My son Fred: London to Singapore on two wheels

Connecting through challenge; maternal anxiety and joy; small acts of kindness

(Fred in Cappadocia, central Anatolia, Turkey; his whole life on a bike)

In February 2024, my beautiful 26-year-old son Fred relocated to Frankfurt for a new role, a new life. He bought a car, packed his snowboard, books, records, coffee machine. He left his friends, his flat in Bristol, his family including me, his mum. But hey, Germany is not so far away and we have a plan to meet in Vienna in the autumn and he will be back for Christmas (we love Christmas). He’s an adventurer and has travelled to Uganda, Rwanda, India, Malaysia, Thailand; often solo. He has motorbiked on the highest road on the planet. He laughs and lives heartily. He is one of the most enthusiastic, energetic humans I know. About politics, work, partying, contributing to life. Fred fizzed with excitement as he left.

Two months into his new German life, we chat on zoom. For geo-political reasons, the role with the company is not tenable. Deutschland life is not working out. I rarely hear Fred sound confused or lost but I hear it in the quiver of his voice; I see it in his brave face. His hopes for this new European life, dashed. He feels punched in the gut. His solar plexus is not sunny. In a country where he knows not a soul and doesn’t speak the language. And this dashing of his dream has dimmed his Fred pilot light. He has lost his key, self-identifying quality. Enthusiasm.

He has an announcement. He has decided to cycle from London to Singapore. Cycle. On an actual bicycle.

He knows me. He knows my maternal anxiety is high. I am on amber alert if he cycles two miles to a north London pub. My cells feel shuffled, my nerves agitated if any of my three children are in discomfort. He has spent weeks contemplating this plan; what it means mentally, emotionally, physically, for his career and for me. He shows care and sensitivity to my wellbeing. Crucially, he knows why he wants to cycle. For Fred, it is a deep, strong yearning to explore from the west to the east of the globe, to understand people’s lived experience on the ground, from the ground. To engage with humanity, the landscape, the culture of each country. To confirm that, in spite of war, injustice, inequity, most people are good. He knows too that it will be a monumental challenge, an ordeal for his body, his mind and at times his spirit.

This first conversation is a beautiful, connected exchange. We speak openly, maturely. He shares his vulnerability, confusion and musings. I feel proud of his intelligent bravery. We both shed tears. I listen to him, I truly listen. I know what it is to face disappointment. I know too what it is to choose to live brightly. And I say, yes darling. Yes. I see this. I see this in you. Take this opportunity to live your cycling dream.

I spend time rambling on what has arisen for Fred. Our lives bring unexpectedness, surprises and complications, often unwelcome or unpredictable ones. Everything is sunny and calm and wham, bam out of nowhere clouds descend. We sit in a fog and haven’t brought the right clothes for the weather. A shock to our ecosystem, our spirit.

The clouds pass. We adjust and perhaps new insight and knowledge into how to proceed, what we are capable of, what we know of ourselves and what we are still learning, emerge. New emotions rise; new neurological pathways are created. Positive steps, the search for different choices, courage. Fred engaged with his emotions and thoughts, examined them and carved out options. He took time to adjust to this detour from the expected. Meaningful and mature, if painful and frustrating. What learning! What potency this learning can bring to a young man of twenty-six. Out of the existential crisis comes spirited growth. Maybe even soulfulness. I admire his soul, his joie de vivre, his drive for life. I am proud of his self-awareness.

Sometimes, the Light Shines Brightest in the Dark (a song by Jon Batiste, husband of my heroine Suleika Jaouad). Never more true than when living with stage 4 cancer. Therapy helps me recognise when it is important for me to feel my feels, let them out for some airtime and when I need to move into action, thought and pragmatism. It’s a constant shift from one state to the other. Increasingly, I am in the latter sorty-sorty mode within a space oxygenated by emotion. In his dark spot, Fred awoke and engaged with the desire and determination to live his cycling dream. A wonderful, potent response to his situation. A creative response. I celebrate his adventurous spirit, his humanity, his quest for connection to universal truths and lessons.

We spend much time in the weeks ahead writing to one another and talking. I dig deep to step into his shoes. I quieten my maternal chatter. I try and choose trust in him, the bike, the cycling community, the universe. My dark, night-time self is terrified. I am doom heavy with thoughts of baddies, bears, wars, traffic accidents. Of loneliness, illness, disasters, of mountain passes, deserts, sub-zero temperatures. My boy, my boy.

He returns to London for a month of preparation, bike building, visa applications and important beautiful time with us all. I listen to his plans. Look at his spreadsheets. Talk to him about medical kits, how many pairs of socks to take (worryingly few), water purifications tablets, about where he might set up camp. He tells me about the joyful cycling community Warm Showers where hosts offer hospitality, meaningful connection and perhaps a bed for the night, food, and yes, a hot shower. We talk together about how often he will be in touch. He reassures me I can reach him. That he will take me with him. That in my cancery place, his adventure may enrich my life too.

One evening, we sit in the car near our house and talk. I tearfully tell him my fears, my future missingness of him. I want him to be okay, safe. And yet I champion him. And in the car, I have a realisation. There is a parallel in our lives. In my unchosen cancery life, I face uncertainty. Also joy, awe and new, creative connections. My endurance is often tested. And Fred is about to embark on a chosen solo adventure requiring courage. He too faces uncertainty. He too will at times feel crippling fatigue, loneliness, joy and awe. And this parallelism comforts me somehow. We are together. We are talking profoundly. He will do this trip. I will manage my fears. I do not wish to deny his wanderlust. I release him with trust.

On a sunny day in June, we hug goodbye on a British coastal path in Sussex. On his shiny, newly constructed bike (his new home) I am reminded of schoolboy Fred in an oversized, fresh blazer. He cycles away. Surreally, one revolution at a time he will cross the planet. And as his legs pedal him thousands of kilometres through France, Belgium, Germany, the Czech Republic, Austria, Slovakia, Hungary, Serbia, Kosovo, North Macedonia and Greece he shares his voyage with me. He is hosted dozens of times by benevolent people; truck drivers share their breakfast with him; strangers hand him watermelon, bottles of fresh water. How is it possible that on two good wheels he has traversed Europe, that he is now in Asia? He has crossed a poem of rivers: the Somme, Meuse, Moselle, Saar, Rhine, Neckar, Rems, Queich, Danube, Morava, Vardar, Struma, Nestos, Simav, Sakarya, Ceyhan, Euphrates, Tigris, Aras. The Bosphorus strait and the Dardanelles.

Fred has been in Turkey now for over a month. Last week, he was hosted by a Kurdish family with six children. They welcomed him into their home, fed him, embraced my son. They were delighted that their children had the opportunity to read to him in English. He sent me smiling photos. The next morning, I walk to the flower market in East London. A bright, sunny beauty of a day. Walking through the park, I notice a woman sitting in a wheelchair reading the newspaper in the shade. She is maybe in her eighties. I think to myself, if she is there later, I will stop and talk to her. I walk back with bright bunches of dahlias for Sarah’s mum and a bag of magenta pink potted cyclamen for our window box. The woman is there still. I say, ‘You look peaceful and happy, sitting there. Would you like one of these cylcamen?’ She looks quizzically and asks in a lilting brogue, ‘That’s lovely. Will I pay for you it?’ No, it is a gift, I explain. We smile at one another.

A line of kindness and connection from Fred and the Kurdish folk in Eastern Turkey to me and a woman in East London vibrates. I was inspired to be bold and speak to her thanks to the family’s generous hosting of my son. The cyclamen was my gift to her. She was a gift to me. Fred keeps the wheels turning; the kindness circles around.

About lung cancer in the United Kingdom

Lung cancer can affect any of us including those who have never smoked.

It is the biggest cause of cancer death globally for men and women.

Symptoms include: a persistent cough; breathlessness; chest infections; chest, back or shoulder pain; losing weight; unexplained tiredness.

Not everyone who goes on to be diagnosed has a cough. Including me.

Find out more about lung cancer:

EGFR Positive UK

Oncogene Cancer Research

Roy Castle Lung Cancer Foundation