Six years have passed since my last charity ride. It sounds like a long time, and it is… and yet, it isn’t. Time slips through our fingers, especially now, when the world spins at breakneck speed and our senses are constantly overloaded. I look back on my first ride to Paris in 2014 – life felt somewhat slower and quieter then. Even the photos on my phone from that time are blurry reminders of a world that hadn’t yet burst into full-blown chaos.
I've never been someone who craves the spotlight. But if you
want to do something meaningful, something bigger than yourself, you need to
step out into the open. That’s never come naturally to me. The exposure can be
energising and inspiring, but it also takes something from you. As the world
has grown louder, I’ve found myself craving stillness. I am drawn back to
basics, to the quiet joy of simple things.
And yet, my charity rides have become a part of who I am.
What started as something small helped me grow in unexpected ways. Each
challenge tested me, healed me, and helped me find direction. Travelling solo,
pushing physical and emotional limits. These rides connected me to causes close
to my heart and reminded me that change, even when small, matters.
Fundraising isn’t always easy, especially in a world already
overflowing with need. But recently, my friend Urszula shared a beautiful
moment: her young son asked, “What is the essence of life, Mom?” Her answer was
simple and profound—being there for each other. And that, truly, is what this
ride is all about.
This year, the ride holds a deeper meaning. On August 1st,
it will be ten years since the heartbreaking loss of my dear friend Isabelle.
Since she moved to Scotland in 2004, we only saw each other twice. The second occasion
was in the hospital. I found myself sitting at her bedside, hearing the words no one
ever wants to hear: there’s no hope. Within a week, she was gone.
Isabelle was a rare soul. She met life’s challenges with quiet strength and endless grace. She never complained, never blamed, always focused on what she could do, not what she couldn’t. She believed happiness was a choice, even if it didn’t always feel easy. She lived to express, not to impress. Her kindness, her thoughtfulness, her love for people and for life - these things made her unforgettable. I am endlessly grateful to have known her.
One of my last memories with her is in the hospital, sitting
on her bed. She knew the end was near, but her smile was still full of light. The next day, she returned home, wanting to spend her final days overlooking the valley
she loved. I visited her twice. The first day, we sat with her sister and
husband, eating Polish bread with gherkins and pâté, laughing and crying.
Someone brought out a bottle of special whiskey, and Iza, ever full of humour
and warmth, asked, “Do you think I’m allowed a small glass?” Her sister
replied, “Izunia, now you’re allowed anything.” It was a goodbye.
The next day, she was weaker, resting in bed and spending
precious moments with her husband and her little boy. Always prepared, she had
written letters and left gifts for him (one for each birthday), so he would
grow up always knowing her love.
Coming back to Portsmouth felt surreal. How could the world go on when someone like Isabelle was no longer in it? Ten years on, she’s still deeply missed. I think she worried that one day she might be forgotten, but I promise, she never will be.
So tomorrow, I ride again. A symbolic journey around a
beautiful island, in tribute to Isabelle, who, as a geographer, loved
landscapes and the freedom they offered. I’m raising funds for Young
Lives vs Cancer, a charity I know she would have supported with all her
heart. It also honours another brave soul, a colleague’s son, gone far too
soon.
If you feel moved to support, please do. Even the smallest
contribution makes a difference. Press the Thanksgiving button on the right-hand
side of the page. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
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