How to Become a Moto-Podcaster: Jupiter's Birthday, a pilgrimage. 

Chasing Jupiter

May 13, 2025

I opened the microphone with a tremor of excitement and nerves, the kind that makes your chest tighten even before you speak. “Welcome to Season Two, Episode Twelve,” I said, my voice betraying just enough confidence to mask the butterflies in my stomach. “Today, I’m speaking with Mark Richardson, author of Zen and Now.” The words felt alive in my mouth. To me, Zen and Now wasn’t just a book; it was a roadmap, a whisper of adventure riding through time and thought. Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance had been a north star of sorts, and Mark’s journey—his own pilgrimage on a motorcycle through America—felt like a relay baton I was eager to catch.

During our conversation, I asked Mark about his ride home from San Francisco in 2019. He laughed, describing his DR600’s mechanical quirks and a few impromptu days spent at Ted Simon’s place in California. I felt a spark ignite in my mind. The kind that makes you feel simultaneously terrified and alive. Photos, stories, minor detours—each detail was fuel. I realized almost immediately: I had to meet Ted Simon.

I’d crossed paths with Ted years before, but never in a way that mattered to the heartbeat of my work. His birthday was May 1st, and he lived in a quiet village outside Marseille. I imagined the journey: a pilgrimage on my part, a podcast interview, and a chance to celebrate the birthday of a living legend whose work had fueled decades of my curiosity. Ted agreed. My pulse spiked. The excitement surged, then faltered when reality hit: I had no corporate sponsor, no advance, nothing to offset the cost of flights, accommodations, or even the smallest comforts. Yet common sense had never been a worthy compass for me. Adventure demanded risk, and risk demanded action.

Packing for the trip was an exercise in frugality. Backpack, minimal clothing, recording gear, and a single pair of boots scuffed enough to carry stories already. I took economy flights, booked hostels, and mapped a route that was as much about inspiration as logistics. Expenses mounted quickly: podcast hosting fees, editing software, travel insurance, plane tickets, rental cars—but each number faded beside the thrill of what I was about to undertake.

Flying into Marseille was surreal. The sunlight glinting on terracotta roofs and the smell of salt from the Mediterranean stirred something primal. I rented a small car and drove through the rolling countryside, past vineyards that stretched like green oceans and olive groves glimmering in the late spring haze. By the time I arrived at the village, I felt like a pilgrim who had wandered centuries to arrive in the present. Narrow cobblestone streets twisted around stone houses, and church bells rang in irregular patterns that seemed older than time.

I checked into a hundred-year-old guesthouse whose walls whispered history. The wooden floors creaked under my weight as I left my backpack and wandered to a café overlooking the harbor. The smell of roasted coffee beans mingled with sea salt, and I sipped red wine while flipping through Ted Simon’s Riding High. His reflections on travel, danger, and human connection leapt from the pages. By the time I fell asleep that night, I was already drafting questions for our interview in my head, imagining how I might coax the quiet wisdom from this extraordinary man.

The next morning, I approached Ted’s modest home on Grand Rue. The front door was ajar, a sign of casual hospitality. I stepped inside, and an unmistakable voice called from upstairs. “Come in! Don’t be shy!” Ted emerged, black shirt, glasses perched on his nose, radiating the calm authority of someone who had seen and lived a lifetime of adventures. My hands trembled as I unpacked my recording gear, fumbling over wires and microphones, but Ted’s steady gaze reassured me.

We settled into his sunlit living room. The conversation began slowly—Ted recounting a youthful ride through the deserts of Persia, the chaos of Indian streets, and the quiet nights alone in foreign villages. Then, as if a dam had broken, stories poured forth: his brushes with danger, a narrow escape in Afghanistan, and the meticulous maintenance of motorcycles that carried him across continents. I asked questions, but mostly I listened. Every pause, every laugh, every glint in his eyes was a lesson. By the time we wrapped, Ted handed me a signed copy of Don’t Boil the Canary, his autobiography, and a nod that seemed to say: “Now you understand. Now go ride your own story.”

Spain was next. Landing in Malaga after dark, I felt the pulse of a new adventure. The streets smelled of salt and citrus, and a warm wind carried the laughter of night-time revelers. I navigated to a cliffside hotel that seemed perched precariously above the Mediterranean, a place where the ocean could remind you how small you were in the grand tapestry of life. Lyndon Poskitt, another motorcycling adventurer I had long admired, greeted me with his characteristic grin and the key to a Norden 901, a bike I would ride across sun-drenched Spanish roads. We recorded an interview in his modest hotel room, the sound of waves crashing against cliffs providing an unplanned ambient score. Lyndon’s stories were dynamic, filled with technical detail and infectious enthusiasm, and for the first time, I felt like I was capturing the essence of modern adventure motorcycling.

England awaited. Brighton was a quick stop, a tiny room overlooking the churning North Sea, where I walked along cliffs, observing remnants of the 59 Club and café racer culture that had shaped generations. Then it was up to Yorkshire to meet Robin Poskitt, Lyndon’s father. Robin was a man of gentle humor, meticulous with detail, and his conversation offered insight into the foundations of a remarkable life. Recording in the Poskitt family home, I realized the intergenerational thread of adventure: what we inherit from our mentors, our parents, and our heroes is more profound than we often notice.

Coventry brought me face-to-face with history. Behind velvet ropes stood Ted Simon’s two iconic motorcycles: the 1973 Triumph Tiger 100, its patina telling stories of roads traversed, challenges overcome, and countries crossed; and the R80GS, robust, legendary, and the machine that carried Ted on journeys at seventy. I traced my fingers over the metal, imagining the vibrations, the sun-baked deserts, the frozen nights, the joy, and the exhaustion. It was humbling. Adventure, I realized, was not about speed or accolades—it was about presence, about being fully awake to every turn of the road.

London introduced a new rhythm. The 59 Club meeting night in East London was chaotic in the most exhilarating way: motorcycles parked in haphazard clusters, engines idling, the scent of fuel mingling with roasted coffee from nearby shops. Members welcomed me, coffee in hand, flipping through decades of photo albums and memorabilia. Each artifact told a story, a bridge between past and present, showing that the culture of adventure riding was a living, breathing entity.

The Bike Shed, another iconic venue, brought riders, craftsmen, and enthusiasts together. Interviews with Austin Vince and Sam Manicom stretched my understanding of adventure riding: courage intertwined with precision, risk embraced with careful planning. Zoom interviews with Carlie Borman allowed me to capture perspectives across continents, reinforcing that this community, though scattered, was bound by curiosity, generosity, and an insatiable desire to explore.

By the time I returned to my temporary London studio, editing episodes and recording bumpers, I had begun to see the pattern emerge: this wasn’t just about motorcycles. It was about people, about curiosity, resilience, friendship, and the stories that shape us. From Ted Simon’s quiet wisdom to Austin Vince’s infectious creativity, from Lyndon Poskitt’s dedication to Sam Manicom’s meticulous craft, every interview was a lesson in life, courage, and presence.

Packing for the journey home, I reflected on the arc of the pilgrimage. I had started with curiosity, a spark ignited by a simple podcast question to Mark Richardson. I had crossed continents, wrestled with logistics, battled exhaustion, and sat in the presence of people whose lives embodied adventure in its purest form. I had laughed, worried, struggled, and celebrated. And I had recorded it all, every word, every pause, every laugh and sigh.

Meeting my heroes had surpassed all expectations. They were generous, intelligent, and unapologetically themselves. The adventure riding world was vast, but the connections between these riders were intricate, subtle, and profoundly human. Each story—Ted Simon’s reflection, Austin Vince’s artistry, Lyndon Poskitt’s generosity—was more than an episode; it was a lesson, a thread in a tapestry of perseverance, curiosity, and passion.

On the flight home, clouds stretching like oceans below me, I thought of all I had experienced. Ted Simon, the Jupiter of this universe of adventurers, had left an imprint not just on my notebook but on my soul. The others, planets in their own right, had pulled at me, each orbit influencing the trajectory of my journey. And me? I had traveled the world, chased stories, pursued insight, and felt, in every heartbeat, the thrill of being alive.

The journey had ended, but the stories were just beginning. And maybe, just maybe, a few new shelves in my studio would be needed for the awards one day. Or perhaps it didn’t matter. What mattered was the ride, the people, and the adventure—the only true rewards worth chasing.