Why I bike

I’ve been dealing with some lingering post travel blues, running around renewing my passport (I’m close to running out of pages which I never expected to happen), buying/selling used gear on eBay, and developing a plan for the next 3-4 months. A bit of a disorienting start to October, and so I’ll talk about something that has always made sense to me—why I bike.

On my first days in Perth, I hopped on my bike with my old mate Zoltan and pedaled from Subiaco along the Swan River, all the way to the edge of the Indian Ocean—a good 40 miles out. I had never been to Perth before but I figured the best way to understand it was through grinding out miles in the saddle.

It worked. That first ride taught me that Perth is a city that hugs the ocean - a relaxed beach vibe that collides with modern skyscrapers. Me and Zoltan rode through a patchwork of neighborhoods that changed minute by minute. Hip cafes of Matilda bay to the grungy charm of Freemantle, stitched together by iconic waterways and protected bike paths. By the time we rolled back into Subiaco, I felt like I’d seen slices of Perth that tourists in busses or Ubers would have missed entirely.

Then I kept going. And going. From Perth to Port Augusta. Then from Port Augusta deep into the outback. Through places that most folks wouldn’t include in a tourist itinerary.

What did I find in all that pedaling? People, mostly. Characters and generosity. Farmers waving from their tractors, strangers inviting me into their homes. Tradesmen mowing lawns willing to share some local knowledge. Mostly I discovered that the beginning and end of my rides didn’t really matter—it was what happened in between that made the journey worthwhile.

Biking under a bridge in Perth.

Sarah with a child in Malawi

Lewi with a family in Kenya

I apply the same philosophy when I’m in a new city. I don’t map out the tourist hotspots and race from one to another. Instead, I hop on my bike, choose a direction, and see what happens. On my first day, I ride across the city—not caring if I end up lost or disoriented. I bob and weave, following what feels right. The next day? Same deal, different direction.

It’s not the most efficient way to see a city, but it’s the most human. Cars and buses can get you around faster, but they insulate you from everything interesting. Biking is different—it puts you in the scene, lets you pause, observe, and soak up the world. Every bump in the road. Every change in the weather, every smile or scowl from a local. It all becomes part of your experience.

While walking offers closeness to a place, biking gives you a better ability to explore. With just enough distance to maintain the connection. But biking isn’t without its flaws. Unlike walking, biking means lugging around gear—spare tubes, a multi-tool, snacks, water, and sometimes a whole pannier full of crap. It means locking your bike and then leaving it outside when you want to sip a coffee or visit a museum.

You’ll miss some things along the way too, flying past details that your feet would have naturally paused for. But what you lose in detail, you gain in adventure. Biking you can cover twice the ground, meaning more neighborhoods, more people to meet, and more things to learn.

Every big city has those glossy, postcard-perfect districts. Shiny downtowns, luxury shopping streets, polished neighborhoods where the richie riches live in comfort. They’re all the same. Rodeo Drive with an Australian twist. The Beverly Hills of Peru. It’s nice to look at, but if you want to understand a place, you’ve got to ride deeper. The interesting bits are the neighborhoods outside the tourist bubble—the places where people live their lives in ways that might be completely unfamiliar.

And to me that’s the beauty of bike touring. It forces you into the less manicured parts of a city. You’ll find yourself in places that a tour bus would never take you. A gritty industrial area or a crumbly but charming suburb. There’s something about rolling through a neighborhood on two wheels that lets you see a city differently—honestly.

When I was in Cape Town, everyone and everything told me to go up Table Mountain. So I did. It was nice, but also packed with tourists, and a little too curated for my taste. What stayed with me far more was the ride through Woodstock, a neighborhood just a few miles from the city center. Graffiti covering the walls, street vendors selling fresh fish, bike shops unlike any you’ll find anywhere else in the world. No one was selling me anything. It was just slice of life in Cape Town.

Woman in Sudan

Riding through a city doesn’t just change how you see the world—it changes how the world sees you. When me and Lewi rode through a small town in rural Kenya, we didn’t speak the language, but that didn’t matter. Kids chased us on foot for miles, laughing and waving. We shared tea with locals more times than we can count. We met families, farmers, workers, local government officials—all just going about their days. Curious about the two strangers on bikes. It’s moments like this that make touring more about physical exercise. About exercise in human connection.

I’m not saying that we became part of the community during our ride across Kenya, or anywhere else for that matter. But what I learned on that ride—about people and life at a slower pace, has stuck with me, long after I left.

For me that’s the thing about bike touring. It’s not about hitting every tourist spot and checking every box. It’s about allowing the road to guide you to people and places that don’t fit into neat categories—letting it lead you into stories that you couldn’t have planned for.

Have a lovely week,

Ian