When Everything Breaks Down and Everything Falls Into Place

What happens when you stop planning and start following your heart across six countries

I can't even begin to tell you how surreal it was to land in Malaga, wander the Old Town (consuming way too much gazpacho for one individual), breathe in that Mediterranean breeze—and then go see Lucy the Bike the next morning.

Lucy and I haven't done a proper trip in what feels like ages. I've been too busy with tours and fly-and-rides, but a DR is a DR—it starts right back up despite being abandoned for three months. I figure, whoa, this is a good sign, this is brilliant, THIS IS HOW WE ROLL!!!

Except Lucy has other plans.

The scene unfolds at my friend Paco's garage. The bike starts, we have a quick chat, then Paco's got to go but his dad stays to open the garage door. I pack as quickly as I can, jump on, hit the starter button, and this time? Lucy says: nope.

Nuh uh.

Because the first start drained whatever was left of the battery.

Poor Paco has to come back with a mini battery starter, but he's in a rush and assumes I've got tools. Naturally, the assumption is wrong because yes, I do have some tools. Somewhere. Just not with me.

Paco's dad starts to feel there's entertainment value here, so he walks with me to the nearest auto shop, asks to borrow some wrenches, takes the seat off, jumpstarts my battery. I thank him profusely and admit that I am, unfortunately, a bit of an idiota. He doesn't seem to disagree, but smiles benevolently and sees me off.

And off I go! Flustered and really hot, but I go—vroom vroom out of Malaga and into the mountains. It's so insanely good to just be on the bike, alone, out on that open road, I almost can't contain myself. But it's hot as hell, it's siesta time, we MUST have some more gazpacho, so I park Lucy, take my gear off… I can practically smell iced water and gazpacho now, only Lucy decides to prove a point about his abandonment issues and begins leaking petrol like it's 1990.

An international team of experts via WhatsApp agree that it's likely the carb needle that's stuck, and the best way to fix it is to hit the carb with a spanner or hammer a couple times. I choose rock, but it does the job. The petrol leak is no more, and I feel like a Proud Independent Woman again.

Then we set off, and this time it's all twisty backroads, stupidly gorgeous mountains, and the blue shimmer of the Mediterranean in the distance. I can't quite believe it's all happening, and maybe I cry a little in my helmet, maybe I don't, and the sun beats down as we cover mile after mile of my beloved Andalusia.

The Switch

For the next couple of days, absolutely NOTHING went to plan.

And yet, somehow, everything happened exactly how it needed to happen.

Some strange switch seems to have flipped in my head. On the one hand, I'm your classic closet nerd with a wild imagination, usually busy daydreaming, writing stories, battling self-doubt, and alternating between going on instinct and attempting to control the chaos. On the other hand, I DO plan things, I am capable of executing those planned things, I can adhere to deadlines and be sensible and practical.

But the second I got my bike back, it's like every fiber of my being started screaming: go on instinct. On this one, roll with intuition alone.

Trust it.

So I did.

My rational mind insisted I ignore the carb issue, fill up the tank and hit the road. But my gut instinct said stay; stay and have that carb looked at.

My friend Paco directed me to his buddy Antonio who's obsessed with Suzuki DR bikes. One good look at Lucy, and Antonio said, "Tell you what, let's strip the bike because I can see it's got a lot more issues than dirty carb."

Sure enough, Lucy's innards were messed up. The "major service" I'd paid for back in March? When Antonio took off the panels, seat, and tank, my spark plug was hanging off and sparking off the frame, the carb was missing a screw, the air hose wasn't connected properly, plus all sorts of badly connected wires. You get the picture.

Because I'm a lucky bastard, Antonio had time that morning, and we spent four hours fixing Lucy up. At some point, we needed to drive into the city to get parts, and going back, Antonio suggested we stop for a quick lunch.

My rational mind said no, there's no time; I was in a rush.

But my gut instinct said, yes.

So we sat down with coffee and bocadillos, and somehow we ended up having a conversation so sincere I felt like I was talking to a long-lost friend. We talked about grief and acceptance, friendship and solitude, dogs, vulnerability, and childhoods—and even in my broken Spanish, I understood everything, and was understood.

It's the kind of rare conversation that happens between perfect strangers around a campfire on some remote mountain top—and yet it was happening in a small Andalusian café at midday, on a regular Friday.

Antonio categorically refused to charge me for fixing Lucy, saying this was his contribution for the 6 in 16 Ride. I'm incredibly grateful for that, but I'm even more grateful for having met him and talked to him. As I was riding away, it felt like I was carrying a small diamond lodged somewhere in my soul.

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Following the Thread

It was late by then, so reason said to just go back and start packing—but intuition said no, ride to Malaga to meet Svitlana and Sergi, the hosts at Maydan Malaga.

Maydan Malaga is a Ukrainian culture center in Andalusia aimed at cherishing Ukrainian traditions, organizing aid, helping Ukrainian refugees fleeing the war. But that's not why I know them.

I know them because when I was stuck in the flash floods of last year—those same ones that claimed so many lives in Valencia—I had a fleeting conversation with a local Spanish firefighter who told me about these foreigners who, as the flash floods devastated Andalusia, immediately showed up with vans full of food, blankets, and water. Who joined the cleanup crews. Who helped organize aid to Valencia.

It was the Ukrainian volunteers from Maydan Malaga.

And I think that tells you all you need to know about the Ukrainian spirit and solidarity.

Svitlana and Sergi wouldn't let me leave without a beautiful handmade necklace and a bag of chocolates. We talked about the war, yes. About their loved ones—at the frontlines, stranded in the occupied territories, or no longer living. And yet? Both radiated kindness, not fear. And cracked jokes. And told me to come back soon.

As I left them, I noticed my navigation phone was stolen. My Anxious Planner Mind insisted I should find a solution, immediately. But my gut instinct said the event wasn't even worth registering. I can read road signs, after all.

I was tired at that point, so as I was heading inland and noticed a rider on a blue Norden trying to flag me down, my exhausted brain wanted to just ignore him. But intuition had already won that day, so I stopped.

Turns out, it was Frank, a German expat living in Andalusia doing moto tours. The reason he stopped me? He'd seen the 6 in 16 Ride on social media, recognized me, and wanted to pass a 50 euro donation for the Ukraine fundraiser. We ended up stopping for coffee and talking bikes and this crazy world.

Was that in my carefully crafted Meet Me format? Absolutely not.

Did it make my day and make me tear up in my helmet? Hell yes.

When I finally found myself on the switchbacks of Ojen, I stopped at the roadside, sat down on a little bench shaded by trees, and just let all that sink in. Not think about it, but just let it sink in.

And I decided, then and there, that the 6 in 16 Ride is going to be rolling on instinct instead of carefully planned schedules. Because it's instinct, not intellect, that leads you to the most incredible humans, that allows you to get out of your own bubble and truly see other people, and that creates this strange, incredibly vulnerable lightness of being.

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The Ocean of Kindness

The miracles kept happening.

While still in Malaga running around like a headless chicken, I got a message from Alejandro, a Spanish rider somewhere in Castilla y la Mancha asking if I needed any pointers—or a place to stay. I wasn't planning to cross Ciudad Real, but when I got his message, I figured that's exactly where I should go.

Some 450 kilometers and a heatwave that wasn't messing around later, I arrive at Alejandro and Cristina's place near Damiel—a little oasis of tranquility, a beautiful garden, a fluffy cat, and Max the doggo who decides we're buds immediately.

Alejandro and Cristina prepare a glorious gazpacho (have I mentioned I've developed an addiction?), and we talk about everything from local wildlife to Don Quixote to bikes. We figure out that Alejandro's good friend from Venezuela actually lives in Lithuania about 20 minutes away from me. Talk about small world.

In the morning, I'm seen off with a gift of earphones and a quick ride with Alejandro to point me to a lovely meandering backroad towards Toledo. I ride away with the Cloud Atlas theme song in my newly acquired earphones, because it's my favorite movie about kindness echoing across time and the world—which is exactly how A & C made me feel.

Around 11 am, I stop at a little gas station in the middle of nowhere to fuel up. I grab a cold Gatorade and sit outside to inhale it; it's sweltering hot already. Nearby, a few very cheerful men are enjoying beers—local farmers on quad bikes having a bit of a beer-infused siesta. They want to know about my bike.

We chat about this and that, debate quad vs moto, then one of them asks about the Ukraine flag on my handlebars.

I tell them about the 6 in 16 ride. The guys fall silent.

Then one of them, Julian, fishes out ten euros from his pocket and hands it to me. "I can't buy Ukrainian defenders a truck, but I can add something, right?"

I depart with hugs and another wave of gratitude. And another drop in the ocean for a 4x4 truck for Ukraine.

I guess that's the thing about drops in the ocean, isn't it? One by one, drops become little rivulets, then a tiny creek, a stream, a river. Then, an ocean of human kindness and courage.

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Meet Nastya

Friends, I need you to meet someone.

Her name is Nastya "Capybara" Podobailo. She's 27 years old, born and raised in Kharkiv, and she's the reason I'm riding across six countries in sixteen days.

Nastya has been fighting for Ukraine since she was 19 years old. Not because she's a warrior by nature, but because her parents' house is only 68 kilometers from the Russian border. Because she wants to be able to call something "home."

She's an evacuation medic. Her job is saving lives with injections and bandages, monitors and ultrasounds, and all the medical equipment you can imagine. But here's what breaks my heart: the most important thing she needs is transport.

Because without wheels, there's no one to save.

"Sometimes the price of a soldier's life is the price of a car," Nastya told me. "Cruel, but it's the reality."

Think about that for a moment. A truck. A simple 4x4 can mean the difference between a Ukrainian defender making it home to their family or not.

And here's what really gets me. Nastya says:

"It would seem that you get used to everything, but sometimes something still hurts in the place where your heart is. The more often you see death in its physical form, the more fragile life seems to you. And that's why it's worth fighting for."

She doesn't get used to it. She doesn't become numb. Every life lost still hurts in the place where her heart is. And that pain—that's exactly what makes her fight harder to save the next one.

"Every time I help someone, I feel as if someone now stubbornly believes in me that I will be able to defeat death again. Because for someone, this person is the whole universe."

For someone, this person is the whole universe.

When the war is over, Nastya wants to open a center with elements of zoo animal rehabilitation "Kapi Barchik" in her native Kharkiv. She says, "I really love capybaras."

This is who we're riding for.

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Straddling Two Worlds

I'm writing this from somewhere in France, having beaten the crazy heatwave plus some mean-looking clouds over Basque country, acquired seriously good coffee, and connected to decent WiFi. And only gotten lost maybe three or four times—navigating by road signs and hope in Spain totally works.

My neck hurts because Lucy no longer has a windshield (happens when you headbutt a stone fence in Sardinia during a race). I stink of petrol because the carb still has Opinions. Lucy looks like a Frankenbike from a nightmare of some forgotten DR graveyard, and yes, I am acutely aware that I COULD have somehow fixed the dog-chewed seat or acquired a windshield.

But you see, I'm all about function over form. While Lucy would make even Mad Max go "um, look, how about a lick of paint and a sheepskin over the saddle, at least?", its innards are solid, its little heart is beating just right. And so, while likely offending riders on brand new bikes with our presence, Lucy and I are on a mission to get to Lviv—and nothing else matters right now.

But I also want to be honest with you about something else.

This journey is also a daily rollercoaster of emotions that I'm still learning to navigate. I struggle with fear and self-doubt—am I doing enough? Is it being done well enough? Should I be doing so much more?

The other day, riding those stunning Cantabrian roads, flying along those dreamy sweeping bends hugging the Atlantic, I felt so incredibly free. I stopped to look out at the sea, taking in those gorgeous landscapes, and suddenly felt a rush of guilt wash over me. How can I be here, in this absolute luxury of riding my motorcycle, while Kyiv burns as russian drone strikes rain down on Ukraine's capital during one of the most nightmarish attacks to date?

Then I remind myself—THAT is exactly what I'm riding for. For Ukraine. For Nastya. For Nastya's dream to open an animal rescue center when the war ends. Because WE have to stick together to make sure that it does.

I feel acutely alone in the evenings, trying to balance the road stories with the fundraiser, the bike updates with Nastya's words, the gratitude I feel toward every single one of you with the weight of responsibility to do my absolute best when we leave for the Ukrainian frontlines on July 20.

Sometimes, I feel like I'm straddling two worlds—the moto adventure one and the Ukrainian one—and I'm not fully seen in either. I'm trying to make sense of it all, plan those routes, get those messages out, get those stories told, and honestly? I don't know if I'm doing it right.

But I'll keep at it. Because that's what we do. We keep going, even when we're not sure we're enough.

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The Mission

So I do appreciate all you magnificent people sending me scenic route suggestions; I know you mean well, but the thing is, this is not a bike holiday for me.

6 in 16 Ride is about connection, community, and raising funds for a vehicle for Nastya, the 27-year-old combat paramedic on the Ukrainian frontlines. THIS is the mission, friends, and I've got a long way to go still. So as much as I'd love to take those scenic detours, I need to focus on what matters—and make a beeline for Lviv.

That being said, keep those messages coming—I'm saving all those scenic routes for better times, for when there's peace in Europe, for when I can ride just for myself.

And keep those donations coming, too, friends. Whether you choose a 50, 75, 150 euro donation, or whether you can only spare two or three euros, every little bit adds up to something bigger.

We're at 7,700 euros now—and I KNOW that we can hit that 10,000 to deliver a fully equipped 4x4 to Nastya...so she can keep saving lives.

Literally.

What I've Learned

Here's what I've learned so far: when everything breaks down—your bike, your plans, your carefully crafted schedules—sometimes everything falls into place in ways you never could have planned.

You meet farmers who hand you ten euros and say, "I can't buy Ukrainian defenders a truck, but I can add something, right?"

And maybe—just maybe—you realize that the professional, whimsical skeddadler you've been your whole life wasn't running away from something. Maybe you were running toward this moment. Toward Nastya. Toward a mission that matters more than your own comfort or certainty.

Maybe all those years of skeddadling across continents, out of relationships, away from stability—maybe it was all practice for this. For the moment when you couldn't run anymore. When the world cornered you with purpose and said, "Now what?"

Now what is this: Lucy and I, looking like refugees from a Mad Max fever dream, navigating by road signs and hope, carrying the weight of someone else's whole universe on our shoulders. Now what is learning that joy isn't betrayal—it's fuel. That crying in your helmet while butchering Three Dog Night songs isn't weakness—it's what keeps you human enough to carry someone else's pain.

I don't know if I'm doing this right. I don't know if I'm enough. But I know this: every kilometer between here and Lviv, every euro we raise, every person who stops to ask about that Ukraine flag—it's all drops in an ocean of human kindness that refuses to let evil win.

And maybe that's what this is about. Not knowing you're enough, but showing up as if you are.

Help me show up for Nastya and other combat paramedics in her unit - together.

SUPPORT

Thank you - and see you on the road.