappable curiosity for life and quite often it would get me into trouble. Shortly before the storms of 1987 which would prompt trees to fall on the neighbour’s house, my Dad held up some putty in his garage and told me he was going to make a seal. At eight years old I was still becoming accustomed to mysteries of life revealing themselves unannounced, and I was nothing less than excited by the potential of Dad’s upcoming creation – indeed, I hoped that I would learn from him and develop a skill that might get me a girlfriend. For some reason the job didn’t get done that day, but for a fortnight I pestered my Father until he relented and took me out the front. He seemed ever so blasé with what was about to happen and I remember feeling a hint of irritation because he obviously didn’t care much for his art and frankly to me that was unforgivable, because it’s not many men who can shape a water-going mammal out of putty.

Click here to read the rest of the article

A New Years Eve Interview with brand new Adventure blog Exceed Possibility seemed like a fine way to wrap up the year. Here’s the first Q&A, then click the link to see the rest:

1. How and why did you become an adventurer?

It happened completely by chance. I didn’t even know you could ‘be an Adventurer’ five years ago, the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. That said, I wasn’t overly comfortable with the concept of working for someone else and by the Spring of 2005 I’d begun to consider that perhaps I should be contemplating an alternative career. That’s a key moment, when you open up to the possibilities of change, because you eye up everything as a catalyst. So there I was, a former newspaper editor cum graphic designer, grossly aware that I wasn’t a very good graphic designer, quite miserable actually, desperately searching for some mysterious opportunity that would change my life. And having been a quite ungainly child without any hint of cool, I was as surprised as anyone when I started longboarding. Brilliantly, the simple act of rolling around a town I’d only walked around for six years showed it all in different colours. Imagine undoing some Velcro and instead of hearing that familiar scrape and crackle, a lamb bleats. You try again, and it still bleats. Instantly, preconceptions alter, and you realise that you’re actually quite adaptable and you’d like to test just how much. In my case, two weeks after I started skating I decided to try and skate further than anyone else ever had. I quit my job quite promptly, spent a few months planning, skated from John O’Groats to Lands End as a warm-up and then pushed my board across Australia. I couldn’t really imagine going back to the day-job after that, and I suppose that’s how it all started.

Read the rest of the Interview on the Exceed Possibility Website

Adventure Magazine WideWorld recently asked me to share some thoughts on my Expedition1000 project. The details of each separate expedition will unravel in time, so I took the opportunity to explain how I started out and outline some of the stumbling blocks I’ve faced along the way. I’ve had some great feedback on this article, any thoughts would be welcome.

Dave Cornthwaite’s Expedition1000
The British adventurer on why he loves collecting stories

Each Thursday I take a scroll and a few clicks down memory lane and pull out a blog post from at least a year ago, either because it made me smile or might make good reading once again. This is the first time I’ve done this, and as I sit at my desk overlooking the early madness of Camden High Street on a Thursday it seems apt that the first post should be set in Wiltshire, 2009, when I was living on a boat on the Kennet & Avon Canal. The people out there, as you’ll see, have an altogether kinder mentality than your average pair of teenage girls on a city street.

—
‘Would you like a cup of tea?!’ they shouted, ‘A FREE cup of tea?’

This doesn’t seem like something that should happen in the United Kingdom, and my suspicion flares up in the form of a frown. Luckily, for me and them, I was probably too far away for my wrinkled brow to have any damaging effect. Plus, ten miles of paddling had dashed enough canal water/reeds/surface gunge over my head to form a kind of mask, I was quite fortunate that they’d offered me anything at all.

Click here to read the full post

It seems fitting to announce my next Adventure Project - one that will no doubt take up to ten years to complete - in the company of some remarkable men and women. I was recently asked to be a guestwriter for Tycoons Venture, a community packed with high achievers, and chose the first post to announce Expedition1000.

Here’s the beginning of the post, to finish it off please click through to my page on the Tycoons website. Enjoy!

Expedition1000

Ah, what a relief to find some focus. I know – especially being in the company of this site’s adventurous tycoons - that I’m not alone in allowing myself occasional periods of drift, the windless discipline vacuum that draws on anyone with a rollercoaster existence. Rather than wallow, I’ve always returned from expedition with added zest, my discipline sometimes negated by a furious work rate in dire need of a GPS.

There’s an inherent psychological risk when careering through life experiencing the lowest lows in order to appreciate the highest highs. The Adventure iceberg melts away once a solo journey is finished, the preparation phase takes at least as long as the project itself, reward comes in the form of endurance, fatigue and the satisfaction of accumulated miles, and then it’s over. For once the question isn’t ‘why?’ It becomes ‘what next?’

Click here to read the rest of the article >>>