We locked the bikes together and descended the steep stone steps to the lake, where tiny fishing boats sauntered across the surface, entire families on the shore awaiting the catch.

Our half-hour break inevitably turned into two hours, but we eventually mustered the energy to leave. Reaching the top of the steps, our brains were slow to react to what our eyes could clearly see – both bikes, complete with all our worldly possessions, being hauled onto the back of a pickup truck by four Mexican men!

We ran to the truck, surging with adrenaline, and physically hauled our bikes from the pickup, dumping them unceremoniously but safely away from the vehicle, whilst the driver attempted in vain to reverse away.

The bikes were still locked together – the combined load proved cumbersome enough to delay the would-be thiefs. We stood guarding our precious bikes, exchanging bi-lingual insults, caught between anger and shock. One of the men, clearly the scummiest of the scumbags, a walking offense to humanity, persisted to shout abuse at us and our 'madres'. Thankfully this disgrace was driven away, though not before drawing the blade of his knife, threatening us, and aggressively ripping open his white vest. Looking back, we thought he probably regretted this, as he would have to buy a new vest, and noted that he should probably do some pectoral and ab work before repeating such a gesture. Pumped with rage, tempered with relief, and barely able to comprehend how close we had come to being 'Two Guys Walking to Costa Rica'

Rewind two months; Mark and I are sitting at our homes in Southend and Enfield respectively, despairing over the ill-timed liquidation of Zoom Airlines, the evening before our flight to Vancouver that would have set our long-awaited adventure in motion. By this stage however, calling the whole thing off was out of the question, after the hours upon hours spent raising money and awareness for our cause, not to mention our bicycles, kindly donated by Muddy Fox especially for the trip. The money raised for the trip was to be donated towards a project set up by Plan International, which entailed the construction of classrooms and facilities in a primary school in the north of Guatemala. We bit the bullet and booked another flight, accepting that our already tight budget would need to be squeezed even tighter.

The two of us had met in 2005 whilst coaching tennis at a summer camp in New Hampshire, USA. Our friendship went from strength to strength after returning to England and regularly meeting up to write songs on our guitars, busk and occasionally play the odd gig. We began to speak of travelling; drooling over world maps for hours and fantasising about the unlimited potential for adventure once our respective commitments had come to an end (after graduating from Loughborough, Mark was undertaking a two-year teaching course and I was studying Graphic Design in Norwich). As our impending freedom grew closer, so did our eagerness to explore the world. We were determined to undertake something big – something challenging that would really push our mental and physical capabilities to their limits and beyond. And so, after much deliberation, we came upon a plan to cycle across two continents, from Canada to Costa Rica.

Our objective was to live as simply and as cheaply as possible; cooking our own food and sleeping in a small tent wherever we were allowed to pitch it! These elements coupled with the fact that our mode of transport was obviously free of charge meant that we were able to limit our spending to as little as $5 each per day. We went with the mentality that excessive amounts of money equalled unnecessary comforts – which in-turn meant a diluting of cultural experience. It was important that our travels went beyond a checklist of places on a map; where situations of adversity are equally important to moments of joy, and where appreciation of every single meandering experience is essential. We wished to completely immerse ourselves in the everyday realities of life in each respective country.

Nowhere was this ethos so important as in Guatemala, a country that we fell in love with from the moment we pedalled across its border from the giant land-mass that is Mexico. We were excited to finally observe first hand, what the considerable amount of money raised through the generosity of friends and family back home – not to mention the people we met along the way on the North American leg of the cycle – would contribute towards, and we were not disappointed. Despite being informed that the school was on vacation for the next month, what greeted us upon our arrival was far from the empty institute we had expected. The whole village of Candelaria had gathered on the school grounds to greet us! It struck me that for the past three and a half months we had been nothing more than glorified hobos and yet suddenly, we were being held in esteem, and treated like celebrities. I enjoy a small ego massage as much as the next guy but this was something else – a situation in which I felt distinctly uncomfortable.

However as the morning unfolded with speeches by the heads of the village, singing and dancing from some of the kids, the formal nature of the event had all but disappeared. We were able to talk to some of the children, who we discovered had been selected by their peers to be representatives of the school, and spoke to us ingenuously about their aspirations for the future; aspirations that seemed to have been instilled by some of the excellent projects already undertaken by Plan International over the past few years.

Things happen when you travel on a bicycle. We have seen the vast sandy beaches of Oregon, the redwoods of Northern California, the lavish glamour of LA and the bohemia of Santa Cruz and San Diego; the culture shock of Mexico and its dry, suffocating heat and dangerous roads, illness and exhaustion, hospitality and hostility. Throughout the course of our journey we have slept on starlit Mexican beaches, by a railway line, on a yacht, on the gravel floor of a Nicaraguan bar, in which UB40 was blasted from a jukebox to the small hours! On a building site by a ferry port, in a lakeside hammock surrounded by volcanoes, in a Guatemalan family home where four generations slept, and in a beachfront villa owned by a flamboyant Mexican motorbike enthusiast.

I have lost a tent while running away from a dog. Wrestled our bikes from the pick-up truck of four would-be thieves. Watched the sun set over deserted cliffs feeling like the King of the world, and laid in the roadside dirt under the baking sun next to a roadkill dog, unable to move through sheer exhaustion.

Yet, I can think of no better way to appreciate the intimate details of a place than by bicycle. In a motorised vehicle one may appreciate A, then travel to B. On a bicycle the very concept of A and B is academic. Travel is slowed to a pace where one can appreciate every single inconsistency in the road and subtle changes in landscape, culture and even atmosphere. On no other form of transport would we have had the opportunity to meet so many local people, allowing us to get a very real insight into subtle cultural quirks that simply would not have been accessible in the more tourist-friendly areas. Our journey seemed to flow like a river, steadily working its way through the landscape, never rushed, yet constantly on the move. The way life should be.

Words: Greg Hardes