A Bikepacking Journey Through a Lifetime of Neuro-Divergence
Scott Cornish
You probably know the feeling of a bad-day-turned-bearable thanks to some fresh air and a little physical exertion. You’ve definitely read about the benefits exercise has on your overall physical wellbeing. For some people though, adventure is more than a way to blow off steam or stay physically healthy. It’s a psychological lifeline in a world that doesn’t feel made for them. In this issue, Scott Cornish describes a challenging solo Transalp ride he completed, reflecting on how the highs and lows of the adventure reflect his early adult life with an undiagnosed neuro-divergent brain. In short, an exciting (and insightful) read.
Catherine
Editor, Notes from Outside
I’m hauling the bike, laden with gear for cold nights out, across deep tussocked terrain. The gravel track has abruptly ended in this open bowl at the end of the valley. Towering, seemingly impassable ridgelines surround me, covered in a thin layer of snow from the previous week’s weather front. Through the fading light I can just about see the way out, a faint zig-zag trail leading upwards to the col, a slight dip in an otherwise level ridgeline.
The steep singletrack climb out of that bowl made for slow and precarious manoeuvring around each tight switchback, as both darkness and the temperature rapidly fell. The silence of this wild landscape was only broken by the sound of dislodged stones rolling down the mountain face. Even the wind was mute. Within, my inner voice was screaming. With each foot slide on the loose dirt more frustration welled. I stopped to compose myself. The situation was stirring up deep-seated emotions – reminders of how I’ve often felt challenged within ‘normal’ society.
This Transalp mountain-bike trip was a strong metaphor for a lifetime of undiagnosed neuro-divergence. Growing up I constantly found myself in what were to me, complicated situations. Places where my mind churned over the merits of continuing with the tasks in front of me, having been made to feel incapable growing up. The result was a set of self-imposed restrictions on what I could and couldn’t do.
I was diagnosed with organisational dyslexia in my late 30s and only recently realised that I also display all the symptoms of attention deficit disorder and mild autism. A lifetime of being “different” suddenly made sense. I see now how bikepacking gave me the tools to navigate life with my unique view of the world.
The Transalp route I chose would take me from my front door in Chamonix to Saint Aygulf on the Mediterranean coast, an exhilarating ride over 690 kilometres (429 mi), with a not-insignificant 24,300 metres (79,725 ft) of elevation gain. I crossed wild and remote landscapes with almost endless views, fuelled by sumptuous fruit tart at cafés along the way. The riding put the mountain into mountain biking; long climbs up and over high cols, meandering alpine singletrack, and exhilarating descents that induced adrenaline-fuelled grins by the end. The terrain was often exposed, much of it lying between 2,000 and 2,600 metres (6,562 and 8,530 ft), not places to be without the know-how to get yourself out of unforeseen situations. An environment where I’m a mere dot in the immense landscape, and yet feel surprisingly at ease.
I always seemed at odds with my peers and social environment growing up. Often the target of ridicule, I struggled to find my place. Schooling was challenging, as I was unable to grasp basic concepts when books were the sole resource. Pages of endless text sent my mind into a foggy haze and I was constantly wrestling my thoughts into coherent responses, both verbally and written. I didn’t understand why.
Kinesthetic based lessons were the opposite. When using my hands to create something tangible, or learning through visual material, my mind felt capable and engaged, free from its usual churning chaos. Unfortunately intelligence was measured through written answers, my other strengths deemed unimportant. It was in the outdoors where I began to appreciate those strengths, and embrace other, less book-orientated skills. But old doubts still creep in from time to time.
Standing on that exposed mountainside, arms and calves pulsing with fatigue from hauling the bike at a snail’s pace and fighting for grip on the loose dirt with each step, deep-seated doubts rose to the surface. Was I really capable of safely negotiating further hike-a-bike sections?
A small shelter I had spotted earlier was a tempting back track, an opportunity to retreat – as I’d done many times before – from a repressive situation. I still need to retreat sometimes, often reaching for my trail shoes after a busy day working an event, instead of reaching for a beer with my colleagues. What people don’t always understand is that I’m not antisocial. Rather my need to reset my mind is necessary for me to work another day, and my desire to socialise sometimes has to come second.
Cresting the narrow col just as the final red glow of sunset streaked across the distant peaks felt like a micro triumph. Likely meaningless to anyone else, but to my mind it was a jolt of positivity, a reminder that I am capable, regardless of the societally imposed limits placed on me. In that moment my mindset flipped from being apprehensive about more onerous hike-a-bikes, to feeling more confident that I could complete this route.
Four kilometres (2.5 mi) down the other side of the ridge, I arrived at the rustic Refuge de la Coire, a welcome shelter from the night’s sub-zero embrace. This felt like the payoff for continuing to push on.
Stepping out into the soft morning light of early autumn revealed this magnificent, wild location, surrounded by high peaks and rolling ridgelines. Sunlight streamed through a v-shaped gap in the horizon, creating a haze of melting frost on the outside tables. I devoured breakfast with a sense of relief that I’d made it over the col.
This late into the season much of the infrastructure that supports adventure seekers was closed, so I barely came across another soul traversing these high alpine trails. Here, a fall could have serious consequences. I did carry a Garmin InReach for emergencies but felt oddly at ease in these remote landscapes. I never felt lonely out there, having become accustomed to travelling solo. I’m not always easy company as I struggle to deviate from preconceived plans. However, I easily struck up conversations with the few people I did come across on the trails, even meeting a fellow Transalps rider in a café in the hilltop village of Mons on the final day.
Looking for a wild camp spot on the second night, on the outskirts of a village above Saint Jean de la Maurienne, I come across a guy cleaning his bike outside the last house. As I was asking if it was ok to wild camp in the field beyond, his friend came around the corner. From being offered a spot in their garden, I was suddenly joining a group of six for an aperitif and a hearty home-cooked dinner. Sharing stories of adventure and col-bagging – all in my second language – was something I wouldn’t ordinarily have done.
I’ve always felt self-conscious in group situations, but adventure cycling gives me this connection to people and has helped me build a confidence that I wouldn’t have otherwise had. I’m simply seen as a fellow rider, where my voice matters, and my differences don’t. I no longer need a facade to hide them. Consequently, reciprocal stories from others over the years about their challenges have been both engaging and inspiring, pushing me to be the best I can be in everything I do.
The terrain’s peaks and troughs were extreme, transporting me into countless different environments and mesmerising landscapes. Reaching the highest point of the route required another calf-burning effort, up a super steep switchback trail to the Col de la Noire at 2,995 metres (9,826 ft). Pausing at this captivating windswept spot with panoramic views of gnarly weathered peaks, the terrain reflected life’s ups and downs. Everyone faces challenges of course, but the neuro-diverse mind seems to experience extremes of emotions beyond what’s considered ‘normal’, especially anxiety, which can be heightened and prolonged – reactions that are often difficult for others to understand. I now recognise what have been my coping strategies all along; a pedal (or a trail run), an activity using my hands, or being creative.
The descents were incredible. Many were long and demanding, passing from high mountain singletrack into alpine pastures, often following the flow of rivers down the valley. Serene moments, for what is often a tumultuous mind, focused purely on the flow and terrain of the trail. Village cafés, often found at the bottom, provided ideal pit stops for weary wrists and to refuel on tasty baked goods!
Sitting on the beach in Saint Aygulf, the sea is as calm as my mind as I reflect on the adventure and the feelings it evoked. I was reminded of the challenges that come with being wired differently in a neuro-normal society, but I realise, ultimately, how enabling bikepacking has been for me. It’s opened my eyes to what I can do: problem-solve, organise logistics, make meaningful connections with people, coach others - and it’s become an outlet for creativity through words and images. This Transalps adventure was as much a physically challenging journey, as it was a reminder of the strategies and skills I’ve developed to challenge my perceived limitations and integrate into the local community. Strategies that became a lifeline, saving me from myself.
Words & photos by Scott Cornish
Scott Cornish is a neuro-divergent cyclist and runner with a love for adventure biking. Through his upcoming content project, Perform Unbound, he’s on a mission to shift the narrative around neuro-divergence, moving away from societally-imposed limitations, and empowering people to ask themselves instead, “What if?” When he’s not on the bike, you’ll find him writing, coaching, or helping riders fit their bikes properly at his physiotherapy practice in Chamonix, France.
Every Body Outdoors
Sebastian Kowalke