By no means could you describe my first trip as a well-prepared touristic event. There were no friends and family waving me goodbye. Nor did I know where to sleep the next nights. I only knew I would cycle sounthwards to Rome. It all started like a wonderful escape from the cosy place where I grew up. And in a way, I wanted to keep it secret.
This is the context: we’re talking July 2001. My year at university had been a complete mess. I had just broken up with Anne, my first full-time girlfriend. And I knew I would spend my whole Summer studying to pass the exams in September. There was nothing else I could do to escape the current situation. No way out.
Only a true prison break could give a meaning to my life. That’s it: I needed to achieve something huge by myself. But my parents would never agree.
So I sold my old bike to a friend, bought a new one and stored it at my grandmother’s place. She wouldn’t notice any difference. I also found a hiding place for my bivvy bag – behind a tree, a few kilometers from home. So I could leave for a few days with a regular backpack and stay under the radar.
PROBLEM: When I arrived at the tree where I hid my bivvy bag, it had been stolen!! There I stood, homeless 2km from my village, with all my stuff packed. Was this the end of my plans? Would I need to go back home to get other gear? I decided to « call a friend » instead. My discrete brother Benoît brought me another (much heavier) bivvy bag and told me to take care.