The Cathedral in York.
Life is precious. The fact that we as humans have the ability to live, breathe, think, love, bleed and die is nothing less than a miracle. When my life is over, how much I earned and how far I have traveled will mean little compared to how well I loved.
It was exactly these thoughts that struck me recently as I was perched in my tent on a cliff overlooking the ocean just north of Newcastle. I had ridden 70 miles that day. I was sore and lazy. And just as I was mindlessly shoveling spoonfuls of pesto pasta into my stomach, a glimmering light caught the corner of my eye.
It was the pre-glow of a full moon that peeked from over the edge of the horizon.
I watched as the fullness of its soft, white light emerged from behind the waves and illuminated a dance of silvery-blue tendrils upon the sand. It was a scene of such intense beauty that an overwhelming feeling came over me. It was a feeling of great appreciation for all things - this journey, this life - followed by a deep recognition of how lucky I am to be alive.
It was hardly the feeling I felt as I started. My first 100 miles of pedaling south through the United Kingdom was nothing less than a struggle.
I battled for cadence against the Scottish blustery winds off the North Atlantic. I had learned to approach them as I did all challenges on this trip: head on. And as I learned not to fight it, the wind seemed to reward me with the sweet smell of peat smoke that rose from chimneys and swirled amongst the stone houses on the coast south of Aberdeen. Somewhere near the seaside hamlet of Stonehaven, the wind reached its pinnacle, causing me to stand over my pedals and push as hard as I could in my lowest gear just to get downhill.
I pedaled south along the coast through the blowing fury. From there I passed through Montrose, Arbroath and Dundee, and across the Bridge of Tay.
Days later I drifted effortlessly down the eastern slope of the Lammermuirs into the border town of Duns. There, I was randomly welcomed off the street and into the quaint village home of Iaian Bell. The next morning, I rode across the Tweed River and quietly slipped into England.
Looking around, it seemed nothing had changed. Then, I began to listen.
What had changed was the sound of the language. Instead of the heavy rolling Rs and thick Scottish brogue of the north, a soft English lilt filled the air.
At closer look, the names, signs and pubs now seemed to be particularly English.
This inspired me. So I picked up my pace toward the Northumberland Coast. When I reached its shores I cycled beneath the towering seaside castles of Bamburgh, Dunstanburgh, Druridge and Whitley Bay. Each housed great monoliths of stone, filled with wonder and telling a story of life long lived before my own. I continued south along the winding coast near Whitley before I loaded my bicycle on a ferry and crossed the Tyne River in Newcastle.
When I reached Whitburn I was met by my new host Tony Long, who gave me a lift to his home in Spennymoor.
There I met his wife, Elaine, and their children Heather, James and Catriona. In the days following, Elaine drove me to a mammoth metal sculpture entitled Angel of the North, and Catriona showed me around the spectacular cathedrals of Durham.
From there, it was south yet again through a series of charming country villages in the hills of North Yorkshire and North York Moors National Park. I stopped in the village of Osmotherley at a pub for a pint. One led to two, and any further motivation to move on was drained. I forked out 20 pounds and the pub tender showed me to a room upstairs.
I flipped around the TV channels for the local weather forecast.
The forecaster seem to speak in the jargon saved for those with severe depression.
"It will be dreary in the morning, dreadful in the afternoon and dismal at night."
I loaded up my things the next morning and headed for the city of York.
Despite the weather, York shined.
When I rolled through the gates in the heart of the city, it felt as though someone had just sprinkled me with magic dust.
My wheels dissected downtown. Passing over its cobble, I saw the ancient twisted buildings within the shambles, rode past the cathedral and beneath circular remnants of the York Castle. I was riding past a host of ancient pubs and shops, when it dawned on me that many of them had been in continuous operation since the signing of the Declaration of Independence. I was amazed.
That's when I remembered I had business to tend to. In a rare moment of good sense, I'd thought ahead. I had e-mailed a local cycling club looking for a host and received a welcoming reply from Peter Eland.
Peter, 33, is a mechanical engineer from Oxford who had moved to York. Besides being a bicycle fanatic, Peter is the publisher of Velo Vision, a magazine about alternative bicycles, trailers and human-powered vehicles.
When I pulled up, he was sitting atop a regular bike, but towing a homemade bicycle trailer that would challenge any big rig. In the back he carried a sizable load of machine parts, like a human-powered SUV.
When we met, he slipped his hand into mine and smiled. After introductions, I followed him back to his home. It seemed a shrine to all things mechanical. Each room was filled with various mechanical oddities. As I looked, it occurred to me that this guy was a genius.
After a meal and a good night's sleep, we awoke and headed out on a ride in the glowing green countryside surrounding York.
That night, I asked Peter how his love affair with the bicycle got started.
"I got a bike when I was 17," he said. "I immediately fell in love with the freedom and independence, as well as the sensation and the movement under your own power."
He told me he had commuted almost exclusively by bike. I inquired how he had managed to live 33 years without a car.
He smiled and replied, "I took about three driving lessons when I was younger and thought I can't be bothered with it."
He thought for a moment, then continued, "Since then, I've been lucky to live in places where it's possible to live without a car."
I asked if he felt as though he was missing out on something without a vehicle.
"It's like anything else," he concluded. "It's really not about what I can't do, and more about what I can."
Peter seemed a visionary of sorts and his wisdom moved well beyond bicycles.
In the days following, as I finished my ride into London, Peter's words seem to haunt me.
I had come 7,000 miles, across seven countries, almost completely under my own power. For a moment my mind ran over the hundreds of people and places I had deeply connected with. The deep appreciation I felt before returned. I had gotten what I had come for, and with that, I was glad to be alive.
-- Former Nevada Appeal photographer Rick Gunn is on a two-year bicycle journey around the world. Along the way, he is raising money for the Make-A-Wish Foundation. To donate, go to wish.org. For more of his entries, go to rickgunnphotography.com or nevadaappeal.com.