In the summer of 2026, I cycled more than 2,000 kilometres from Leipzig to Lviv and back as part of a fundraiser for Ukraine. It was my first visit to the country since Russia launched its full-scale invasion.
The Arrival in Ukraine
The border crossing into Ukraine was surprisingly uneventful, yet I was quickly reminded that these were no ordinary times. On the Ukrainian side, multiple checkpoints were guarded by soldiers carrying out vehicle inspections along the roadside. Anti-tank structures known as hedgehogs demarcated them, and a crawling snake of vehicles was trying to exit the country.
I had cycled the M11 before, although in another period of my life and another era for Ukraine. The road starts at the main pedestrian border crossing between Poland and Ukraine at Medyka. Thereafter, there is a circa 80km ride through small towns and villages.
As I rode, fragments of those earlier journeys returned to me: half-remembered conversations, familiar scents, and the sounds of the road and the city beyond it. The landscape and many buildings were surprisingly recognisable, kindling nostalgia.
After a little more than five days in the saddle, the 1,040 kilometres separating Leipzig from Lviv had dwindled to the final few dozen. As exhaustion set in, each kilometre felt longer than the last. Lviv drew ever closer without seeming to arrive, as though Zeno’s paradox had found aphysical form. I stopped at a service station on the outskirts of the city to quench my thirst, eat and briefly escape the evening heat.
As per many an interesting distraction, I fell into conversation with a Ukrainian couple visiting Lviv for a summer wedding. They now lived in England, they told me, close to my childhood town. This was the first moment of my visit when I encountered what would become a familiar contrast: sadness that they had been driven from their homeland, and happiness brought by their warmth and stories of settling in England.
As on so many of my long-distance rides, I arrived late in the evening. Darkness had already fallen over Lviv by the time I entered the city.
The Realisation, and the New Normal
Lviv unveiled itself in the following days to be a beautiful, welcoming city. A tapestry of architectural styles, gastronomical delights and wafts of roasting coffee. Despite multiple strikes by both ballistic missiles and drones, Lviv has remained relatively unscathed in comparison to the east of the country. Among its bustle and elegance, it is easy to lose touch with that simple fact: this is still a city in a country at war.
The reminders are there if you look. It doesn’t take long before you notice how many men have lost a limb, sometimes two, far too many for their presence not to speak of the war. Additionally, there are the funeral processions, often multiple times a day.
Within my first few days, there was a sporting event involving the Azov Brigade and the local police force. To my good fortune, one of the soldiers spoke remarkably good English. Her friendly demeanour made it easy to forget what she had herself faced. Her husband, also a soldier, had experienced first-hand the brutality of the Russian prison system after being captured at the Azovstal plant in Mariupol. This was the first account, but not the last, in which I would hear of acts such as the intentional infection and malnourishment of prisoners. Prisoners are often refused treatment.
After being released in a prisoner swap, he spent three months regaining his health. He then went straight back to the frontline.
There are clear and marked acts of bolstering patriotism which are genuinely moving. One of the most touching is the one-minute silence at 9 a.m. every morning. Ukraine falls into stasis; traffic stops, including the trams. Utter respect is paid to that minute.
That moment is made all the more poignant after visiting the graves of the fallen soldiers in the graveyard known as the Field of Mars.
The initial impression is the sudden flood of yellow and blue as you turn the corner. Standing among row after row of graves, the scale of the sacrifice becomes overwhelming, and with it the fear that it may yet be in vain. Knowing this hardens the sadness, all the more so when seeing and hearing the depth of loss the mourners feel.
Then the contrast really begins. That sorrow, though comparatively small beside that which Ukrainians endure, is absolutely heart-wrenching. Yet it is very easy to make friends in Lviv, with its vibrant and close-knit nightlife. Ukrainians are wonderfully talkative, with the bars in the evening a bastion of good-natured banter. And so, sorrow becomes joy.
Yet, with friendship and closeness come the stories and memories. Some are affecting not because they are exceptional, but because they are expressed in such a matter-of-fact way. This is now normal.
Katja, whom I now call a friend, told me of an explosion so loud and so near that, when she awoke, her first thought was that it had been a nuclear bomb. Although she managed to calm herself, her cat remained terrified long afterwards, running frantically around the flat. Animals are among the least discussed and most defenceless victims of Russia’s invasion. Many simply die from the shock. This, too, has become part of the new normal.
It soon became apparent that most of the people I came to know, some of whom I would now call friends, were not originally from Lviv. Millions of Ukrainians have been displaced within their own country, fleeing occupied territories or regions where Russia has made ordinary life unbearable.
Another friend, Tania, had made a documentary about her home city for her degree. Sitting together in a bar one evening, she showed me what it now meant to return there: to be hunted by Russian drones in what has become known as the “human safari”. Her city once stood on the bank of the Kakhovka Reservoir. That was before Russian forces destroyed the dam. This is the new normal.
She had also returned to her former school. The classrooms are now located in the cellar. Instructions displayed on the walls teach the children how to hide from drones. For these children, this is normal. It is the only normal some of them have known.
As Tania showed me the footage, she drew hard on her vape. For many Ukrainians, for all their strength, trauma lies just beneath the surface.
These are but a few of the many memories shared. Others include the deep, irredeemable loss of loved ones before their very eyes.
There are various ways in which Ukrainians reconcile and express their feelings. It should be remembered that this war started in 2014, with many people already displaced by the invasion of Crimea and the Donbas. Halyna Shchupak, the choreographer of the play “When the Wormwood Blooms” (“Коли цвіте полин”), invited me to a performance at the Les Kurbas Theatre in Lviv. Expressed only partly through the spoken word, a substantial part of the play’s story was conveyed through dance and body language. The themes of the loss of home, agency and identity were all too clear and succinctly expressed. One could not help but be profoundly moved by this play.
Independence Day
The honour of celebrating the 35th anniversary of Ukrainian independence cannot be overstated. Festivities filled the central Rynok Square, where a military band accompanied theatrical performances and singers through a repertoire ranging from Ukrainian folk songs to Klezmer music.
The highlight, however, came when I accepted an invitation to a Ukrainian folk party. Dressed in a traditional vyshyvanka, a beautifully embroidered shirt, I found that the stirring music made the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. Before long, I was encouraged to dance, joining both partnered dances and line-dancing moving in concentric circles.
Rather less traditionally, I performed all of this in cycling shoes, the only footwear I had brought with me. Given my uncertain grasp of the steps and the unforgiving metal cycling clips beneath my feet, I was relieved to finish without treading on anyone’s toes. The smiles around me suggested that, miraculously, I had succeeded.
The Volunteer Scene
Throughout my stay, I offered my time and labour to several volunteer efforts. Through the people I met, it was surprisingly easy to find ways of making myself useful. For reasons of security, I will not describe the work itself in detail. What I can describe, however, are the volunteers: the people who give their time, energy and skills to sustaining Ukraine’s defence.
Most activities brought together a mixture of Ukrainian and international volunteers. This cultural exchange added something valuable to the work, while also providing an impromptu opportunity to learn Ukrainian. A shared sense of purpose bound the volunteers together: a determination to support the country that quickly became infectious. Many of the international volunteers had been returning for years, growing ever closer to Ukraine. Sadly, this also meant that some had lost friends there.
A recurring pattern was to return home, to Denmark for example, and work for several months, saving enough money to live and volunteer in Ukraine for several more. Then the cycle would begin again. The volunteers I met came from a wide range of countries, including the United States, Denmark, Germany, Italy and France. Their professions at home were equally varied, ranging from lawyers and lifeguards to sports coaches and cooks. Their ages varied just as broadly.
It should also be said that trust was never absolute. Volunteers mixed freely with the wider local community, particularly within Lviv’s nightlife, but an understandable caution remained. The possibility of infiltration was real, and many volunteer projects could themselves become targets. Details were therefore shared only when necessary.
The Return, and a return?
Despite Lviv not being struck, my final night was the first time that I had heard air-raid sirens. This left me all the more adamant about the importance of supporting Ukraine, all the more angry at the injustice, and sealed my decision: when possible, I would return this winter to volunteer. Presence is defiance.
I had become somewhat attached to Lviv and the friends I had made, as well as the satisfaction from the volunteer work. There was thus a sombre element to leaving, all the more compounded by deciding to leave after the 9 a.m. minute’s silence.
After stopping off for a hearty meal in Mostyska, I crossed back into Poland shortly thereafter. Much of the return route overlapped with the ride to Lviv. Despite at moments feeling as if the journey was being reversed, both the beautiful and sad memories shaped my reflections. The starkest realisation was how so many of us in western Europe are living with the good fortune of peace, yet apparently unaware.
Indeed, I did find in the various discussions on the return journey great admiration for Ukraine’s fight for survival, albeit among a relatively small sample of younger Poles.
My aim had been to make the circa 1,000 km return trip in five days. However, upon the third day, I experienced gale-force headwinds, the most brutal nemesis a cyclist can face. The fourth day showed little improvement, with heavy rain accompanying the nights. As the fifth day began with a brisk wind, I was left disheartened. I had more than 300 km left to ride.
Nevertheless, I had preserved energy, hoping for more favourable conditions. Knowing my capabilities, I saw an opportunity dawning as the winds died in the afternoon: cycling through the night.
As I crossed the border into Germany, the sun set upon a road I recalled from my first return from Ukraine in 2012. That time, the landscape was speckled with melting snow. This time, as the sun was setting, the weather was favourable, with the air still and a clear night ahead. Only 200 km left to cycle.
The meandering roads brought me through enchanting woodland to the final familiar stretch to Leipzig. Nearing the final 100 km, the terrain flattened. As I passed between Oschatz and Wurzen, the sun rose behind me, an absolutely glorious sight.
This helped with the abject sleep deprivation that was by this point the greatest challenge. I had been awake for more than 24 hours. It was not lost on me that this battle was minuscule compared with that of Ukrainian soldiers in trenches across the front line, who regularly reach the bounds of human endurance.
At Oschatz, two roads converged, one from Poland and the other from the Czech Republic. As such, various rides of mine from years past have passed along this final stretch to Leipzig, and I had formed a tradition of buying a coffee from a particular unassuming petrol station in the following town of Wurzen.
After I began to sip my drink, with my bike visible through the window, the employee who had served me asked where I was coming from. “Ukraine!” I exclaimed.
The man was predictably surprised and asked why I had gone and how long it had taken. He was impressed with the length of my ride. Yet my reasons for it, to raise money for the 69th Brigade and to raise awareness of Ukraine’s struggle whilst gaining an understanding of Ukrainians’ experiences, brought an uncomfortable silence. To lift the mood, I added that the culture and history of the country were amazing, giving the folk party as an example. His answer confirmed the darkness I had feared: “Oh, Russian culture is very interesting.” I did not speak; I simply finished my coffee and left.
I made it to Leipzig’s city boundaries shortly before 8 a.m., and the city centre not long thereafter. Given the change in time zones, this was almost exactly five days. Mission accomplished.
The encounter in Wurzen reminded me of the other front of the war, the information war that I fear we are losing. The rise of the AfD in eastern Germany hides the fact that this man’s sentiment is also common on the left of German politics. A combination of fear, a distorted understanding of history and a lack of appreciation of deterrence sadly shapes this country’s political landscape. In the subsequent weeks, I have had similar conversations, revealing a complete detachment from the nature of Ukraine’s struggle for survival and a common, deluded sentiment that Ukraine “just needs to give peace a chance”.
The lesson
As Europe dithers in response to Russian escalation, one of the clearest practical lessons I have learnt from the trip is this: we as individuals can make a difference to the outcome of this war through volunteering and fundraising. These efforts are among the key pillars that have allowed Ukraine’s continued survival. If we complain that our governments are failing to take the bold actions needed, yet do little else, we are part of the problem too. We must act.
The fundraiser
As of the writing of this article, my fundraiser has raised a little under 2,000 euros for the 69th Brigade. All funds will go towards a NAFO bus equipped with drone detection and built with the robustness required by the harsh conditions. The truth is that many of their vehicles are destroyed over time, and as such, trucks and buses are continually needed for manoeuvres and evacuations. Ukrainian soldiers are incredibly grateful for every donation and are conscious of the importance of donors.
Likewise, I am immensely grateful to all those who have supported me and donated to this vital cause.
Click here to see my fundraiser. Donations remain open until the end of September.
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