Girl on the Net

One of my favourite songs by The Beautiful South, Prettiest Eyes, tells the story of a lifelong love by the lines it has drawn on the face of the singer’s beloved. “Line one is the time that you, you first stayed over at mine. And we drank our first bottle of wine. And we cried.” Life makes its mark on you, if you’re lucky enough to keep living it. The lines you draw tell a story about how you’ve lived. In the spring of 2026 I drew these lines.

I set out on my bike on March 23^rd. In the wake of a couple of properly terrible years, after too much time spent hunting for the kind of person who might grow old and make some fun lines with me.

I didn’t find them.

I found a few people who wanted to make different kinds of lines: the sort that are carved into your face when you’re sad. On edge. Worried that you might be in trouble.

I’d love to find someone who’ll make the joy lines with me: the crow’s feet that denote a life spent smiling. But that person hasn’t shown up yet, so what am I gonna do, just wait? Am I gonna carve lines of boredom or dissatisfaction as I grow miserable and bitter for all of that waiting?

Nah.

I want to live the kind of life that makes bold, happy lines on my face. I want wrinkles that show I’ve spent my time smiling. Not waiting for someone to hold my hand through the hard stuff, but daring myself to get on and do it anyway – quickly, before the opportunity slips through my grasp.

I set out from the UK in March, and I started drafting this post in April, in Linz, Austria. I’d cycled almost a thousand miles at the point I began writing, and still had 300 left to go.

Along the way, I wrecked my body, built up my body, destroyed my liver with uncountable massive German beers. Bought a bike from a random guy off eBay, then gave that bike away two days later so someone else could have an adventure of their own. Saw waterfalls, a fish ladder, tiny little lizards! I tried a drink called ‘Gossmas’ which is fucking delicious, and another drink called ‘Unicum’ which is absolutely not. Made friends with another woman as we cycled beside orchards in the pouring rain. Got taken in by a kindly Italian man playing host at his family restaurant, who generously got me so drunk I could barely walk the 200 metres back to where I was staying. I did solo wine-tastings while eavesdropping on gossip from nearby American tourists. Wandered chic European cities feeling cosmopolitan and stylish then masturbated in grubby, cheap hotel rooms when bedtime came round. I sweated on sunny days and cried on soaking wet ones, bled on period days and then bled even more on the day I came off my bike into a pile of spiky stones just outside Regensburg.

I taught myself what I truly can’t live without (anti-chafe cream, my laptop, encouragement from friends) and what I definitely can (waterproof trousers).

I would have loved to have somebody with me for the whole of this epic journey. An incredible friend came to join me for two days – fellow sex-blogger Tabitha Rayne is the one I bought the ebay bike for, who painted the gorgeous image that accompanies this post. It’s based off a photo she took of me when I was high on joy and laughter. Having her with me brought life at a point when I felt like I might need to quit. Thighs aching, legs bruised, confidence broken, exhausted and needing comfort… she turned up at just the right moment, and we grinned and played and drank and giggled and made a few lines together. I am so very very grateful.

The thing I missed the most while I was gone was the chance to talk to someone at the end of every day. To celebrate the wins and commiserate on the losses. I would love, so much, to have a partner with me on the long-haul journey that is life. But in the absence of that person, what am I gonna do? Just wait?

No.

I’m going to draw the good kind of lines. And I’m going to be humbled by the sheer luck I have at being able to do that. For the first time in my life, I have the means, ability and inclination to do exactly this. The means: I have the money for accommodation and food and on-the-fly bike repairs, plus a job with a boss kind enough to let me take off five entire weeks. The ability: I won’t be able to cycle huge distances in twenty or thirty years’ time, I’ll count myself incredibly lucky if I can still do it in ten. And the inclination, too. That’s important. The understanding that you can dream all you like about the things you want to do, and talk around it till your friends are bored of hearing about possible futures, but one day you have to actually pluck up the courage and go.

This trip started with me casually telling a couple of people I fancied cycling the Danube. It had been on my bucket list for a while. Then I started researching and the start point didn’t look too far away so I figured… why not ride the Rhine as well? Then one night I got drunk and made a spreadsheet of stopping points, spaced out based on how much I reckoned I could cycle in one day.

I cannot stress enough how much of my planning was based on good, old-fashioned drunk ‘reckoning’. I reckoned for a while, and I kept talking about it, until eventually I figured I should put my money where my mouth was and buy tickets.

I booked the travel. I dicked around with my spreadsheet. Nearer the time I started googling ‘weather in [name of city]’ and ‘things to do around [rest day location]’.

And eventually I set off on my bike.

Drinking a cider with shaking hands on the deck of a Stenaline ferry out of Harwich, I texted my friends and family a cheerful, positive message, while secretly thinking: oh shit. What the fuck have I done?

The evening I started drafting this post, I sat by the river in Linz, watching the city come alive with lights at dusk. I sipped a beer and vaped and listened to The Beautiful South and felt the ache in all of my muscles. It was the end of a two-day binge of riding as hard as I could: twice in a row I’d done over 100km, the equivalent of cycling the M25 in one weekend.

But with far nicer views.

My skin is dry and cracked, and when I look into the mirror I see wrinkles upon wrinkles. Crow’s feet exacerbated by dehybration and sun damage, that’ll fade a little when I pop on a face mask, but set down a pattern that will hopefully be built upon later.

You can’t have too many good times, children, you can’t have too many lines.

I drew some fucking lines, my friends. I drew these lines. And I’m very proud of them.

When people ask me why I did this, my answers ranged from the flippant – ‘mid life crisis’ – to the playful – ‘why not?’ – to the overly thoughtful that’ll take up too much space in a single post. But ultimately I think the answer comes down to the fact that for the first, and possibly only, time in my life I have the means, ability and inclination to make these particular memories. When I realised a part of me was waiting for someone to make those memories with me, I was ashamed – it felt small and unworthy of the life I really want to live. So I resolved to make them for and with myself.

I’m not doing this to impress a boy or for clicks or money or #content (over and above baseline levels of all these things, of course, which power me through every single day). I’m doing this to remind myself that I am lucky to be here. Lucky to be alive. Lucky to survive one more year, and carve some new lines on my face.

Between 23^rd March and 30^th April, I cycled over 1300 miles (2100 kilometres). Through 7 countries, stopping in 32 cities/towns, and eventually rolling in alongside the Danube to Budapest.

I’d love to have someone to draw these lines with me, but in the absence of that person…?

I will sure as shit draw them myself.