When I set out from Prague, Venice was certainly the city I had in mind, but the real attraction was everything in between. I wanted to cross Central Europe under my own power, climb into the Alps, descend to the Adriatic, and experience how the landscape, architecture, language, and culture gradually change from one region to the next.

The route eventually became a journey of nearly 3,000 kilometers.

Leaving Prague, the road winds through the rolling countryside of Bohemia and Moravia before crossing into Austria. Medieval towns give way to broad river valleys, then Alpine foothills, and finally the mountains themselves. The climb is steady rather than dramatic, allowing you to appreciate the transition from vineyards and farmland to dense forests, high meadows, and mountain passes.

Crossing the Alps is naturally one of the highlights, but it is only the beginning.

Descending into Slovenia brings an entirely different atmosphere. Lake Bled, the emerald-green Soča River, quiet villages, and the limestone landscapes of the Karst create one of the most memorable sections of the ride. From there the route continues into Istria, where Venetian hill towns overlook vineyards and olive groves before the Adriatic finally comes into view.

Reaching Venice is a milestone that few cyclists forget.

After days of mountain roads and quiet villages, arriving by bicycle at one of Europe’s most extraordinary cities feels almost surreal. Venice itself cannot be explored by bike, of course, but wandering its maze of canals, bridges, and narrow streets becomes a welcome change of pace before turning north again.

Because Venice is only halfway.

Rather than retracing my route, I returned to Prague by an entirely different path. Northern Italy led me back into the Alps, through another series of spectacular valleys and mountain passes, then into Austria’s beautiful Salzkammergut lake district. Following the Danube and eventually the Vltava River back toward Prague completed a circular journey that continually offered new landscapes rather than repeating old ones.

That, perhaps, is what makes this route especially rewarding.

It isn’t simply a ride from Prague to Venice.

It is two distinct journeys connected by one unforgettable destination.

Along the way I cycled through five countries, crossed the Alps twice, explored medieval towns, camped beside lakes, stayed in family-run guesthouses, discovered forgotten villages, and experienced the quiet satisfaction that comes only from watching Europe unfold one day’s ride at a time.

Many cyclists dream of crossing the Alps. Others dream of reaching Venice.

This route allows you to do both—and much more besides.

If you’re planning a long-distance bicycle tour in Central Europe, whether you ride the entire circuit or simply borrow sections of the route, I hope my experience helps you discover one of the most rewarding cycling journeys on the continent.

Download the complete PDF cycling guide here.

Or, if you prefer a printed copy with photographs, the paperback edition is available on Amazon.

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A vacation. A reward after months of work. A collection of photographs, memorable meals, famous landmarks, and souvenirs to bring home.

Sometimes it is exactly that.

But now and then, a journey becomes something entirely different.

People return home and resign from jobs they once believed they wanted. They end relationships that had quietly run their course. They move to another country, start a business, return to university, write a book, or simply begin living more honestly.

It is tempting to say that travel changed them.

Yet perhaps the journey did not change them at all.

Perhaps it simply revealed the person they had been becoming all along.

Travel has a remarkable ability to interrupt routines. At home, we live within patterns so familiar that we rarely notice them. The same streets. The same conversations. The same obligations. We mistake habit for necessity.

Our lives feel inevitable.

Then we travel.

Suddenly, nothing is familiar. We cannot rely on instinct. We must observe. Listen. Adapt. Even ordering breakfast or finding the right bus requires attention.

The mind wakes up.

More importantly, we compare.

Not consciously at first.

We see people living differently. Cities organized around entirely different priorities. Families eating together late into the evening. Elderly people remaining active. Children walking to school independently. Small villages where strangers still greet one another. Countries where success is measured by something other than income.

None of these observations suggest a better way of living.

But they prove something essential.

There is more than one way to build a life.

That realization can be profoundly unsettling.

Many of the decisions we considered permanent suddenly appear to have been choices all along.

The career.

The place we live.

The relationships we maintain.

The ambitions we inherited from others rather than discovered ourselves.

Travel quietly asks uncomfortable questions.

If people can live differently here, why couldn’t I?

It does not provide answers.

It simply makes the questions impossible to ignore.

That may explain why some of history’s greatest transformations began with journeys.

Pilgrims walked across continents in search of faith.

Artists left home seeking inspiration.

Scientists traveled to observe unfamiliar worlds.

Explorers crossed oceans not only to discover new lands but often to discover themselves.

The physical journey became an inner one.

Modern travel still carries that possibility, although it is increasingly easy to avoid it.

Today’s traveler can move halfway around the world while remaining psychologically at home—checking familiar news, eating familiar food, speaking only with companions, documenting every moment for social media before fully experiencing it.

Distance alone changes very little.

Presence changes everything.

The journeys that leave the deepest mark are rarely the most luxurious.

They are the ones where uncertainty enters the picture.

Where plans fall apart.

Where language becomes a barrier.

Where weather changes.

Where strangers help.

Where we become less concerned with controlling the experience and more willing to take part in it.

That is one reason I have always preferred traveling by bicycle.

A bicycle moves at a human pace.

Fast enough to cross a country.

Slow enough to notice the smell of a forest after rain, hear conversations drifting from village cafes, or stop because an old temple, a curious market, or a quiet river simply deserves a closer look.

The world unfolds gradually instead of rushing past a train window.

Each day becomes a conversation with the landscape.

Each evening feels earned.

Over the years, I have met many travelers who returned home carrying something invisible.

Not souvenirs.
Perspective.
Confidence.
A different understanding of what matters.

Some changed careers.
Some changed countries.
Some changed almost nothing outwardly, yet began living with greater purpose.

The journey itself was only a few weeks long .

Its influence lasted decades.

Looking back on my life, I can see that several journeys divided it into chapters.

Some were planned.

Others began almost by accident.

Each one quietly altered the direction that followed.

The roads themselves have long since disappeared behind me.

The decisions they inspired never did.

Perhaps that is the greatest gift travel offers.

Not the places we visit.

Not even the memories we collect.

But the possibility of returning home, seeing our own lives with fresh eyes.

Sometimes the greatest distance we travel is not measured in kilometers.

It is measured in the person we become before we finally arrive home.

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At first glance, it looked like a recycling center. But the longer I stared, the more it resembled a graveyard.

Thousands of bicycles. Twisted handlebars, bent wheels, rusting chains, faded saddles. Some were clearly beyond repair. But many appeared intact. Frames unbroken. Components reusable. Tires still holding shape. I could not help wondering how many could have rolled another thousand kilometers with a little attention.

The scene made me think about how differently societies view the end of an object’s life.

In Japan, where order and efficiency often prevail, perhaps many of these bicycles had simply reached the point where repair no longer made economic sense. Labor costs are high. New bicycles are relatively affordable. Recycling is systematic. The old is cleared away so the new can take its place.

In other parts of Asia, the fate of these bicycles might have been very different.

In India, dozens of mechanics would descend upon this pile like archaeologists excavating a lost city. Nothing would be wasted. A wheel from one bicycle, a saddle from another, a brake lever from a third. Within days, many of these machines would be back on the road carrying schoolchildren, laborers, farmers, and market vendors.

In Vietnam, Cambodia, or rural China, countless parts would find a second life. In Africa, entire workshops could survive for years on what appears here to be scrap metal.

Yet perhaps the most striking thought is that every bicycle in this pile once belonged to someone.

A child learning to ride.
A student cycling to school.
A worker pedaling to a train station every morning.
A retiree exploring country roads.
A traveler setting off on an adventure.

Every scratched frame and worn saddle carries an invisible story.

Some bicycles may have traveled only a few kilometers from home. Others may have crossed prefectures, climbed mountain passes, or followed coastlines in the salt air. They carried groceries, dreams, disappointments, first dates, daily routines, and quiet moments of freedom.

Standing before this mountain of discarded machines, I found myself wondering not about the steel and rubber, but about the people.

What journeys ended here?
What roads did they follow?
What stories would they tell if bicycles could speak?

Looking at this bicycle graveyard, I realized that what appears to be a heap of scrap is also an archive of forgotten lives, stacked wheel upon wheel, frame upon frame, waiting to be melted down and turned into something new.

The post Bicycle Graveyard appeared first on Footloose Cycling.

Yet some of my most memorable days in Japan were spent far from the country’s famous cities, pedaling along empty coastlines, through fishing villages, past steaming hot springs, and beneath the slopes of active volcanoes.

That is what drew me to cycling Kyushu.

Japan’s southernmost main island is often called the Land of Fire. Volcanoes have shaped its landscape for millennia, creating dramatic mountain scenery and some of the finest hot springs in the country. Yet for a cyclist, Kyushu offers much more than volcanoes. It is an island of rugged coastlines, offshore islands, historic ports, quiet farming valleys, and roads that seem made for bicycle travel.

My journey around Kyushu began in South Korea. After cycling across much of the Korean Peninsula, I boarded the overnight ferry from Busan to Fukuoka and arrived in Japan at sunrise. Standing on the deck as Kyushu emerged from the morning haze felt like the beginning of a new adventure.

Why Cycle Kyushu?

What struck me most about Kyushu was its variety.

One day I would be cycling beside the sea, passing fishing ports and tiny harbors where squid dried in the sun. The next day I would be climbing into forested mountains or crossing high volcanic plateaus.

The northwest coast around Karatsu, Matsura, and Hirado was among my favorite parts of the island. The roads were quieter than I expected, the scenery superb, and the villages retained a distinctly maritime character. Farther south, Nagasaki offered a fascinating blend of Japanese, Chinese, and European influences unlike anywhere else in Japan.

The route then led through the Amakusa Islands, one of the most beautiful coastal regions I encountered anywhere in the country. Here, narrow roads hugged rocky shorelines while fishing villages seemed suspended between sea and mountains.

The farther south I traveled, the more remote the journey became. Cape Toi, with its wild horses grazing above the ocean, felt a world apart from the urban centers of northern Kyushu.

Eventually the route turned inland toward Takachiho and Mount Aso, where the island reveals its volcanic heart.

What Makes Cycling in Japan Different?

Over the years I have cycled in dozens of countries, but Japan remains unique.

The roads are generally excellent. Even minor roads are paved and well maintained. Public bathrooms are frequent and remarkably clean. Convenience stores are everywhere and provide reliable access to food, drinks, and supplies.

Yet what I remember most is not the infrastructure.

It is the people.

Throughout Kyushu I repeatedly experienced small acts of kindness. A shopkeeper pointing me in the right direction. An onsen attendant charging my phone while I soaked in the hot pools. Local residents stopping to ask where I had come from and where I was going.

Even more striking was the road etiquette.

Drivers routinely slowed down, waited patiently, and often waved me through first. If one car stopped, every vehicle behind it stopped as well. I never heard a driver honk at me anywhere in Kyushu. On the contrary, drivers often smiled as they passed.

Years later, while cycling parts of Honshu along the Nakasendo and Tokaido routes, I found traffic noticeably busier and drivers somewhat less accommodating. Kyushu, by comparison, felt calmer and more relaxed.

Onsens: The Cyclist’s Reward

No discussion of cycling Kyushu would be complete without mentioning onsens.

After a long day in the saddle, few pleasures compare to soaking in naturally heated mineral water while looking out over mountains, forests, or the sea.

The volcanic activity that created Kyushu’s dramatic landscapes also created countless hot springs. Some are attached to hotels, others are public bathhouses, and many are found in small towns that owe their existence to geothermal activity.

I often planned my days around the possibility of finding an onsen in the evening.

Sometimes I camped afterward. Sometimes I continued cycling. But every visit left me feeling restored for the next day’s ride.

The Volcanic Heart of Kyushu

For many travelers, Mount Aso is the island’s defining landmark.

One of the world’s largest volcanic calderas, Aso dominates the center of Kyushu. Grass-covered hills rise toward smoking volcanic peaks, while roads cross the rim and descend into a vast landscape shaped by ancient eruptions.

Unfortunately, when I reached Aso the weather turned against me. Heavy rain, strong winds, and the remnants of a typhoon limited how much exploring I could do.

Yet even under grey skies, the scale of the caldera was unmistakable. The volcanic landscape remains one of the most memorable parts of the island.

Three Ways to Experience Japan by Bicycle

Every part of Japan offers something different.

For those interested in Japan’s wild northern landscapes, Hokkaido remains a favorite. Wide-open spaces, long distances, and lower population density create a cycling experience unlike the rest of the country.

For those drawn to history, culture, and the routes that shaped Japan for centuries, the old roads linking Tokyo and Kyoto provide an unforgettable journey through the country’s past.

Kyushu occupies a middle ground between the two.

It combines dramatic natural scenery with rich history, active volcanoes with coastal villages, and modern cities with remote countryside. It is perhaps the most varied cycling destination I have experienced in Japan.

For cyclists planning their first Japan tour, or for those returning to see a different side of the country, Kyushu deserves serious consideration.

Further Reading

If you are interested in bicycle touring Japan, go to:

Cycling Hokkaido: Exploring Japan’s Northern Frontier

Cycling the Old Roads of Japan: The Nakasendo and Tokaido Routes

Cycling Kyushu: Around Japan’s Land of Fire

Together, the three journeys offer very different perspectives on one of the world’s most fascinating countries.

Japan rewards those who slow down.

The farther you get from the bullet trains and crowded stations, the more likely you are to discover the quiet villages, hidden coastlines, mountain roads, and everyday encounters that make a journey truly memorable.

The post Cycling Kyushu: A Bicycle Journey Through Japan’s Land of Fire appeared first on Footloose Cycling.

The ride from Hampi to Mysore belongs to the latter.

Leaving behind the surreal boulder landscape and ruined temples of Vijayanagara at Hampi, the road initially appears almost ordinary. The Deccan Plateau stretches outward in long, open expanses of farmland and villages where life moves to rhythms older than the road itself. Dust rises behind buses. Sugarcane dries directly on the asphalt. Tea stalls appear unexpectedly beneath banyan trees. The distances feel large, but the landscape remains deceptively quiet.

Yet gradually, almost imperceptibly, Karnataka begins to change.

The openness of the plateau gives way to greener country. The road bends toward coffee-growing hills and forested ridges. Traffic fades. Villages become smaller and more intimate. The journey begins to feel less like transit and more like immersion.

Along the way lie some of southern India’s most remarkable historical and religious sites.

Belur and Halebid, with their extraordinary Hoysala temples, are among the architectural highlights not only of Karnataka but of India itself. Their sculpted stone surfaces seem almost impossible in their detail and complexity. Yet what stayed with me as much as the temples themselves was the atmosphere surrounding them — the slow pace of the towns, the evening light, the sense that these monuments still remain woven into daily life rather than separated from it.

Further south rises Shravanabelagola, one of the great Jain pilgrimage sites of India. Approaching it across the flat countryside, the granite mound appears suddenly on the horizon, solitary and unmistakable. Climbing the hundreds of stone steps to the summit in the afternoon heat became one of the defining moments of the ride.

But this route is not only about monuments and pilgrimage sites.

What made the journey memorable was the continual contrast between movement and stillness: quiet tree-lined roads after the chaos of Hassan, morning mist rising above reservoirs, roadside conversations, markets glowing with color in Mysore, and long sections where the only sound was the tires moving across the pavement.

This newly revised edition of Cycling Hampi to Mysore continues my effort to rework many of my earlier India Kindle titles into contemporary paperback and PDF editions — less encyclopedic guidebook, more narrative journey through landscape and culture.

The original route remains intact, but the focus has shifted toward the experience of moving through Karnataka at the pace of a bicycle: the changing terrain, the atmosphere of the villages and roads, the historical layers encountered along the way, and the quiet moments between destinations.

The new edition includes:
• updated narrative and structure
• revised route reflections
• stage-by-stage organization
• practical route information and GPS access
• 67 photographs from the ride

The paperback edition is now available on Amazon, while the PDF edition is available directly here on Footloose Travel Guides.

This route forms the third segment of my longer cycling traverse across western and southern India:
Mumbai to Goa
Goa to Hampi
Hampi to Mysore
Mysore to Fort Kochi

The final section — Mysore to Fort Kochi, crossing the Western Ghats toward the Malabar Coast and the Arabian Sea — will follow next.

India is rarely an easy destination to cycle.

But perhaps that is precisely why the memories remain so vivid long after the ride is over.

The post From Hampi to Mysore: Cycling Along the Spine of Karnataka appeared first on Footloose Cycling.

Most visitors fly, take a train, or pass through the interior without ever truly seeing it. The journey becomes a transfer—efficient, forgettable.

But between the Arabian Sea and the stone temples of Hampi lies a quieter India.

A landscape that unfolds gradually:
coastal villages and fishing boats,
coconut groves and ferry crossings,
the long, humid climb into the forests of the Western Ghats,
and beyond them, the wide-open expanse of the Deccan Plateau.

This is a journey best experienced slowly—by bicycle.

A route shaped by landscape and time

Cycling Goa to Hampi is not simply a connection between two destinations. It is a transition through distinct worlds.

The ride begins along the Konkan coast, where the rhythm of daily life is tied to the sea. Roads wind through villages where little has changed, where the pace is unhurried, and where the presence of an outsider still feels momentary.

Then comes the climb.

The Western Ghats rise abruptly from the coast, dense with jungle and humidity. The ascent is steady, at times demanding, but it marks a turning point—not only in elevation, but in atmosphere. As you crest the range, the air dries, the forests thin, and the road opens into the vast plateau beyond.

From here, the riding changes. The terrain softens into long, rolling distances. The horizon stretches. The sense of space becomes immense.

And gradually, another layer begins to emerge—history.

In the footsteps of the Chalukyas and Vijayanagara

This route passes through one of India’s most remarkable yet often overlooked architectural landscapes.

Near Badami, Pattadakal, and Aihole, the early Chalukya temples stand scattered across the countryside—quiet, weathered, and deeply expressive. These are not monumental sites crowded with visitors, but places where you can linger, observe, and begin to understand the evolution of temple architecture in India.

Further on, the journey culminates in Hampi—the vast and surreal ruins of the Vijayanagara empire.

Here, the scale shifts again.

Granite boulders rise in improbable formations. Temples emerge from the landscape as if carved from it. The remains of a once-great city stretch across valleys and ridges, their presence both monumental and strangely intimate.

Arriving in Hampi by bicycle—after days of gradual approach—changes the experience entirely. It is no longer a site to visit, but a place you have entered.

A photographic journey as much as a ride

The newly published Cycling Goa to Hampi reflects this journey in a different way than traditional guidebooks.

With over 140 images, the book is as much a visual exploration as it is a narrative. The photographs are not captions to the text—they are part of the storytelling.

They follow the same progression:
coast to mountains,
mountains to plateau,
plateau to temples,
temples to Hampi.

Rather than listing logistics or exhaustive options, the book focuses on what the journey feels like:
the texture of the road,
the faces encountered along the way,
the shifting light across stone and landscape,
the sense of movement through a living environment.

Ride it—or simply travel through it

Not everyone will cycle this route.

But even if you don’t, it remains one of the most compelling ways to understand this part of India. Whether you follow it in full or in part, it offers a perspective that is difficult to find through conventional travel.

If you do ride it, the route becomes something else entirely:
a continuous thread connecting coast, culture, and history through your own effort.

The post Cycling Goa to Hampi: Across Karnataka’s Temple Heartland appeared first on Footloose Cycling.

A short flight.
An overnight train.
A long bus ride that erases the distance in a single stretch.

Most travelers choose one of these, and in doing so pass over a stretch of coastline that remains, even now, just outside the main current of travel—the Konkan coast.

Pressed between the Arabian Sea and the long wall of the Western Ghats, the Konkan unfolds quietly. It does not present itself all at once. It reveals itself in fragments: a fishing village at the edge of an inlet, a road winding beneath coconut palms, a ferry crossing that interrupts the day without apology. For long stretches, there is simply space—between places, between encounters, between moments.

It is this continuity, more than any single highlight, that defines the experience.

The Ride

Cycling from Mumbai to Goa is not about covering distance. It is about moving through a landscape at a pace that allows it to take shape.

The journey begins at the Gateway of India, crossing the harbor to Mandwa, where the city quickly gives way to quieter roads. From there, the route follows the coastal spine southward—through Alibag, Murud-Janjira, Harnai, Guhagar, and beyond—before eventually reaching the southern edge of Maharashtra near Vengurla.

Along the way, the coastline bends and folds.

There are no continuous roads here. The land gives way to water, and the ride pauses at ferry crossings—small boats carrying people, bicycles, and the occasional vehicle across wide estuaries. Progress is never entirely linear. You follow the shape of the coast, and the coast decides the rhythm.

The terrain is never extreme, but it is never flat. Short climbs rise over low headlands, followed by descents toward the sea. Inland stretches offer relief from the heat, while the return to the coast brings the horizon back into view.

And always, there is the heat—part of the experience, shaping the day, dictating when to ride and when to stop.

Why This Route Still Matters

The Konkan is changing.

Roads are improving, access is easier, and development is slowly extending south from Mumbai and north from Goa. It is not difficult to see what this coastline may become in time.

But for now, much of it remains as it has been—quiet, local, and largely unmediated.

There are no curated stops here. No carefully constructed experiences. What you encounter is simply what is there: villages that exist for themselves, not for visitors; roads that connect places rather than showcase them; a coastline that reveals itself gradually, without explanation.

To cycle through it is to experience that continuity directly.

The Book

I first rode the Konkan coast years ago, as part of a longer journey through South India. It stayed with me—not because of any single moment, but because of how the entire stretch unfolded.

This new paperback, Cycling the Konkan Coast: Mumbai to Goa, a PDF, is a reworked and updated version of that original journey.

It is not a traditional guidebook.

There are no exhaustive listings, no step-by-step instructions. Instead, the book follows the route as it is experienced—stage by stage, with practical detail where it matters, but always grounded in the ride itself.

The aim is simple: to give you a clear sense of what it feels like to travel this coastline by bicycle.

In the End

Cycling the Konkan coast is not the fastest way to reach Goa.

It is not the easiest.

But it is, in every sense, a more direct one.

A way of arriving not just at a destination, but through a landscape—one that, for now, still allows itself to be experienced on its own terms.

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