The Slow Road Back

For most of my life, the bicycle was my freedom. Long climbs, quiet country lanes, and mountain roads across the UK and Europe were where I felt most alive. Cycling wasn’t just something I did; it was part of who I was. Along the way, I shared unforgettable journeys with friends, including a remarkable ride tracing the entire Rhine from Rotterdam to its source high in the Swiss Alps. It was also during this time that life took a beautiful turn when I reconnected with Edurne in Spain. What began as friendship soon grew into love, and together we dreamed about our own cycling adventures, perhaps even riding the Camino de Santiago side by side. The road ahead felt full of possibility. But just as those dreams were beginning to take shape, subtle warning signs appeared (pain, weakness, and strange sensations), quiet signals that something in my life was about to change forever.

On August 5th, 2021, my world changed in an instant. One moment I was walking through my home; the next I had collapsed on the floor, unable to move my legs. Within seconds, I went from an active endurance cyclist to being almost completely paralyzed. Doctors eventually gave the diagnosis: Guillain-Barré Syndrome, a rare neurological condition where the body attacks its own nerves. I was rushed into intensive care and began emergency treatment, facing the terrifying uncertainty of whether I would ever walk, let alone ride, again. In that darkest moment, when everything familiar had been stripped away, one constant remained: the voice of Edurne, hundreds of miles away, reminding me every day that hope was still alive.

Recovery didn’t arrive all at once. It came slowly, painfully, one determined step at a time. Months in a rehabilitation ward forced me to relearn the basic movements most of us take for granted. With limited physiotherapy available, I pushed myself wherever I could, racing wheelchairs down hospital corridors with fellow patients, celebrating the moment I could finally stand with crutches, and sneaking out beyond the hospital grounds to walk just a little farther each day. Every metre felt like a victory. Every step was hard-earned. Rebuilding strength after Guillain-Barré meant confronting pain, frustration, and uncertainty daily, but it also revealed something powerful: resilience I never knew I had.

Leaving the hospital wasn’t the end of the journey; it was the start of a new one. Guillain-Barré had left lasting challenges, including weakened legs, nerve pain, and a body that no longer moved the way it once had. But the mountains were still calling, and my spirit hadn’t broken. Slowly and patiently, I returned to the bike and to the cycling community that had always felt like home. I discovered that although the speed and strength of the past were gone, something more meaningful had taken their place: gratitude for every moment I could still ride. In 2023, that journey brought me to Spain, where Edurne and I built a life together and were married. With her unwavering support, I finally came off the last of the medication and embraced a new perspective on life. Guillain-Barré had taken much, but it had also taught me to value every single pedal stroke. This became my Slow Road Back.