The majority of bold ideas are extinguished by nothing more than the top two inches of our heads – our brains. The whole world is waiting if only we can overcome the space between our ears and get out there.

Often the biggest challenge of all is persuading ourselves to enter the race in the first place. We write ourselves off before we have even tried because we think we do not belong. Welcome to the Imposter Syndrome! 

This is an excellent time to debunk the myth that writing is only for Writers, adventure is only for Adventurers and that to be an actual ‘Adventurer’ you have to be some sort of superhero. (Or, at least have a trust fund.) None of that is me. I quit learning to write after English GCSE. I spent most of my student days watching daytime telly, doing bicycle obstacle courses around our flat, eating deep-fried pizzas and generally mucking about.

At some point, I decided that before I settled down, I should try to do something difficult. Just for the hell of it. To see what it would be like and discover how I got on. 

I enjoyed reading books about adventure. Crazy men and women and their out-of-the-ordinary, life-affirming journeys. The trouble was, those people were amazing. It didn’t seem possible that someone like me could do anything like that.

If you want to drag a sledge through a frozen wilderness, I thought, you need to be a superb physical specimen. I was [am] not. I have no natural talent. That was my first problem. 

The second problem was money. Those epic adventures all seemed to cost fat piles of cash. I was a student. I ate value brand baked beans. 

The third issue was that to cross oceans or scale mountains, you need to be able to tie all sorts of clever knots and know which way round to put on your crampons. I had none of the necessary skills and did not feel as though I belonged to that world. I was an imposter. 

But I was still curious, so I decided to find out a little more. I visited the Royal Geographical Society in London, the spiritual home of British expeditions. Gazing up at the statue of Shackleton on the front of the austere red brick building, I almost chickened out. Yet once I braved myself to cross the doorstep, I fell instantly in love with its hallowed halls. That continues to this day; I get excited every time I visit. 200 years of history, 2 million maps and artefacts, cheap beer and adventure nerds: this was everything I dreamed of.

But my CV read, ‘Alastair Humphreys, wannabe Adventurer, no talent, no skill, not much cash.’

This was not a good beginning. Three hefty hurdles in my way.

But look a little closer, and you can see the situation differently, like those weird 3D magic eye pictures. Shove your nose up to the page, scrunch up your eyes and look in a new way. With a bit of mental trickery, a new image reveals itself. A unicorn! A vase of flowers! And a dawning realisation that neither talent nor skill nor money were insurmountable problems. 

It was true enough that my lack of physical prowess was probably going to keep me from the Olympics. I would also be wise to steer clear of a free solo climb in Yosemite for my first challenge. Even money was something I could find a way around through my choice of adventure and a diet of banana sandwiches. What ran much deeper than these obstructions was the worry that I would be shouted down as an imposter. I only wanted to blend in. 

I faced two choices. I could let out a sigh and go back to reading books about adventure, but treating them as vicarious enjoyment rather than career advice textbooks. (That might well have been the sensible thing to do, by the way.) 

Or the other option was to think, ‘I don’t have much talent, skill, or cash, but what can I do? What adventure does not need much of these things? What is still possible?’ 

And that is when I decided to go for a long bike ride. 

I already owned a bike and knew how to ride it; I could buy a tent and learn how to put it up. I had a passport and some cash: I had everything you need to cycle all the way around the planet. If you can ride for a day and camp for a night, then you are ready to cross a continent.

I only had £7000, which was nowhere near sufficient, but it was enough to give it a good go. So that is what I set off to try to do – to give it a good go. And ever since, that is all I have ever done. After each trip the feeling of not belonging diminished, making it ever easier to begin the next one.

What’s that I hear? ‘This is all very well for you to say! It was easy for you. You are so handsome and heroic!’

What’s that? Nobody is shouting that? I’m disappointed. OK, let me try again…

What’s that I hear? Oh yes, it’s the voices in your head shouting again, ‘this is all very well for you to say! It was easy for you. You’re an Adventurer. You have so much talent, so much skill, so much cash. But my life is different because…’

I do not deny that many factors have eased my journey. I am a well-educated, white, middle-class, able-bodied male with a British passport. I score appallingly on any diversity index or sympathy scale of battling the odds. 

But my individual situation is not the issue here. The critical point is that we all have the choice to make the most of what we have. The imposter syndrome is not only a scary barrier that can paralyse all of us when we look to change the way we live. It is also a whopping, juicy excuse to hide behind. 

So be gone with the excuses.

Do not eliminate yourself from the race simply because you feel like an imposter.