Gladiatori.

   I will never forget the day I reached Rome. It began as most Italian mornings have- cold, with a heavy fog. I was crawling along the Via Flaminia, which, as it reaches 50km from Rome, becomes a seriously dull ride. Following the train tracks I hauled my bicycle up and down rolling hills, just as the prostitutes of Lazio were being dropped off at the road side to start work. Definitely not an inspiring or comforting road to travel.

   I heard the whirr of the moped first. Then the beeping of its horn, followed by "Hello, hello! Bravo!". A great little Vespa scooter pulled alongside me, flying a standard size Italian flag from its handlebars. "Giro, Giro, Giro!!" said the driver as we climbed another curving gradient. He gestured behind us down the hill, and sure enough, bent double over their handlebars in perfect single file, was a cycling team!

   Not wanting to let the boys down I refocused myself to stop swaying all over the saddle and force all the power from my body down through my legs. As the team churned by and each man gave the customary cyclist nod of recognition, I dropped gears and clung to the back wheel of the end man. It was done in jest really- I thought to myself that I'd provide some comic value for these fine tuned, lycra and carbon fibre styled pro's, and possibly do enough to pull me to the next flat. The road levelled out and the draft order shifted. Gears clicked up through cogs and water bottles wheezed as they quenched a well earnt thirst.

   At this point I underwent a thought process that is exactly the same mentally, but the polar opposite physically as lying in bed and saying " Just another five minutes..."

"Just another kilometre." I told myself. "Just until the next climb, then I'll drop off and resume my Shirehorse-esque plod, and let these geldings take off."

"Just another hill..." I held on.

   On a particularly lengthy flat section, all six riders reached to their back pockets in perfect synchronisation for an energy gel. I reached to mine, but the best I could conjure up was a washed out, sweaty, Yoghurt ChewChew that had survived from a party mix I'd picked up for the boat ride from Croatia.

"Just another town..." I continued.

   On we sped, cruising through red lights and junctions as our moped controlled the traffic for us. It was all very exciting. A number of times I found myself shuddering over pot-holes as my mind drifted to fabricating its own little Tour de France, complete with imaginary fans and cow bells as we topped hills.

   I looked at my cycle computer- 10 kilometres! I'd stuck on a racing team's wheel for 10 kilometres! In a moment of insanty and enthusiasm I rose out of the saddle and pushed my way to the front! It was my turn to lead and battle the wind. All my limited knowledge of racing technique buzzed around my head. After a few minutes of worrying, I reconciled myself to just hold the pace at 25km per hour, and if that wasn't good enough then someone else could take charge.

   One rider drew alongside me and we used charades to establish that I'd come from Istanbul and was going to Ireland. These boys were doing a tour from Treviso to Rome. This was Squadra Fortissimi, and they were doing that distance in three days. I'm hoping to do it in ten...

   A few kilometres of hard graft later and an increase to 30km per hour, an amazing thing happened. The draft order changed once more and I resigned myself to drop out the back and continue alone to my campsite, but instead the squad split 3/3 and were sheltering me in the middle! A silent acceptance had taken place and I was officially riding as part of a team.

   Finally the junction appeared where I'd leave the Flaminia and go my own way to the Tiber river for camping. I pulled out of formation and gave my sincerest "Grazie, arrivederchi, grazie" to the rider that had done the charading.

"NO!" He screamed, "TO ROMAAAAAAA!!!!!!"

The other five riders responded with an eruption of "COLLESEO!" (Or Coliseum in English.)

  My heart spluttered into a new rhythm and adrenaline coursed to my cheeks and hands. I smiled and enormous smile, gripped the handlebars, dug deep and shouted, "COLLESEO!" in euphoric response. I felt totally alive.

   Another 10km zipped by, faster now, especially now that I knew what I was part of; a slick machine working together. One rider took off suddenly around a bend. I was talking to myself about saying "yes" to situations in life, and even though this adventure would add 40km to my day by going all the way to the city centre, this was definitely a time to say yes. We rounded the corner and the guy who'd taken off before was waving us down.

"Ah dear." I thought. "Puncture."

   Little did I know that it wasn't at all, instead it was lunchtime! A woman emerged from a camper van parked nearby, came to me, gave me a huge hug and a kiss, all the time talking in Italian and saying things like "Bambino! Grande Grande!". The rest of the team rolled in and a translator organised a spot for me at the table, but before that could happen, and whilst the lads all had a go lifting my bike and saying "Incredible..." I was ushered behind the camper where a man hung out the window and showered me down! It was a proper little support team.

Refreshed and wrapped up I joined the rest at the table. Mountains of Foccacia appeared, a brick sized slice of soft cheese, perfectly sliced proscuttio, Coca Cola, water, then; before the mammoth portions of macaroni were given out, FOUR BOTTLES OF PROSSECCO HIT THE TABLE! Apparently it's a tradition in Treviso, so we sat supping on bubbly while feasting at the roadside. (I did commit the cardinal Italian dining faux pas and spill the Parmaggiano cheese all over the table... Though it was all mopped up in good spirits and shared out. No harm done.) A second course of bread and cheese appeared, then a rest and some photograph taking, before the perfect climax to the meal in the form of Apricot tart and espresso to kick start our engines! These guys really know how to do it. I was so happy and ready for the 28km zip into Rome proper.

   Just as we were donning our helmets, the heavens opened. Nothing I hadn't faced before, but this time I was racing and so instead of slowing to a careful crawl through curtains of rain- I was bent double over the bars, gritting my teeth and squinting my eyes so much, that two day later it still hurts a little to raise my eyebrows.

   The ride was superb. Again we were drafting all the way which was spectacular especially in the tunnels around Rome's ring road, as you could actually feel the effects of sitting in the slipstream and hear the wind screaming past your ears.

   Suddenly we were passing beautiful marble bridges and signs for the Auditorium. THE Auditorium. That is a special thing- the original Auditorium, in the sense that the word was created for that building.

  Cycling in a pack in city centres is a magical thing. People began cheering us, clapping, mopeds hooting, and with the pace slowed, we were riding handsfree and soaking up the glory of looking like the real deal! Raucous shouting broke out from a few riders to which the public responded with great cheers of appreciation. Though I had no idea what was being said, it felt great.

   Rome. I had made it. I joined the vocal celebrations. Istanbul to Rome! Traversing ancient roads such as the Via Egnatia, the Via de San Francesco, and the Via Flaminia. Roads that are included in myth and legend. Roads that changed the world, and now, my life.

   We swung around the Piazza Venezia, and up ahead of us, there it was. The Coliseum. In many ways the Mecca of sporting history. Olympic stadiums, Camp Nou, Wembley, the Bird's nest- there are many great stadiums of human physical endeavour, but this, the Coliseum- has more blood, sweat and tears baked into its foundations than any other.

    I haven't battled with anyone but myself on this adventure. I felt like some sort of new-age, peace loving, self mutilating Gladiator. Sat high on my trusted white steed, having taken on the wind, rain, sun, dogs, terrain, food, cold, insects, distance, loneliness, despair, tears, fears, and nerves that the past month had thrown my way- I felt like a champion. This was compounded when the other boys reached across and patted my back as we freewheeled over the ancient cobbles. Sharing success and joy. This was being alive.

   In the days since I've had a great time dining with two zoo keeper friends at my campsite, enjoyed litres of fine (and not so fine) wines, reorganised my kit, and spent hours washing and drying clothes while dodging the downpours of what is being called Cyclone Cleopatra.

   My mother arrives today for a few days of indulgence- stocking up the old fat reserves before I swing North towards France. Lines have been drawn through the Alps, across the routes of the Giro d'Italia, Tuscan vineyards, and the Tour de France. Its time to get high, and cold.

The hills of Umbria, close to Assisi. Home of St. Francis. A peaceful place to say the least.

The sunrise of the day I cycled to Rome.

Myself and Squadro Fortissimi at the Coliseum. Moderna Gladiatori della Nord.

A Montenegrin Beast.

   It is 10am, and I am sat in the cloisters of Dubrovnik's Old City. There is a Croatian guitarist playing soothing melancholy tunes and ice-cream parlours selling mountains of perfect Gelato. Last night it rained, and so the smooth marble streets are slippery and shining with a thin layer of moisture constantly being spread by the army of white-haired tourists that shuffle from sight to sight.

   I too am shuffling, partly because of the wet streets, but mainly because of what happened on Sunday. I woke at 6 am that morning in an olive grove, planning to cruise gently to Porto Montenegro and contemplate running a 10 km "hash" race as part of Adventure Montenegro... I know... "You are cycling across a continent Aaron. Why would you run? It will only make things harder?"

    Well mainly it is my mother's fault. She suggested finding some outdoor sports to break up the cycling- but   it being the end of the season meant that all of the rafting, paragliding, and water skiing were working on an awkward timescale. This race however, that she so kindly happened upon, was the following morning and on my route North... To skip it would be considered wimping out to my masochistic brain.

   I arrived at the yacht club with minutes to spare and to my surprise, nearly everyone was an ex-pat! English and American accents were like music to my ears. Word began to spread of a mental guy who was cycling from Istanbul to Belfast and was signing up for the 10 km hash... And that quickly and uncontrollably escalated to;

"Why don't you run the whole race?!"

A 10 km off road mountain run?
A 25 km mountain bike stage?
A 10 km sea kayak?

Individually they all sounded lovely and in the hurried ecstasy of pre-race logistics, I said yes!

   Stef, my team mate for the race arrived, and it wasn't until after the "chalk talk" and blast of the airhorn to signal the start of the event that I realised, when added together, the three events accumulate to more than a marathon! I was in a mountain triathlon!

   Stef would tell you that he held me back but in truth he gave me time to breathe. I'm sure if I'd run the way I felt I should I'd be in a much worse state than just shuffling around marble streets today. The run began on solid tarmac, then swerved into forests, all the time climbing away from civilisation into the mountains that give Montenegro its name. As Stef and I separated to check the chalk marked trail, he said casually, "watch out for snakes man." I was adventuring.

   The trail opened onto a goat path crossing a landslide giving an unbeatable view of the Hercig Novi- Tivat bay, (The view I intended to miss by taking the ferry and saving myself a 40 km mountain road...) and finally, with 3 km to go, rejoined the road and descended to the airstrip.

   A speedy refill of water and the gift of a map with marked checkpoints had us on to the mountain bikes. The first tun took us off road and across a rocky path through a nature reserve. It was so exhilarating to be bouncing and jumping, skidding and swerving through scree and potholes instead of avoiding them like the plague for fear of cracking a rim. A wrong turn later and there was trouble. We had to climb; with our bikes over our shoulders, up a steep path through thorn bushes. The mosquitoes filled the air and both of us were to be seen coughing them up as they whizzed down our throats. I was so sweaty, that instead of mosquitoes dropping to the ground after I'd swatted them, they stayed stuck to me in their own little outline of my blood. I felt like some sort of warrior explorer.

   The off road turned out to be harsh on my team mate. He emerged from the undergrowth in a bit of bother and I found myself giving the "its better to quit while you're ahead" speech. I didn't know whether I was being a douche bag or helping a brother out, though he said himself that he thought he was on the edge, so he made the phone call to have the Land Rover come pick him up.

   With that I was off. As it happens, pulling a fully loaded touring bike up graded hills for two weeks really makes light work of a sprint on a mountain bike! Using the extra cog of low gears I chugged up a 9 km ascent to a view that out did that of the run! At 500m up the bay looked amazing. I let out a huge "woo hoo!" as I reached the top and the next checkpoint. I too was dizzy with dehydration at this point, so I refilled my water sac twice, pretty much inhaled three bananas, then tipped the rest of the water at the checkpoint over my head.

"You have fun from here." Said a Course Marshal. "All downhill."

   It most definitely was. Gravel strewn switchbacks had me gasping for air on a white knuckle descent, all the while singing and randomly screaming with joy. It was just brilliant.

   I screeched on to the beach alongside the Land Rover with Stef inside, and together once more we donned our life vests and pushed out into spectacularly blue Adriatic. I love this sea. Every time I've entered the water I have encountered some sort of marine life. From Crab biting my shorts, to a free foot spa everyone pays a fortune for from those little fish in shopping centres, to Pelicans beating their wings on their ocean runway as they take off for a glide over the surface. I digress. We powered out to the island that had the final checkpoint, then pushed out for the mammoth stretch to Hercig Novi fortress, and the beer.

   Of the three disciplines I was competing in, kayaking was definitely my biggest challenge. Through a lethal combination of inexperience, exhaustion, and the on-set of multiple cramps I began to go into that dark zone that members of the Armed Forces call "Beasting". During my marathon training this year, people commonly referred to this sensation as "hitting the wall"- and boy is it feared. But, through experience, reading some life changing books, and pep-talks from some inspirational human beings, I've learnt to embrace the coming of "the Beast", and now I'd say there's nothing like feeling of wrestling with it. To just keep pushing and breathing; every second you do it your natural body defies your logical brain. You beat yourself and reveal exactly what you can do on the human spirit alone. (It is even better when you see someone else who is Beasting and you share a nod of approval and a knowing smile through gritted teeth.)

   We pushed our way to the fortress on the shore in a silence only broken when the songs I sang in my head became vocal in a moment of intense struggle against a current that had made a pact with someone up above to not let us finish. After one particular outburst of mine with about 4 km to go, Stef said,

"You OK man? Do you want to stop?"

"NO!" I roared on impulse as my paddle reentered the water, and I struggled on. (He later revealed that this was a proposal to honourably discharge both of us as a team "But the bastard said no!" he said.)

   Then we heard it. The claps and the cheers of the organisers on the beach. It was done. We had done it. I had done it. An Adventure race. Done.

   I clambered out of the kayak onto the stony beach and received countless hugs and handshakes, a freezing cold beer, and the first event t-shirt that instantly meant something. (The marathon shirt was good too, but this immediately felt special.)

   Before I went to the bar for the certificate presentation, I walked into the sea and just stood for a while. In awe.

In awe of the surroundings.

In awe of the support I had received.

In awe of the absurdity of the day's events.

In awe of the beast.

In awe of myself.

   I couldn't believe I had done it. I don't know how to describe the feeling; I think I would need William Shakespeare and Vincent Van Gogh to team up to write and draw the scene, then have Peter Jackson shoot the moment on a rotating swing camera in  high definition and have Iron Maiden duet with Metallica to over score the whole thing. It was euphoria.

   I have never seen myself as any sort of sporting achiever. Since dislocating a knee four times, and a shoulder twice, I was ruled out of contact sport world and became a self diagnosed eternal spectator. I never thought I'd compete physically for anything. It came as a shock when I rose painfully to collect my certificate; the race organiser held on to my hand and announced to the small crowd,

"...and it doesn't stop here for Aaron, now he continues to cycle on wards to Ireland! How fucking hardcore is that?!"

   A cheer sounded from somewhere beyond my exhaustion and beer induced blurred vision. That was a moment of pride.

   The message in this is, if I can do it; me, the skinny guy who sang in a choir through school and spent a year living at a Peace centre- then so can you. (the mythical reader. Who is reading this? I don't know.) Let's sign up to something together, and bear witness to the miracles the combination of a human body and human spirit can achieve.

A well earned pint.

My trusted steed.

The organising committee have a lot of action shots throughout the race. As soon as they're published I'll nab a few for all to see!