After six months in Portugal, it was time to head home. I could have loaded everything into the car, set the GPS, and headed straight for Italy, but after so long away, I had no desire to turn the journey home into a simple transfer. I wanted the drive home to be part of the journey, too.
The idea was simple enough: ride my bike through Portugal, Spain, and France, stopping whenever I found an interesting spot. Freeride, street, dirt jump, bike park, or just something that, looking out the window, made me want to get out my bike.
There was just one problem: I needed someone to help me film.
Sometimes we underestimate what can happen by posting a simple story on Instagram. I posted one asking: “Does anyone want to come with me from Portugal to Italy, looking for freeride spots, and help me film?”
Noemi answered me.
We exchanged a few messages, asked each other a few questions, and soon we had made up our minds. We met at the Lisbon airport practically as strangers, and from there we began a journey of thousands of kilometers together. I would introduce her to my world, and she would help me share it.
The first stop was Ericeira, the place I'd called home for the previous six months. Before leaving for good, I wanted to say goodbye to the people I'd met there, people who over time had become much more than just friends. Then we loaded up everything and set off for real.
We had fourteen days, a car, a bicycle, and no specific plan. The goal was to find the most interesting spots possible along the way.
Between cliffs, fear and the desire to try
The trip started off on the right foot. On the first day, I found myself in front of a cliff about thirty meters high, overlooking the sea. It was one of those places where, once you get to the top on your bike, for a few seconds you start to question everything.
I looked down, then at the bike, then at Noemi.
And I left.
When you face something like this, there's fear, and rightly so. Your heart races, and you're perfectly aware that a mistake can have serious consequences. At the same time, though, when I decide to set out, I have to be confident in what I'm doing. I have to trust my abilities, the bike, and the line I've chosen.
It's a difficult feeling to explain: fear and security coexist simultaneously. And it's probably precisely this contrast that I continue to seek in adrenaline.
I reached the end, and Noemi had taken home the shot. The video has since racked up around 20.000 views, a great way to start the journey, though what I remember most aren't the numbers. It's the feeling of being up there and knowing that, despite the fear, that's exactly where you want to be.
A few days later, almost in the Algarve, we found another spot that seemed perfect. Cliffs, ocean, and a natural line I immediately wanted to try. I was already gearing up when we heard sirens.
It was the police.
We discovered we were in a protected area and that cycling wasn't allowed. I didn't know this, and fortunately, it all ended with a warning and a request not to post images on social media.
I complied with the request and that ad never ended up online.
In hindsight, I'm almost glad it happened. When you work with social media, you risk getting used to the idea that every experience must necessarily become content. In reality, that's not the case. Some moments can simply be lived and remain there.
Looking for lines where there apparently aren't any
Over the next few days, we developed a very artisanal scouting technique: Google Maps, satellite imagery, and a lot of curiosity. We scanned the landscape, looking for interesting shapes, then tried to get closer to see if what we'd seen on the screen could actually be explored by bike.
In the Algarve, it wasn't easy. Much of the coast is sheltered, and many of the cliffs that looked perfect from above were, once we reached them, practically vertical to the sea. I expected to find many more usable spots, so we continued moving towards Spain.
And it was while driving that I saw a completely different terrain on the other side of the road: ravines, dirt, and rocks. One of those places that immediately makes you slow down.
To reach it, we had to cross a field where there were some huge dogs. Luckily, they were tied up, although Noemi didn't seem particularly reassured by this. We got on our bikes, crossed the field, and reached the upper part.
She prepared the room, I located the line and left.
Shot done.
These seemingly small moments are what give meaning to a journey like this. You never know what's around the next bend, and sometimes a place glimpsed for a few seconds from the window becomes one of the memories of the day.
Malaga, finally in my element
Arriving towards Malaga I finally began to find something closer to the riding I'm used to it. We found some dirt jumps and even a bike park where we rode for a few hours.
The problem was the heat. Cycling in Malaga in August was a questionable choice, and if I could offer any advice, I'd probably choose a different time of year.
Right there, however, I found myself in front of one of the lines I remember best: a dam over a hundred meters high with a very steep descent.
More than the gradient itself, what worried me was the compression at the top. From above, I couldn't tell how harsh it would be, and once I'd ridden my bike to the top, it was impossible to get an answer without trying.
Eventually I did what I often do in these situations: I stopped overthinking it.
One pedal stroke and off you go.
My speed increased immediately, and I think I was approaching 100 km/h. It lasted a very short time, but the adrenaline rush was incredible.
Continuing our journey, we also found a small bike park run by some local guys. I don't remember the name or even exactly where it was, but I remember them very well.
They welcomed us as if we had known each other forever, and I spent a couple of hours hanging out with them.
That encounter reminded me of something I would understand even better by the end of this journey: it's not necessarily the biggest spots, the most spectacular jumps, or the riskiest lines that stick with you. Very often, it's the people you meet along the way.
Barcelona, street and La Poma
The next important stage was Barcelona, where I completely changed terrain. I took the downhill and for a few hours I transformed the city into a huge playground: backflips at the Forum, 360s in front of the port, and street in some of the city's most recognizable places.
After days spent searching for natural lines, finding myself in an urban environment was a complete change, but that's also what I like about cycling. The terrain changes, the way you interpret it changes, but ultimately you keep looking around and asking yourself: “What can I do here?”
The next day, I also stopped by La Poma, one of the scene's iconic spots. At the time, the bike park had been closed for months. I shot some footage, but ultimately decided not to publish it because I wasn't fully aware of the circumstances that led to the closure, and I didn't want to describe a situation without all the facts.
One feeling remained with me above all: seeing a place that had meant so much to MTB still standing still had a certain effect.
From Barcelona, we then entered France. We continued exploring, stopped at the salt flats, I took out my Insta360 for a few shots, and, for once, I let Noemi choose the next destination.
On Maps, he'd found a small town completely different from the places he'd traveled so far: stone houses, narrow streets, and lavender fields. We stopped for a few hours, then decided to head toward the mountains and, above all, toward slightly more bearable temperatures.
Shortly after, it was time for us to part ways.
I dropped Noemi off at home, and the journey that had begun in Lisbon with two complete strangers split in two. She went back to her life, while I packed up everything again and set off again.
Head towards Livigno.
Rediscovering the mountain bike
After six months in Portugal I realized how much I missed mountain biking.
I'd lived immersed in the world of surfing, met incredible people, and had unforgettable experiences, but I still felt something was missing. I missed my surroundings, my people, and the way of life that, for me, is tied to cycling.
Arriving in Livigno was like returning to my element.
Bike park, jumps, speed, friends. I finally felt at home again.
Right around that time, I made a video for 365 Mountain Bike and Mottolino with the aim of showing what really goes on behind a jump. From the outside, you see a rider coming in, taking off, and flying for a few seconds. Behind that, however, lies preparation, technique, line construction, and a host of details that normally remain invisible.
There was also the Mottolino event, with best tricks on the airbag and pump track. In the best trick, I managed to land a double frontflip and a cash roll barspin, while on the pump track, I reached the end completely out of energy.
But I won.
And I think that day pretty much sums up why I continue to love this sport. You can arrive at the end exhausted, with legs that don't want to know anything more, and still have a huge smile plastered on your face.
The journey, in the end, is the people
Returning to Livigno also allowed me to meet people who have chosen a life similar to mine: young people who live in vans, travel, ride bikes and try to carve out a path for themselves that is different from the more conventional one.
Among these is Martina Lippolis, one of the people who has supported me most on my journey, both sportingly and personally.
And it was precisely by returning to my environment that I began to better understand what those six months away from home had left me.
When I think of Portugal, in fact, I don't just think of surfing or cycling. I think above all of the people I've met.
I think of Alessandro, who left Italy by bicycle with virtually no money, and who was able to get by simply asking for help and something to eat from the people he met along the way. Knowing him, I realized how little it sometimes takes to get something started, and how powerful it can be to simply have the courage to ask.
I think of Miki from Sherland and the world he's built with his own hands: buses transformed into homes, yurts, a bike park, and a camp designed for people who love cycling, surfing, adrenaline, and a slightly wilder lifestyle.
And I think of Nick Pescetto, whom I call “the alchemist,” one of those people capable of making you question what you're doing and, above all, why you're doing it.
They are different encounters, but they all left me with something.
In those six months I learned to make do, to be alone, to communicate in different languages and to understand that you don't necessarily need to have everything under control before starting something.
I also realized that people come into our lives at different times. Some stay, others continue on their own path, but almost all can teach us something.
Look at the road behind you
After about a week in Livigno I set off again, this time towards Morzine.
When I drive alone, I often find myself thinking. Maybe because there's not much else to do, maybe because seeing the miles pass by the windshield puts things into perspective.
During that journey I thought back to Portugal, to the people I'd met, to Noemi—a girl who a few weeks earlier had been a complete stranger and who had decided to set off on this adventure—to the spots I'd stumbled upon, to the fears, the laughter, and the nights spent in the van.
I also thought back to all the times, over the years, I asked myself: “But who made me do it?”
Then, for once, instead of focusing only on the next destination, I tried to look in the opposite direction.
I thought about who I was a few years ago, where I started from and everything that happened in between.
I'm still chasing my dream and I don't know exactly where it will take me. I don't know how long it will take, and honestly, I don't even know if I'll be able to get exactly where I imagine.
But I know I want to keep trying.
Because maybe traveling isn't just about reaching a destination. Sometimes it means realizing that, mile after mile, we're becoming a different person.
Driving to Morzine I got excited about just this.
For once I wasn't just thinking about the road ahead.
I was looking at the one behind me.
And I realized that, almost without realizing it, I had already come much further than I thought.
