What happens when you leave everything behind – take your bicycle and just ride? This is a story about trust, exhaustion, joy, and everything in between. A journey that wasn’t always beautiful, but always real. A reminder that sometimes, the road knows more than we do.
Sounds romantic, doesn’t it? Two people, two bicycle, 33 countries, 30,000 kilometers – and countless times the same question: “So… where are you from?” – “Germany.” – “By bicycle??!”
Was it romantic? Yes. As romantic as wet tent tarps, smelly shoes, sticky muesli bars at six in the morning – and the eternal search for a shower. (Spoiler: sometimes there just isn’t one.)
We set off without a plan B
but with a pump, a tent, and a lot of idealism. Two people, two bicycle, a lot of curiosity – and the naive belief that cycling around the world might help us understand it better.
What followed: sandstorms, heat, cold, rain. Border officials with – and without – a sense of humor. Falls (mental and physical), street dogs, starry skies, existential crises and shockingly good (and bad) food. But out there, somehow everything tastes good.
We sweated through deserts, cursed through monsoon rains, improvised at border posts, fixed fuel stoves, patched tires and bags, challenged GPS devices – and kept going, somehow. Sometimes even in style. We never wanted to become the cliché long-haired world travelers with incense and overly long beards. Still – 20kg bicycle, 30kg luggage… it adds up.
Why did we do it? Honestly – no idea. Midlife crisis? Wanderlust? Because we could? Because we thought: it’s now or never? Probably all of the above.
And what did we find?
More than would fit into an entire cycling gear catalogue. It wasn’t always nice. But most of the time, it was amazing. And when it wasn’t, it was at least so absurd that we could laugh about it later.
This isn’t a heroic tale.
But maybe it shows that it’s worth setting off – with open eyes, a repair kit in your pocket, and the quiet trust that life on the road often has more to offer than any planned-out future.
And now – back on German soil, our bicycle and faces weathered, new wrinkles on old dreams – we’d like to tell you a little about it.
Not to inspire you (okay, maybe a little), but because life’s too good for “Hätte, hätte, Fahrradkette“. So here we go.
Just go
About a quiet idea that became a decision – and the slow goodbye to a seemingly perfect life. We didn’t wait for the perfect moment. It didn’t exist. But at some point, two years before we left, we made a decision – still fragile, but real. And then we started telling people. And with every conversation, every curious look, every nod, it became more and more real.
When I asked Klaus in 2020 if we were still going to do this trip around the world by bicycle, he said: “Nah. Everything’s so good right now.” And he was right. We had great jobs, friends and family nearby, Berlin was amazing – and our apartment was incredible.
I laughed and said: “One day I’ll be lying on my deathbed saying: But hey, I had a great apartment.” That’s when it clicked.
Not because the life we were living was wrong. It wasn’t. It was good. But it was also comfortable. Predictable. Safe. And deep down, there was this quiet restlessness. That pull in the chest when you look at a map. That desire to go deeper. To not just see the world, but feel it. So we made a decision. Not a grand, brave act – more like a quiet pact with ourselves: We’ll do this. Even if it scares us. Especially because it scares us. And so the goodbye began. Not all at once – more like a slow tide pulling away. We decluttered, planned, saved, tested our gear. And at some point, there was no way back. Just the road ahead. Here you can go back to the start of our journey.
No courage, just movement
Why the beginning wasn’t heroic – just hard. And why it’s easier to train your body than your mind.
Were we afraid? Not really. But we were tired. The first weeks were tough. We barely made progress. Physical struggles are one thing – mental ones are harder.
When everything got shaky
After Klaus’s heart attack in Dubai, everything was suddenly uncertain.
He wasn’t even sure it was a heart attack – or whether anything would continue at all. Still, we kept cycling – through the desert from Dubai to Al Ain, almost to the border with Oman. It was hot, exhausting, and empty – with a cloud of doubt hanging over us.
In Al Ain, we saw a doctor. He called in the evening and said: Klaus should go to the hospital immediately – his blood showed markers clearly indicating a heart attack. The next day, Klaus had two stents inserted. The diagnosis: six to eight weeks off. No bicycle. No adventure. We took the bus to Muscat, Oman’s capital – and had a stroke of luck: a cyclist friend offered us his apartment for the recovery. A quiet, hot place – perfect for slowing down.
We eased back in. A swim. Short rides. A bit of jogging. Klaus realized: it works. A little more each day.
Six weeks later, we boarded including our bicycle a ship to India.
And the journey continued.
Learning from those who have less
We learned a lot on this trip – but the most valuable lessons didn’t come from landscapes, temples or landmarks. They came from people. From those who often had far less than we did.
People who lived in simple homes, got by with little money, with few options – and still welcomed us with a smile and hospitality, no questions asked. At first, we thought our way of traveling – simple, with bicycles and a tent – might bring us “closer” to their lives. But it didn’t. As open and honest as these encounters were: we always had options. We could move on.
For us, it was an adventure. For them, it was life.
That realization wasn’t comfortable – but it was necessary. It taught us to travel with more humility and awareness.
And we learned something else:
Young people will shape the future. It’s the old ones who want to go backwards. Young people fight for change. The past wasn’t always better. In fact, it rarely was. But that’s another story.
Just the two of us
What did we learn about ourselves? A lot. But most importantly: we can do this. Together.
Three years, 24/7. No retreat, no routine, no breaks from each other. And yet – or perhaps because of it – a deep, unconditional trust grew. Of course, we had our moments. Hormones went wild. We were tired, overwhelmed, annoyed – at the world, the headwind, and yes, sometimes each other. We were dirty, sweaty, covered in sand, salt, sunscreen – and often days without a proper shower. Still – or maybe because of that – curling up next to each other at night felt like the best thing in the world.
So familiar. So quiet. So real.
You can’t plan the kind of happiness that comes from having someone by your side who makes all this possible. It grew. On dusty roads, under foreign skies, in tents, on ferries, through lonely nights and overflowing days. Our relationship didn’t just become more stable – it became softer, warmer, more genuine. And strong. Always. And when things get hard, when thoughts get heavy – it’s never because of him. It’s me. Because in the end, it’s always just a thought, or a feeling. And I alone decide whether to stay in the cloud – or let the light in again.
The courage to begin
You can’t teach anyone courage. We didn’t have it either – not at first. We just set off.
No big plan. No fears. No heroic stories.
Just one step at a time. Kilometer by kilometer. And along the way, we learned: it works. You grow – even when you’re tired. You carry what you need to – literally and emotionally. Self-trust isn’t a big bang moment. It’s a quiet, ongoing process.
You fall. You get up. You think you can’t go on – and then, suddenly, you do.
You can’t read it in books or put it on a checklist. It starts when you take the first step.
Somehow. Sometime.
And then you realize: I can do this. Maybe not perfectly. Maybe not like others. But in my own way. And that’s enough. More than enough.
Back – and full of stories
Sometimes I can’t believe it myself: Three years later, 30,000 kilometers, 33 countries – and we roll back into Germany. With the same bicycles we started on – now held together with duct tape and zip ties. The tires patched, our faces a little more lined, our hair a little greyer.
But we’re back. And full of gratitude. Full of stories, full of moments, full of encounters that shaped us. And full of joy for whatever comes next. Maybe with a little less sand in our shoes – and the lovely feeling of finding the toothbrush in the same place again, in Berlin. Because that, too, is a luxury.
And in a way: the beginning of a new journey. Can we inspire others? Maybe. But you can’t teach someone to trust themselves. You just have to go. And then you realize: it works. You fall, get up – and keep going.