Moving at my own momentum.

“Get a bicycle. You will not regret it if you live.”

— Mark Twain

When driving around the North Island of New Zealand last year, I spent a night on the Coromandel Peninsula in a hostel not far from the famous Hot Water Beach.

That night I got to know three Germans (well, two Germans and one German-speaking Swiss, if we’re getting technical). Over a heated game of Scrabble, Pierre the Swiss shared with us that he was biking around the North Island for a month, having brought a bicycle over with him.

He told us about taking a ferry to Great Barrier Island and how he’d met an 80-year old DJ who ran a radio station on the island. “I heard music blasting from his windows and just went up to the house,” he said. “It wouldn’t have happened if I’d been driving. I love moving at my own momentum.”

All I could think about was my rental car parked outside and the however-many thousands of kilometers I had put between me and Wellington since leaving. I thought about the sensory overload of staying somewhere different every night and seeing umpteen new places every day. I was overwhelmingly jealous.

Pierre’s words have remained with me over the past year, ever since saying goodbye to him as he headed out the next morning, suited up in spandex and sunscreen. Fast forward to last month, when Claire and I went to Sardinia. After a late night out, she opted to stay in bed on our final morning for a few extra hours. I tried to shake off the lack of sleep–I had to see the sun. After three days of the weather we’d been so desperate to leave behind in London, I simply had to get outside.

The colored tiles of a church dome led me down to the seafront, my steps almost skipping from the sunshine and salty air. I leant against a stone block in the wall that surrounded Alghero and stared up the coast–at the waves, at the aged buildings that lined the shore, and at the faded hills in the distance, pale blue in the harsh light.

I then turned towards the Cathedral de Santa Maria, where I hoped to see the inside of a church for the first time on my trip. I never made it to the cathedral.

I’d barely started walking up the first side street when I passed a bike hire shop. My wallet held only a few remaining Euros, but I was more than happy to part with them in exchange for an hour’s bike rental. The man running the shop advised heading past Alghero’s harbour up the coast, saying I could make it to the nearby town of Fertilia in about twenty minutes. Having passed through the town the day before on the bus to Sasseri, I was sold. I knew there wasn’t much to see there, but I liked the idea of having a goal, something to ride towards.

And so I set off, rattling over the cobblestones, nearly barreling down a pedestrian-only staircase before catching myself. A bike path followed along the water’s edge and the harbour itself was filled with boats, their masts stripped for the winter. Soon the path ended and I had to choose between risking it on the road itself–busy, despite being a Sunday morning–or uneven sidewalks that were difficult to navigate.

Along the way to Fertilia, a break in the trees betrayed a path over a sand dune. I propped the bike against a wooden fence and made my way over the dune to an empty beach. Brushing sand off some driftwood on a little knoll, I sat down and let my head fall back. I couldn’t have been happier.

I knew the beach must be packed during the summer, but for now, it was all mine–Alghero to my left and Fertilia to my right. Bliss, if I ever knew it.

With this in mind, I intended to do the same in Porto the following weekend. Although renting a bike there lacked the serendipitous feeling of my discovery in Sardinia, it was worth it still. This time, though, I handed over some extra Euros for a four-hour rental and set a more ambitious course.

Porto itself was set away from the coast along the River Duoro. I cycled down to where the river met the sea and paused for a while at a lighthouse built on the tip. I then moved further up the coast before turning inland again, heading back towards Porto through various city parks and paths.

It was in Porto that I tried to put a name to it, this feeling of being on a bicycle in a new city. It was just as Pierre had said, the satisfaction of knowing I was seeing exactly what I was capable of covering myself. But I loved, too, the extra distance I could cover that I wouldn’t have been able to simply on foot.

I was propelled, but by my own strength.