The Doorstep Mile

If you have enjoyed this book, you could help me a great deal by: Leaving a review on Amazon. This is so helpful. Sharing a photo of the book cover on social media. Use the hashtag #TheDoorstepMile. Giving your copy to someone who might benefit from it.  Thank you. If you’d like to follow me online you can: Sign up for the Living Adventurously and Shouting from the Shed newsletters on my website.  Follow me on social media: @al_humphreys Subscribe on YouTube: search for Alastair Humphreys Visit alastairhumphreys.com/thedoorstepmile for resources About the author Alastair Humphreys is an English adventurer and author who finds it weird to write about himself in the third person. He has cycled around the world, walked across southern India, rowed across the Atlantic Ocean, run six marathons through the Sahara desert, completed a crossing of Iceland, busked through Spain and participated in an expedition in the Arctic, close to the magnetic North Pole. Alastair has trekked 1000 miles across the Empty Quarter desert and 120 miles round the M25 – one of his pioneering microadventures. He was named as one of National Geographic’s Adventurers of the year for 2012.Alastair is a patron of the Youth Adventure Trust, Hope and Homes for Children, Outdoor Swimming Society, Yorkshire Dales Society and the Yorkshire Dales Millennium Trust.? Support this podcast by donating ?

The Death Clock You have decided that you want to live more adventurously. You've got a head full of exciting ideas. You even know what your Doorstep Mile action is. But you can't begin it today, because you're tired. Actually, all of this week is pretty busy, so maybe it's best to wait until the first of the month to kick-start it. 'New month, new me!' The trouble is that next month, and the one after that, you will still be tired and busy. This is my final attempt to shake you into action, to remind you that time is ticking and that the harshest deadline of all is looming. Memento mori and all that. I want to finish by sharing with you one of my favourite websites... Check out www.deathclock.com. Death Clock calculates the date of your death. If you're the sort of procrastinating person who needs a deadline to get something done, well, there it is. Your deadline! Stick it in your diary now.We had better get on with life, there's not long enough left, however old we are, and it is later than we think.  Those of us reading this book are at the lottery winning end of the human spectrum. We are so lucky. We have a degree of choice over our lives. The course of our life will depend upon the decisions we make and the paths we walk. We can choose our own story and make it happen. Dust off your violin and stand in your plaza. Face the crowd, smile and give it your best shot. You might be surprised by how warmly the world responds. Above the desk in my shed is a quote. I see it every day.'The life that I could still live, I should live and the thoughts that I could still think, I should think.' OVER TO YOU:  What date does the Death Clock predict you'll snuff it? Put it into your diary. What story will you choose to live before then? ? Support this podcast by donating ?

Beginnings *I felt nervous and longed to change my mind. A clock ticked and tocked on the mantelpiece. The small office smelled of magnolia paint and aftershave. I felt nervous because the first year of my teaching career had gone well, and this dramatic change in direction was not a sensible career decision. That small moment in that everyday setting was the beginning of a radical new trajectory for me.'I am sorry, but I have decided to leave.''Oh dear. Where are you going?''The South Pole.''St. Paul's? Lovely school.' I never did make it to the South Pole. But it has been a fascinating journey to where I've ended up nonetheless. We never know where we will end up, nor even if the destination we aspire to is the best one. All we can do is choose what seems to be the most fulfilling turn in the road, and see where it leads. I walk across the dewy grass to my shed carrying a cup of tea: my morning commute. I'm going to work hard on the writing that I love for a few hours before picking up my kids from school and perhaps going to climb a tree together.  *Ahead of me, the sky was huge and empty. A sea sky. The sun was setting. I passed beneath a final row of palm trees and out onto the beach. I took off my pack and walked slowly down the warm sand into the sea. Ending a journey at an ocean was very satisfying. It felt definite. I could go no further. The beach stretched away in both directions, white, straight and washed clean to the high tide line. The heat had ebbed from the sun, but it still shone golden on the water. I stared out to sea, beyond the wooden fishing pirogues and out to the horizon. And I wondered what might lie on the other side. *I feel excited rather than nervous as I stir my tea. The end of an adventure is always filled with relief. I'm in McDonald's, the only place in town still open this late. Hard plastic seats, piped pop music, weak tea, the smell of chips. A very ordinary setting for a small moment that might lead in an intriguing new direction, though I have no idea what. It felt right to return to Maccy D's where this book began to work through my final thoughts. I've already given it all away online for free, and now I am about to click 'go' and publish this book. I don't know how it will be received. But it is time to find out. – The End –? Support this podcast by donating ?

Dust off your violin After many years of cajoling myself towards an adventurous life, I had a pretty solid grasp of what I was looking for. All I needed to do was get on with it. But if adventure is about uncertainty and risk, there comes a point when more of the same no longer counts as living adventurously. I had ended up in a comfort zone, even if it involved deserts and wild places. It was time to change direction.For many years my favourite travel book had been As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning. Laurie Lee walked through Spain in the 1930s, playing his violin to fund the journey. It is a beautiful story and the idea of recreating it tantalised me. But for 15 years I kept chickening out. I couldn’t play any musical instrument. The thought of having to perform or sing or dance in public is my idea of hell. But I could never quite get the idea out of my head. The thought of busking seemed horribly vulnerable. I had never attempted anything like it before. I would probably fail. It was ridiculous. Or, to put it differently: it sounded like an adventure and precisely what I needed.On a whim, I took out my phone, Googled for a local violin teacher and dashed off a quick email. That was my Doorstep Mile action – one email set everything in motion after 15 years of barriers and doubt.I quickly learned that the violin cannot be quickly learned. I had wildly overestimated how much I would be able to learn in seven months. But I worked hard at the infernal instrument, concentrating only on the day’s homework rather than the nerve-wracking ultimate challenge of depending upon the violin to earn my next meal.I had to face the sorry fact that I was terrible: nobody would give me any money! The trip was going to be an embarrassment and a disaster. The sensible compromise was to take my wallet and just busk for a bit of fun. More sensible still was to postpone the trip for a year or two until I could actually play the violin.Fortunately in life, however, the only sensible options are not the only options. I turned up in Spain, and I began.I emptied the final coins from my pocket and piled them on a park bench. Then I walked off into Spain one midsummer morning to see whether I could survive for a month with no money.The first time I set up my violin to play was the most scared I had felt since the day I set off to row across the Atlantic. Isn’t that crazy? Rowing an ocean is a frightening thing to do. There are storms and salty buttocks. But what was I scared of on that sunny morning in Spain?What I was afraid of was all the vulnerability inside me, the most significant stuff of all. The baggage we hide away and hide behind. The demons that stop us living as adventurously as we dream of. The things that I hope this book has provoked you into exploring within yourself.I stood alone in that plaza, sawing away at the violin. I could hack my way through five terrible songs, each about 30 seconds long. I looped round and round while my heart sank lower and lower. I was embarrassed, sure to fail and dreading having to acknowledge that to myself and the world.An elderly gentleman had been watching me from a bench in the plaza for a long time. Eventually, he stood up and walked over to me, leaning on his walking stick. I thought, ‘Uh-oh, I’m in trouble now. He’s going to say, ‘Señor, enough. Clear off. Please, give us back our peace.” But he didn’t say that. Instead, the man reached into his pocket. He pulled out a coin, and he gave it to me. I thought my heart was going to explode with delight, relief, amusement and surprise. I’d done it! I had earned a coin from playing the violin. Before the trip, when I was on the verge of backing out of the whole venture, I made myself a deal. ‘Don’t worry about the whole trip. Just go out there and earn one Euro. That’s all you need to do. With a Euro, you can buy a bag of rice. With a bag of rice, you can walk for a week. After that, we’ll talk…’ I spent a month hiking cross country through the beautiful landscapes of northern Spain, dropping down into villages every couple of days to earn enough money for the next stage. It was a magical experience. But the hundreds of miles and the nights under the stars were not what made it special. I’ve done that stuff half my life. The adventure out in Spain was standing in a plaza in front of a handful of people and declaring, ‘here I am. This is all that I have got. This is my best shot.’ Play the next song. Earn the next coin. That is all we can ever do. The violin was the adventure. ***I spent most of my 20s and 30s chasing a specific manifestation of an adventurous life. That carefree vagabond dream changed as ‘real life’ arrived and I evolved from carefree AdventurerTM to busy Dad. I still try to live adventurously but have had to modify how I do that. Sometimes it works fantastically, at other times it frustrates me. This year I have merely scheduled time in my diary to climb a tree once a month. But that has made a far bigger difference than I could have imagined. So as someone who exchanged ambitious dreams of a life on the open road for a cup of tea up an oak tree, let me finish by saying this. I don’t think we should pin our hopes on one adventure of a lifetime. Instead, we should strive for a lifetime of living more adventurously every day. Do something daily that excites you, makes you happier, fulfilled and curious. Something that scares you a little. It is the process that is important, the direction you walk, not the notional outcome at the end of that journey. An email to a violin teacher. A morning text message to your friend about that idea you always dream of late at night, a meeting at work about a new project. However ambitious your ultimate dream, whatever you decide to start with and build into a habit ought to be really small. So small that there is no reason not to do it today. What step will you take right now to get you across the doorstep and set you in motion towards living more adventurously?Good luck.  Over to You: What would be your personal equivalent of busking through Spain?  When will you begin it? ? Support this podcast by donating ?

Ten lessons from the road We are amongst the most fortunate people who have ever lived. What excuse do we have not to try to maximise our potential and our opportunities in an adventurous, worthwhile, fulfilling life?The times I have rolled the dice and gone big with my dreams have always turned out to be fascinating, informative experiences. You learn so much about the world and yourself when you step out your front door and dare yourself to have a look around. Here then are ten lessons from the road. Shoot for the moon. Set yourself an outrageous goal.  Just do it. Make it harder to ignore your dream than to overcome the risks and obstacles. Failing is a normal, acceptable and unavoidable fact of life. Giving up easily need not be. Keep taking one more step and you might be surprised how far you travel. You are the only person who controls your potential. Everything is up to you. The choice is yours. A bad day is a good day. Earn the good times. Embrace Type 2 fun. If it were easy, everyone would be doing it. Be brutally honest with yourself. Do you believe your own excuses? Does this year matter? Then use it. Think like a goldfish. Do not think about the end. Focus on the next step to keep you moving forward. Take care of yourself. Physically and mentally. Being fit feels good. Anima sane in corpore sane – a healthy mind in a healthy body.  The world is a good place. Trust. Smile. Boldness and relentless passion will be rewarded.  Over to You:What ten lessons has your road in life taught you? ? Support this podcast by donating ?

The habit calendar Books about habit forming usually refer to well-worn examples of incremental improvement and compound interest. 'Improve by 1% a day, and in just one year you will be a 3678% samurai ninja hunky millionaire!' There is no denying the power of accumulated marginal gains.Increase your daily run by a minute per day, and you'll soon be running for miles. Save £20 a week, and you'll be able to afford a £1000 adventure in a year. If you have a good idea, write a short blog post every day. You'll eventually have written a book. But it can be hard to remain inspired by a distant goal when you contemplate the number of tiny, tedious sacrifices required before you reach that point. It is helpful then to decide to do a specific thing today, just once. Do it. Tick it off on a piece of paper. Done. Nice and easy. The day after that? Do it again. Tick it off. Done. Deciding to eat healthily today is far more fruitful than a pie in the sky plan (or a no pie plan) to 'lose three stone'. It is the difference between discipline and a mere tweak of your habits. Our idealism is greater than our willpower. A small, specific daily deed is more achievable than vague goals with wiggle room and get out clauses. Eat a carrot, not a carrot cake. Get up tomorrow and repeat. I have used a habit calendar to cajole my lazy ass into 100 consecutive days of doing 50 pull-ups and 100 days of meditating. I'd never have kept those up without the chart. A habit calendar makes things easier, but it does not make it easy. My 'Write this Damned Book' calendar, for example, keeps failing. But every time I fail, I start again, doing my best to string together a longer sequence of X's than I managed last time.Once you build up a streak of daily successes, you'll not only find each one easier, but you will also become increasingly reluctant to break the chain. I like the notion of 'no more zero days': do one tiny thing every day to keep creeping forward. Build your habits, and the big goals will follow along behind them. Our hours become our days. And one day we will stop, look back and realise that those hours became our life. Over to You: What habit would you like to build to help you live more adventurously?  Find on Google, then print out a habit calendar and stick it to the fridge. Do Day 1's task and put a big fat X in the first box. This is now Day One and no longer 'one day'… ? Support this podcast by donating ?

The accumulation of daily habits You might (or you might not!) wake up during a particularly pointless conference call with the bright idea of running a 150-mile ultramarathon in the Sahara Desert. Unfortunately, accomplishing such a feat is a galaxy away considering your current fitness. The idea of a finisher's medal around your neck is ridiculous. That's why it is a 'dream' not a 'plan'.The gulf between where we are now and where we dream of is often too wide to leap in one bound. Because there are no stepping stones the crossing can look impossible.But you remember that you once bought a pair of expensive trainers in a hot-headed and short-lived New Year's Resolution to get fit. Back home that evening you eventually find the trainers, unworn, under a pile of doughnut boxes.Out of curiosity, you tug on the snazzy yellow shoes. You tie the laces snugly and bob up and down tentatively in the living room, flexing your knees and wiggling your toes.You step out outside, lock the front door, hide the key under a plant pot and check nobody is watching. Then you sprint off down the street.By the time you reach the corner, however, you grind to a gasping halt, bent double and retching beneath the streetlamp. What were you thinking? What sort of a daydream was this? How could you have even considered that this was preferable to the blissful ennui of a meeting with far too many attendees and a plate of chocolate biscuits?You turn around and stumble slowly home with a look of bewildered astonishment on your face. You switch on the TV and your heart rate eventually settles to a safe level. That marks the end of your good intentions.  But imagine if after the ignominy of Day 1, you wake up on Day 2 and decide to give it another try. You remember that you are middle-aged these days and no longer the King of the Playground. You leave your front door at a more realistic pace.This time you manage two minutes of running before you capitulate. Encouraged, on the third day you run for three minutes. After a week you can run for seven whole minutes.You run to the café to bask in your achievement. Your friends laugh at your sweaty enthusiasm.'Seven minutes?' they scoff. 'That ultramarathon's going to be a piece of cake, mate. Here, have a piece of cake instead.'And yet, despite their mocking, you persevere, adding a minute to your run time every day. After a month of effort – a substantial 1/12th of a year – you can still only wheeze your way through 30 measly minutes of jogging. 'Surely I should be fitter than this by now?' you wonder in despair. Your thumb twitches towards the doughnut delivery hotline number on your phone. This is a familiar hurdle on big projects. You launch with great fanfare and enthusiasm. But, after an initial flurry, progress is paltry. Success is still so far away. The temptation to quit returns. This is where you need to be stubborn and remember only today's Doorstep Mile: get out the door and start running. It is better to measure your trajectory than your current ability. Because if you keep going, if you stubbornly add 30 minutes a month, by the end of the year you will run for 365 minutes. That's a six-hour monster run. You could complete any ultramarathon on the planet with endurance like that!This is the power of accumulating small steps and heeding only the next daily Doorstep Mile.  OVER TO YOU: What can you begin today and then improve by one minute or 1% tomorrow?? Support this podcast by donating ?

To be rather than to seem Esse quam videri is a pithy, challenging phrase from Cicero. It translates as ‘to be, rather than to seem’. It flew on Birdie Bowers’ sledging pennant as he trekked to the South Pole with Captain Scott. Birdie was one of the most impressive, genuine humans I have ever read about. I use esse quam videri as an opportunity to turn the mirror on myself from time to time and ask myself some questions.  Am I a runner? But do I actually run? Often and far and fast? Or do I just trot around the park a couple of times a week at the same pace as last year? Am I a cyclist? But do I actually put in the miles? Or do I just own a nice bike or three? When did I last go for a long bike ride that made me proud? Am I a photographer? When was the last time I went out specifically to take photographs, with thought and imagination or learned new techniques to get the most out of my expensive camera? Am I writing a book? Am I actually writing, regularly and with ruthless effort? Or am I just a dilettante who enjoys talking the talk but isn’t prepared to sit down and grind out a book rather than grinding coffee beans? Am I doing what I love with my life? Is it fulfilling and worthwhile? Am I happy? Or am I merely dabbling with the important things whilst drowning in excuses, mediocrity and blame? These are the sort of questions I ask myself. When I’m on track, I feel proud of the identity they provide and therefore feel motivated to do more. Yes, I am writing a book. I’m making this thing happen… That feels much better than the times when I’m just pootling about wasting my life.Too often, I don’t like my own answers. But I try to be honest with myself and acknowledge this. And then I work hard to get back on track for a while. That is the most I ever manage to achieve – veering back and forth between optimism and procrastination, triumph and disaster. Esse quam videri. What questions should you ask yourself? I dare you to ask them. Don’t shirk the uncomfortable question. Don’t kid yourself with your answers. Over to You:Esse quam videri. What questions will you ask yourself? ? Support this podcast by donating ?

Type 2 fun Mud. Up to my knees. And rain. Heavy rain. A long day trudging with a heavy rucksack, head down, shoulders hunched against the cold wind. The only good thing about today was that it would eventually end.I was trekking across the lunar highlands of Iceland towards the Hofsjökull glacier. My friend Chris and I were alone in the wilderness, carrying a month’s supplies on our backs. We had endured wading icy rivers and crossing lava fields that bruised our feet, but this evening’s mud was the worst. This was the last straw at the very end of a horrible day. All I wanted to do was pitch the tent, escape from the weather and go to sleep. Instead, I was stuck fast and struggling in a soup of mud, stones and boulders. I was filthy and exhausted. ‘This,’ I growled to Chris, ‘is definitely Type 2 fun.’Writing this description today in my shed, I looked back at some photos from Iceland to remind me of the details. There’s a picture of me, bent double in exhaustion beneath a massive pack. Retrospectively, the memory strikes me as hilarious. It was an experience I am definitely glad to have gone through, despite how furious and miserable I felt at the time. In a similar vein, I found rowing the Atlantic to be mostly a cocktail of nausea, misery, fear and boredom. And yet when the four of us gathered seven years later for a reunion in a small curry house in Cornwall, our recollections were very different. We spent the entire evening convulsed in hysterical laughter, to the bemusement of the other diners. It was one of the happiest gatherings I have ever been to. A gruelling experience had been polished by time into something precious and gleaming. The pursuit of retrospective pleasures is a recurring theme in my life: the warm glow of achievement after icy swims and hot deserts. Sensible people choose to spend their time doing things that are conventionally fun in the here and now. Eating cheese, Morris dancing, listening to the snooker on the radio – the usual stuff. These activities can be labelled as Type 1 Fun. If you smile while you’re doing it, you’re in the Type 1 zone.Type 2 Fun, by contrast, is not fun. You embark on the quest for Type 2 Fun when you set out to attempt things that are deliberately hard. These often involve suffering, misery, fear, foul language and repeated vows never to do something this stupid ever again. Tremendous amounts of time and effort and commitment disappear into these endeavours. This is something that you are not doing for instant gratification. It is deeper, darker – and ultimately richer and more rewarding. Anyone who has run a marathon or completed a dissertation or assembled flatpack furniture knows about Type 2 Fun. Your version of Type 2 Fun might be very different to mine – appearing on stage in your first play, hosting a street party, coaching the U9s football team…This is the world of doing something hard in the hope that at some unknown point, in an unknowable future, the endeavour will reward you with a sense of achievement, satisfaction, purpose and peace. Type 2 exploits will one day be a pleasure to recount over a poppadom and a pint. (A friendly word of caution: steer away from the pursuit of Type 3 Fun. Such activities are not fun. And they will never appear so in the future, no matter how warm the fireside reminiscences. The vows to never repeat anything so stupid hold firm even years later at last orders.)Type 2 Fun is both an investment and a speculation. And it is often at the heart of the process of trying to live more adventurously. I encourage you – I dare you – to make the effort to toss a little more Type 2 Fun into your life. In my experience, while fun is fun, the more meaningful, enduring sensations of satisfaction and reward come through gritted teeth and Type 2 Fun. Writing this book, I have found it hard to set the tone and expectations appropriately. I am trying to champion small steps – a 5km parkrun before an ultramarathon, your first blog post before demanding a juicy advance from a publisher. But I also do not want this book to be an opt-out, an excuse for settling low or embracing mediocrity. I will always applaud excellence, ambition and ridiculous persistence. Start small, yes, but once you are up and running, you ought to be willing to suffer. Stretching yourself hurts, yes. But that is how you grow.So if these pages have any whiff of elitism to them, let it be here. To champion effort and struggle and those who pour their heart into Type 2 fun, wading doggedly through the mud and storms to accomplish goals far beyond what you thought yourself capable of.  Over to You: What time-consuming Type 1 Fun could you swap for something new? What Type 2 Fun activity would you like to try? When will you do this? ? Support this podcast by donating ?

Push, push, push  I'm 15 years old, cycling across England with two school friends. We get lost and end up on the summit of Great Gable (the 10th highest peak in England: stupid lost!). I wipe away tears and carry my heavy bike down what feels like an eternity of scree slopes. It's hard, we're lost, and I'm much slower than the others. I don't think I can do it. I'm 18 years old, driving into a place unlike anything I've seen in all my life. A rough town of shabby homes, bullet holes in the walls and people staring at me. It's my first day in Africa. I cannot imagine living here for an entire year. I'm outside my Mum and Dad's house on a beautiful summer day. I say goodbye, then climb onto my bike. I've told everyone I'm going to cycle around the world. Can I really do this? Absolutely no chance. I'm at the front of the living room facing three rows of people, maybe 30 in all. They have come to hear me give a talk about my travels. I feel sweat trickling from my armpits. Not only do I have to remember what to say, I now need to remember to keep my arms clamped to my side as well! Speaking in public is terrifying. I vow never to do this again. I sit down at my laptop. Open a blank document. Stare at it. It is time to begin writing a book. But how do I turn this blank page into a finished book? I walk to the kitchen to make a cup of tea while I mull over the enormity. The enormity of the blank page has overwhelmed me.  I'm about to quit my job. Jack in the salary and the pension and the sensible working hours. 'You're going to do what?' asks my boss.'I'm going to be an adventurer.'No, I'm not. Unless I can earn some money, I'm going to be unemployed. I'm at the cinema. Beer and popcorn. Lights off, film about to start. Comfy chairs. I'm anonymous and surrounded by darkness and people. Strangers who are about to watch my first ever film. What if nobody laughs? What if they laugh in the wrong bits? What if they just fidget, a bit bored? I ought to be happy that my first expedition film has even made it this far. But instead, as always, I'm afraid and out of my depth.At least this time there is beer and popcorn. So perhaps I am making progress, after all… ***Living adventurously is about cajoling ourselves to venture beyond what we initially think possible. At each stage in the narrative here, I did not imagine that I would attempt what came next, nor did I give much thought to how many different 'comfort zones' we reside within. There are so many ways to scare ourselves. But each time we dare ourselves to try, we are making progress in the right direction.Time and again, the questions we ask of ourselves come back with positive replies. I have learned, over and over, that I am capable of more than I realised. We all are. This growth mindset is one of the most precious gifts that living adventurously has given me. OVER TO YOU: How has your comfort zone grown over the years? Has it begun to contract with age? ? Support this podcast by donating ?

Progress or success This final section of the book encourages you not to get going and keep going. It also urges you to aim bigger and bolder than you might naturally be inclined to do. I find it harder to do this when I judge myself against the yardstick of ‘Success’ [measured against a goal post or other people] rather than ‘Progress’ [measured against my past self].While my ego used to want to compete with other people, I have learned that this is a pointless race, a recipe for resentment and unhappiness. The wise thing is to compete only with myself. To try to make the most of my potential and not let other people dictate what I should or must do in my life.I measure my progress in various ways. Whether I’m earning enough to live. Spending time on what I love. Trying to set a good example and improving the old work-life balance dilemma. I ask whether I feel proud of what I’m doing. Is it of any real use to the world? Am I helping the people I care about feel happy and cared for? Does it allow enough time for me to get out on my bike?  If you decide to measure your life by ‘progress against yourself’ rather than ‘success compared to others’, what criteria would you measure things by? It is essential to be clear about what matters most. It’s also good to remember previous benchmarks. These will help you feel better about where you are right now, providing you are progressing. I was so excited when I self-published my first book and could finally say, ‘I wrote this’. (despite the listing on Amazon whose photo was so bad I burst out laughing when I saw it again recently: you could see the flash glare and my blue bedroom carpet.) I felt the same way when I had a book taken on by a publisher. Ditto when I secured a ‘big’ publisher. And now I have grown sufficiently blasé about what people think that I am excited to be writing this book via a free email newsletter. Looking back like this helps me appreciate that I am moving forward. I have always been terrible at pausing to celebrate. I permanently berate myself about how far I still have to go. If we don’t reflect on the perspective of our younger, less-experienced selves, we deny ourselves the chance to notice that we are progressing.As you become more adventurous, the terrain you tackle will become rockier and the paths to follow fainter and less well-trodden. But you’re not actually at the start line any more. You have come a long way to get to the point you are at today. You should draw confidence from this momentum. I’d urge you to pause and reflect like this from time to time. We can all be too hard on ourselves and make the mistake of comparing ourself to other people or imaginary finish lines. But it is progress we ought to measure, not success. OVER TO YOU:  List some ways in which you have progressed over the years. Notice how far you have already come. What is your next step forward? ? Support this podcast by donating ?

5-to-9 thinking One warm summer evening after work, why don’t you go on an adventure instead of flopping in front of the TV? When you leave work at 5pm, you have 16 hours of glorious freedom before you need to be back at your desk again. What adventures could you have in that time? My mind instantly turns to open space and the outdoors, but your choice might be very different. What would you go and do?The 9-to-5, convention dictates, imposes a lot of restrictions on us. It prevents us from living as adventurously as we might like. But what if you turn that thinking on its head? The 9-to-5 working day is only eight hours long. What about the other 16 hours? Nobody ever considers that as a solid, priceless entity. Instead of being limited by the 9-to-5, what if we chose to feel liberated by our 5-to-9?I know you have commitments and commutes to deal with and probably work much longer hours. But humour me, please, for this thought experiment. Imagine how different life would be if society regarded the 9-to-5 as a minor hassle, a mere 33% inconvenience on 5 days out of 7. Imagine if everyone’s passion was instead focused on the 16 hours of (at least theoretical) daily freedom.It would be a very different society. If you were a bazillionaire what would you swap your 9-to-5 for? How then can you get some of that between 5pm and 9am without the luxury of being loaded?What if you left your office, jumped on the train and headed for the hills? Even from London, you can be in the countryside or by the sea within an hour. I have also made this rush hour escape from cities as sprawling as Barcelona, Hong Kong and Los Angeles. Head out of the office, jump on the train and relax. It takes a bit of guts and oomph to do this for the first time. The strong negativity bias in our personalities means we tend to focus on the bad things that might happen (rain! Sheep attack!), rather than the positive benefits (this might help begin to turn my life around).So if you make it this far, congratulate yourself. You have done the hardest part (unless you get attacked by a sheep. Or it rains.) You have begun.There is no map for ‘living adventurously’. You cannot unfold a map, flatten out the creases, point and say, ‘aha! Look, once I arrive there, I will have succeeded.’ Not only does this not work, but it is also a damaging way to think. The times I’ve assumed the end of an expedition would be the end of my problems have always backfired. All you can do is follow your nose. It is the direction you walk which constitutes living adventurously, not whatever crock of gold you imagine lies at the rainbow’s end. Anyway, pause your philosophical musings to get off the train. Look left and right. Then take a punt on the direction less travelled. Give your future self the best chance. Head towards beauty and wildness. Walk up the nearest hill to take in the view.You’re out of breath from the hike. You still feel a bit silly. But you smile. You feel your nerves about this step into the unknown seeping away. What an opportunity. What an escape. A burst of freedom in the middle of the working week.To appreciate a painting properly, you often have to take a step back. The same holds true for life. The 5-to-9 is a chance to step back from the hectic rush of work, the clamour of your family and the distractions of the internet. You will look at life with a fresh perspective from the vantage point of a grassy hilltop. Unroll your sleeping bag under the stars and drift off to sleep. In the morning you’ll wake at sunrise to the sound of birdsong and the first warm rays of sunshine. (Disclaimer: if it is raining this entire experience will be miserable and will require filing under ‘Character Building’.) If you are a veteran at this camping malarkey, you might have brought along a little camping stove for a cup of coffee with a view. If not, enjoy the novel simplicity of temporary abstinence and delayed gratification.Shove your sleeping bag into your rucksack. Run down the hill and jump into the nearest river. Then hop back on the train into town, ready for another day in the office. A little sleep-deprived, perhaps; twigs in your hair and bleary eyes. When you get to work, and your colleagues ask if you did anything interesting last night, for once you don’t have to lie and make something up! They will laugh and think you crazy, of course. But a year from now you will still remember that night under the stars, long after evenings of TV and soft pillows have faded away. Squint a little differently at life. Bemoan the 9-to-5 or celebrate the 5-to-9. What memories will you treasure a year or five from now? That is the important stuff. Over to You: What are your 9-to-5 problems? What are your 5-to-9 opportunities? What will your next 5-to-9 adventure be? Schedule it in your diary now. ? Support this podcast by donating ?

Microadventures As my own attempts to live adventurously evolved from jumping on planes to distant continents, I began to develop the idea of microadventures. They have been part of my effort to learn to look for the opportunities amongst the constraints of life.I never imagined how helpful the principal would be for me, both in the literal sense of squeezing exercise and fresh air around the margins of my days, but also as a metaphor to help with everything I do.I had become more aware of how many people love the idea of adventure but are not able to have adventures of their own (or think that they cannot). I decided to try to break down some of the barriers getting in the way.You can’t afford to cross a continent? What is within reach? You don’t have time fora big adventure? What can you do? Still too hard? OK, try this. I kept reducing and simplifying and trying to put a positive spin on every situation. Think smaller and simpler. Look around you. What can you do in your lunch break? Climb a tree, make coffee in the woods, swim in a river… When you’re driving, you can use your sat-nav as an adventure guide – look for streams to detour to rather than service stations. You can always do something. A microadventure is no different from an adventure, however you personally define the word ‘adventure’. The only difference is that a microadventure is one that is close to home, cheap, simple, short and therefore more likely to actually happen. Microadventures began as an attempt to capture the spirit, principles and benefits of challenging expeditions. Could I replicate some of this through accessible activities condensed into a weekend away, or even a midweek overnight escape?I began by walking a 120-mile lap of London alongside the M25 but learned that was still too big for most people. So I explored a lap of my own home, walking a circle with a mere 2-mile radius. I discovered places I had never been to before.I built a raft that sank in the Lake District and drifted down a river on tractor inner tubes in Wales.I cycled to the sea to sleep on a beach. I pedalled across the Pennines between the houses where my parents were born.I cooked on campfires, slept on hilltops overlooking cities and motorways and watched meteor showers from my sleeping bag.Sometimes it rained, sometimes the sun shone. Some nights were idyllic, others only reminded me to appreciate my own bed again.I just kept on doing things, learning from my mistakes, building habits, making routine life a little more vivid and memorable. It is not always easy to do, but I am trying to teach myself to approach every day adventurously by embracing curiosity and encouraging excitement. I prefer this approach to trundling along the conveyor belt like an unloved plate of sushi until the next blip of excitement like a summer holiday or weekend away. I am learning to search for the beauty in every landscape. To develop a deeper appreciation by paying attention to details – the first buds of spring, the first swift, the globe’s still working. The canvas of my life will be painted by thousands of these small moments, decisions and actions, not by a handful of dramatic splodges or events. I hope that the essence of microadventures is transferable to you. Microadventures is an idea anyone can use, whether you are a potter, a programmer, or a potholer. It offers a way to convert big ideas into small beginnings. If you dream of climbing Everest but can’t get round to sleeping on top of your local hill, you need to know there’s a glitch in your system. Dream up a massive, complicated, ambitious adventure. And then go do a tiny, simple one instead. This way, you will actually get on and do it. You will build momentum. And once you have momentum, the big adventure dreams take care of themselves. Over to You: What is your big dream? What is a tiny version of this? Schedule a date in your diary to do it.? Support this podcast by donating ?

The Doorstep Mile revisited The Doorstep Mile is so critical that I’m going to end this part with a plea for you not to skim over taking action on it.I firmly believe that the Doorstep Mile is the secret to making something more adventurous happen in your life. It might be buying a plane ticket, buying a map or buying a friend a coffee to chat about an idea. In my case, it often seems to be as mundane as sending an email.Simple, right?Do you agree?Do you now feel that getting started on your plan is easy (or at least feasible)?If not, then you are still thinking too big. Your first step is too large or complicated or emotional, and so it is intimidating. Try deconstructing into an even smaller series of tasks. For example:  Get on your bike this minute and cycle around the planet: Agh! Too scary. OK. You can leave later. But spend £1000 this minute on a new bike and camping gear: Agh! Too scary.  Text your mate, ‘I’ve had a daft idea. I reckon you might enjoy it. Beer on Friday?’: Done. You’re on your way… The problem is not that adventures are too big or too hard. It is not that you are too busy or broke. The problem is that we forget that beginning requires just a single step. Once you do that you are on your way and all the world now lies before you. In the next part of the book, we raise our eyes from these first steps to the distant horizon.  Over to You: What is your Doorstep Mile action? When will you have done it by? ? Support this podcast by donating ?

Simple but not easy The best adventures are simple. Simple but not easy.There is a subtle difference between the words. Writing a book is simple: sit down and write a thousand words every day for several months. Walking across India is simple: keep heading towards the sunset every day. Watching TV every evening is easy.Whatever you are planning, keep it as simple as possible. But don’t make it easy. Don’t settle.You are invited to the party. Now it is time to show up and dance. OVER TO YOU:  What do you dream of that is simple but not easy?  What is the Doorstep Mile action for that dream? ? Support this podcast by donating ?

The jump It is a hot summer’s day. The sparkling river below is enticing. You’d love to take the plunge. It would feel glorious in there – so much better than being stuck here, hot and bothered like everyone else. But rather than leaping in, you remain on the riverbank feeling nervous. Vulnerable. You think to yourself, ‘What if it’s cold?’ You mop your brow and fret, ‘Oh, respectable people like me shouldn’t be doing stuff like this.’ You clutch tightly at the towel around your body, unwilling to let go and unleash your lily-white buttocks upon the world. ‘What will people think?’ They might laugh at you.You summon up the will to dip your toe in the water. ‘There have to be easier things to do than this…’ Sure enough, the first step into the water is shockingly cold. (That never changes, by the way.) ‘I knew this was a terrible idea!’ You curse at yourself. The fun you imagined has been suffocated by the immediate discomfort and the worries in your mind. How much easier it would be to stay here where everybody else is.You almost retreat. Your mind whirls with thoughts of the cold and embarrassment, not to mention the monsters surely lurking beneath the surface, ready to drag you down to your doom. ‘They were right all along!’ you cry, feeling very sorry for yourself. You shiver with cold and fear and your buttocks wobble. The pebbles in front of you look sharp. The sun beats down and the water sparkles.What happens next? Do you stay where you are – or will you jump?  You take one more little step. And somehow, somehow, you persuade yourself to persevere. Little by little, step by tiny step, tiptoeing and yelping, you inch deeper into the water. Eventually, you lose patience, probably about when the cold water reaches your crotch. So you think ‘to hell with it’, and you launch forwards. That’s it: you’ve done it. One moment of committing, one small lunge across the point of no return. You’re in!Gasp! Shock! Holy £*€%, it’s cold! You emerge from under the water wide-eyed and shocked. You draw breath then whoop. And suddenly now you are splashing, grinning and hollering at all those timid souls on the riverbank. Look at them all, their towels clutched around their vulnerable bits. Dreaming of taking the plunge. Stewing and unhappy, unable to muster that one small step, that giant leap of faith. And look a little closer: they are not laughing at you. They are jealous!‘Come on in,’ you yell. ‘It’s great once you’re in. Stop being such a wimp. All you gotta do is jump. Once you start, you won’t regret it… God, it feels wonderful in here.’ OVER TO YOU: The idea of living adventurously reminds me of skinny dipping. What’s a comparative metaphor in your own life? What is your version of flinging off the towel of respectability and leaping in?? Support this podcast by donating ?

It is as easy as this Making the commitment to take the Doorstep Mile is difficult psychologically. But that first step is, practically speaking, almost absurdly easy. Adventure is as easy as this. Leave work. Meet up with friends. Head out of town. Watch the sunset. Sleep under the stars. Swim in a river. Head back to work. Being creative is as easy as this. Work out what you like making, reading, watching or hearing. Make it. Make more of it, but different, better and more personal. Starting a business is as easy as this. Decide what it is that you enjoy making or doing or being. Work out how that can solve someone’s problem or make them happier. Make it. Do it. Be it. Start selling that thing. Make some more and sell that too. Make it better than before. OVER TO YOU: Write a version of these summaries for your own life.  ‘‘Living adventurously is as easy as this:’’? Support this podcast by donating ?

Sliding doors An innocuous decision can set off a ripple effect that changes your life, like the butterfly effect or a sliding doors moment. One choice, two directions for your life.  Scene: The kitchen table, rain falling It would be wonderful to take good photographs. I’d love to capture the memories of my daughter growing up and our lovely holidays together.  I can’t afford a big camera. I’m not artistic. My photos are always rubbish.  The End. Scene: The kitchen table, windows open and birds singing It would be wonderful to take good photographs. I’d love to capture the memories of my daughter growing up and our lovely holidays together.  I can’t afford a big camera. I’m not artistic. My photos are always rubbish. But I do love looking at beautiful photography. I am going to start following more photographers on Instagram. Look! This photographer takes all her photos with the same phone as mine. She doesn’t use an expensive camera.  Hmmm… these portraits are fabulous. It’s interesting how she fills the frame much more than I do. I need to get closer and make each photo count. The golden hour? Let me Google that. Aha! So that is the secret of glowing landscape photography. I need to get up in the hills for sunrise, rather than snoozing through it. ‘What’s that you say? I’m lucky to have such nice photographs of my daughter? That I must be so artistic and have an expensive camera?’  Over to You:  When have you shied away from doing something because it wouldn’t be perfect?  Would ‘good’ have been a preferable outcome to not done at all? ? Support this podcast by donating ?

Mojo plus one I was once part of a team planning, training and fund-raising for an expedition to the South Pole. It was going to be a cracking adventure. I loved the guys I was working with. I was stronger than I had ever been in my life. I would be able to write a fabulous book afterwards. They were exciting times.But the expedition bank account was empty. We failed to secure enough sponsorship, and the expedition had to be postponed. Season after season the funding deadline came and went. After five years I accepted that this season had been my final chance to get to Antarctica. I withdrew from the expedition. I had failed.I spent the next week in the pub feeling sorry for myself. We had poured so much time and effort into the expedition, placed our varied lives and ambitions on hold and come together in pursuit of this one dream. And all for nothing. It felt so unfair. Why wouldn't someone give me piles of their hard-earned money so that I could go on a chilly camping holiday? More pressingly, what was I going to do with my life now that the beautiful blankness of Antarctica stretching off into the distance had been exchanged for the stark emptiness of my calendar stretching off into the distance?Here's what I decided, in a welcome moment of clarity at the bottom of an inappropriately-early-in-the-day pint of lager. I was going to stop feeling sorry for myself. And I was going to stop blaming the world. From now on, I was going to take responsibility for my adventures rather than waiting for mystery angel investors to swoop down and make my dreams come true. I was going to see an empty diary as a wonderful opportunity rather than the mark of a loser. And I was going to make stuff happen. Myself. Now. Six weeks later, instead of hauling a stupidly heavy sledge through the vast, inhospitable wasteland of Antarctica, I began hauling a stupidly heavy cart through the vast, inhospitable wasteland of Arabia instead. Ever since I first read about Wilfred Thesiger a dozen years earlier, I had wanted to make a journey of my own into the Empty Quarter desert. After putting it off for so long, I now made the expedition happen in just a month and a half. Disappointment led to simplicity and action. I planned to walk across a section of the Empty Quarter desert from Oman to Dubai. It was appealingly romantic in concept and simple (though not easy) in execution. The critical act was committing to it. I blocked the dates off in my diary. (See: I was lucky to have an empty diary, not cursed.) Second, for a fiery injection of peer pressure and accountability, I told people what I was going to do. Then I recruited someone to come with me. I didn't really know Leon, though we would become good friends. It was enough that Leon's reputation suggested he was competent to handle what the trip demanded, enthusiastic about making it happen and willing to commit despite neither of us knowing what we needed to commit to. (I prefer not to ruminate on why I need to find a new partner for each big expedition and that nobody comes with me twice…)Finally, we booked our plane tickets. This was a necessary symbolic and financial declaration of intent: a point of no return. Throughout this book, I have chosen to advocate a deliberately gung-ho, flippant approach to planning and to life. I've done this because very few people need urging to be more cautious or pessimistic. The internet and your parents are bursting with sensible advice. I don't have anything of much use to add. Leon and I prepared, trained and learned as much as we could before our too-soon-but-set-in-stone departure date. It certainly was not perfect preparation, but very few things in life require perfection at first. Perfect is splendid, but good enough is usually good enough. And perfect is the enemy of done. Bodge things from what you already have. Scale back your ambition if you are short of time or money. Ask folk to help. Making do feels good.You will never simultaneously have sufficient time, money and mojo. All I ever hope for is 'mojo plus one'. The start of our Empty Quarter expedition was a farce. My favourite ones often are. This is what happens when you get going before you are ready. But the alternative would have seen me still at home two years later, deep in cart research, seeking funding and perfection, and hiding my lack of guts behind excuses. Whether you operate in the worlds of Minimal Viable Products, cajoling your kid away from a screen and into a stream, or merely making a crap cart to haul across a hot desert because it makes you feel alive, the principal remains the same. First, commit. Then, begin. Everything else follows.Our DIY desert adventure was seemingly a world away from the original South Pole journey I was so disappointed to have failed at. There were fewer penguins and less money: two thousand quid of my own cash versus £1,700,000 of corporate sponsorship. There was no glossy website or press release, no social media strategy or 'world first' record. No book deal or swanky speaking gigs.But the new expedition still contained the core ingredients that had enticed me into committing five years trying to get to Antarctica. A hard challenge with a friend, a journey in the footsteps of a hero in a land I would never otherwise have experienced, a good story and great memories. Leon and I successfully completed the trek and made a film, Into the Empty Quarter, that we were both proud of. Do I regret not making it to Antarctica? Hell, yeah! Did I enjoy the journey that transpired in its place? Very much. You can't always get what you want, sang the Rolling Stones, but if you try – sometimes – you get what you need. If you think that your life would be better by making a change, then why wait? The best time is now. Over to You: What are you over-thinking and over-planning?  How can you simplify it?  What would happen if you stopped planning and began immediately? ? Support this podcast by donating ?

Ready, fire, aim It took years of dreaming and then eight months of proper planning before I set off on my first adventure. Once I was underway, cycling eastwards into a crisp European autumn, it dawned on me that all I was doing was going for a bike ride and a camping trip. What had all the fuss been about? You need a bike, a tent, a map, a passport and some cash. That’s about it. Pedal until you’re tired, then camp for the night. Repeat the process 1500 times, and you’ll be done.Consider how long you would take to get ready for a weekend bicycle trip. You’d pack your camping gear, a raincoat and toothbrush and check your wallet was in your pocket. Then you pump up the tyres and off you go. Easy. So why my years of protracted fuss getting ready for what was nothing more than a longer bike ride? As I pedalled further away from home, I learned the answer to this question. It offers a counterpoint to my mantra of instant, reckless launches. I came to understand that the importance of the planning was that it gave me the confidence I needed to begin. Preparation and organisation helped me overcome the fear of the unknown and prize myself away from cosy inertia towards a tipping point of commitment. As the ride unfolded, I worked out how to put up my tent more quickly and how to fix punctures at -40 degrees (put the pump down your pants to keep the seals from cracking). I got the hang of communicating without a common language. I learned the knack of organising visas for despotic countries. I developed the resilience to accept that it was up to me to solve every problem myself or else pluck up the nerve to ask a stranger for help. In other words, I learned how to cycle around the world by cycling round the world. Without all the planning beforehand, however, I would not have dared to set off. To know nothing but still toss my life up in the air and go would have demanded a gung-ho boldness far beyond my personality.For many projects, you don’t need much more than the confidence to begin. ‘Ready, fire, aim!’ is a good mantra (unless you are jumping out of an aeroplane or doing heart surgery). It is more effective than ‘Ready, aim, fire’, because that often becomes, ‘Ready, aim – faff, faff, faff, faff – postpone.’It is easy to confuse planning with stalling. Planning must not be an excuse to delay. Planning helped me cast light on the darkness, tack some answers to my concerns and reduce the chances of early failure or capitulation. It reassured those close to me that my scheme was not total madness. In this context, planning was useful, important and necessary. It was the tool that gave me confidence and an exercise in pragmatic recklessness.  OVER TO YOU: What practical planning steps do you need to get on with?  List them, rank them, then take action on Number 1. ? Support this podcast by donating ?