VISA VIE

Vis-à-vis the pendulum of momentum

On May 4th, I was sat at a café and decided to call up a friend asking how his recent racing and life had been going since our last chat. He happened to also be someone who had seen the effort I had put in, first hand, to get myself to the races throughout my time as a professional. All in the face of many logistical challenges, surrounding the limits imposed by the Schengen Visa. We had had many, many such chats about the topic in numerous hotels around the world in those two years that we raced, and roomed together.

A left field, but entirely brilliant holiday to Albania

This time, as the conversation was drawing to a close, I saw the email land. I told it to him; he paused; he appreciated, as much as I did, that it was going to be a big moment. He stayed on the other end of the phone; I took a breath. He graciously held the space. It was a big moment. I would either pack my things and head home, or I would… I don’t know. I would be able to stay in Europe.

I opened the email. And I read the document.

» Le 04/05/2026, une décision favorable a été prise à la suite de votre demande d’admission au séjour. Une carte de séjour pluriannuelle, valable du 05/05/2026 au 04/05/2030 «

We inform you that the prefecture has decided favourably to award you 4 years of séjour in France. 4 YEARS! In France.

A welcome break in Switzerland, grâce à mon VISA

I had no words, only a sigh—built up over ten years—of relief. I felt a strong impulse pulsate throughout my nervous system. Not necessarily my hair standing on end; it wasn’t goosebumps, or anything like that. I found it was something more profound, more deep-rooted, like my body was letting go, with excitement flooding in to replace that slight underlying tension. And in that moment, I was very glad I had people to talk with and talk to me. Important people who had understood and were as relieved for me as I was for myself. They found the words of support and joy when I couldn’t speak. Together we basked in the enormity of that moment, as my spine tingled head to toe, with a future timeline rapidly expanding like a scene from the series Loki. It all swept over me like a tsunami.

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A few weeks after that fact, and some successful racing on the books, and a semblance of processing this news, I came home, home (to England), for the first time in six months. I was back to training on the shocking, though unsurprisingly, dreadful roads of England’s highways. And I noticed something a pattern of sorts, mirroring this thought I held in my mind of the last ten years.

Images flickered of the years of to-and-froing from the British border to France, and back again—often several times a week. I spent many, many hours of my life balancing, and counting diligently, the days which I had spent within the Schengen area. I had to, because I had a very strong desire to compete in as many races as possible across the year, and fulfil my contract with the team. It was quite a logistical feat, and one that meant momentum was a tough thing to build, as I had to strictly cut any race weekend pre-emptively by being the first in and out of the showers after the race, so that I could return home that evening and thus save a day or two on my 90-day limit.

For years, I worked hard to maintain any semblance of a good run in spite of this ticking clock in my mind. I worked hard to keep top shape physiologically, despite the amount of travel hours taking away from training and recovery, and also psychologically, despite the morale hit I’d endure by having to cut any evening plans to spend time with friends, or debriefs with my colleagues, so that I could reach the check-in on time.

Sometimes, I’d get a shot at passing three solid weeks in a single place; the maximum I saw reasonably possible when balancing the Schengen books. It provided enough time for me to feel grounded and look forward to a string of several races whilst enjoying my time in a single place where I could unpack my car entirely.

Inevitably, though, that momentum would be cut short. And just when I felt I was building speed towards a goal, in racing, and in life. Ultimately, I’d always be battling the intense psychological fatigue created by the low hum of the ticking clock almost resonating in harmony as my suspension absorbed the incessant nooks and crannies of the British and Belgian roads.

And despite driving the day before a race, often over 5 hours at a time (and the same immediately after the race), I would perform to the best of my abilities, no matter the fatigue in the legs or in the mind. Each journey, driving the same roads, on the same route home with the persistent buzz of the car’s tyres, was mind-numbing.

And with that thought, I made the connection. A connection I feel between the underlying structure which is present in England. And how strikingly the resemblance was to what I was feeling every time I was obliged to return to the British Isles.

You see, South West London, Surrey especially, for some reason, has a seemingly endless plague of road works going on in almost every town centre. I think they’re more indicative of a to

wn or municipality than a Cathedral is the mark of a city. Immediately, in the very first minutes of my rides, it was start-stop, just like those great many voyages between Europe and Britain, with merciless chains of traffic lights, which frustratingly turn red just as I approach. They’re baked into Britain’s structure, which undoubtedly then seeps into its cultural mindset.

It stains the mind of the person behind the wheel or on the bike who is perpetually drawn to a halt, just when, precisely when, they’ve just got up to speed. On the bike, this requires effort, and so, when the light flickers from Green to Orange to Red again, just as you approach, there oft is a soft purring voice that sounds, mimicking the engine’s downshifts as it becomes aggravated. Forced to pause by a thing out of your control. There is a resident feeling that someone and something is going out of its way to make a nuisance of one’s life, to delay the rush to get to a certain place. Though fretting gets you nowhere and noquicker.

A European, I’ve seen, may see it as a welcome pause. They may look out the window and appreciate the person walking with swagger, or the birds chirping and dancing about in the free air. Yet, I find the Briton never takes a break in the aggravation of it all. Always wanting to go somewhere but never sure, in themselves. Anytime they feel like they’re gathering momentum, they are staggered to an abrupt halt.

And that has been mirrored exactly in my life over the last several seasons of racing. Every race I gathered momentum, I could not build on that excitement by joining my friends and colleagues after the race, with a welcome kebab or ice-cream after a hot summer’s day at the Elfstedenronde (or any other like race). I never had time, in the literal sense, to hang around with my friends and deepen any friendships I had. I had a five-hour drive to catch my train that evening, which often covered the width of Belgium, so I could save a valuable day for later in the season. The ultimate form of delayed gratification. I suppose that’s why I attach quickly to people, and put effort into keeping up with people I consider to be cool people.

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This is my view of my time in England. And this is why receiving this visa in France helps me breathe so deeply. Things being out of my control are bearable because there is space from the truly uncontrollable, rather than being reminded of the fact literally every 500m.

For years, I worked stubbornly toward making a future for myself in Europe, initially in Belgium, and then eventually in France. Ten years since we voted ourselves out, and for all they say, one of the biggest burdens of the entire thing lies in the potential future of the younger generation beyond the shores of Britain being eroded. A future resigned to the British shores for many.

That weight has immediately lifted off my shoulders at those words in that document. I no longer feel shackled, tied to the British Isles. I have a future beyond those shores. I cried. Intensely. First the relief, and then the joy. And then all the people who had helped me, and without whom I would not have managed to get through these last enormously taxing seasons. My body showed fatigue in ways I had never imagined or seen before. It was recovering and imagining a great future. It was exciting. I was excited. I am excited.