Book launches are usually seen as milestones: the culmination of years of writing, editing, and second-guessing. Mine was all of that, yes — but it was also something else entirely. It became a reminder of how the Stoic principles I had written about in The Stoic Rider aren’t just ideas to study. They’re alive. They show up when you least expect them — in the crowds, in the sands, in the light through a window.

 

Here are the lessons I carried home from that day.

 

 

1. The Present Moment Is Enough

Before I even made it through the car park, people had gathered. They didn’t know me, but they saw the bike, and curiosity drew them closer. A father asked if his teenage son could sit on it, and of course I said yes. The joy on their faces reminded me that moments don’t have to be grand to be meaningful — they only need to be lived fully.

 

 

Marcus Aurelius once wrote: “Confine yourself to the present.” Not the past, not the imagined future, but this moment. That morning, the launch hadn’t “officially” begun, and yet, in truth, it already had.

 

2. From Humble Beginnings, Greatness Can Emerge

My little Kawasaki Ninja, scraped together from eBay in a last-minute flurry before Bonneville, was never meant to be historic. It was just a machine that helped me say “yes” when opportunity knocked. And yet, there it was: wheeled into the Pendine Museum of Land Speed, rolling past John Parry Thomas’s Babs — the car that set records a century before.

 

The bike itself was ordinary. But the courage, perseverance, and occasional foolishness it carried me through gave it weight and meaning. To see it now in a museum among legends was a reminder that greatness is rarely designed at the outset — it emerges from humble beginnings, from daring to start.

 

3. There Is No Perfect Time

When I began my talk, nerves were my first companion. I told the audience how, back in 2019, I had stood at the edge of Pendine Sands, staring down five miles of beach on a bike I barely knew how to ride. I had only just sat on a sports bike for the first time two weeks earlier. I put my faith in that little vehicle, and I decided that there was never going to be a perfect time, never a perfect bike. This was it. This was now.

 

Seneca wrote: “While we wait for life, life passes.” If we delay, waiting for perfection, we never begin. That day on the sands taught me that bravery isn’t the absence of fear — it’s the refusal to wait for conditions to be ideal.  

 

4. Community Is Our Strength

The day before that first Pendine run, I remember telling strangers in the pub how nervous I was, how inexperienced. And instead of judgement, what I found was support. The true community of land speed racing is exactly that—a community. They cheer the fastest and the slowest, they hold each other steady.

 

At my launch, I emphasised this truth. That where you look is where you go — and when you look to others with trust, courage comes easier. That spirit showed up again when I saw Josie and Rob walk in. Six years earlier, I had given a young Josie my snood, just as a gesture of encouragement. And there she was, still with it. Sometimes the smallest acts of kindness plant the deepest roots.

 

5. Perspective Shapes Everything

As I was ushered upstairs to give my talk, I stepped into the room and was struck silent by the view. Floor-to-ceiling glass, looking out across the sands. That golden light, stretching across the place where dreams have been tested for a hundred years, moved me more than any stage or spotlight ever could.

 

 

Seneca urged us to cultivate perspective: to look beyond the narrow frame of worry or self-doubt and see the bigger picture. In that moment, my nerves dissolved. I wasn’t just giving a talk—I was adding my thread to a century-old tapestry of riders, racers, and dreamers.

 

6. Memento Mori

By the end of the day, my bike stood in the museum, my books in the foyer, my hands ink-stained from signing copies. I caught up with old friends like Terry Smith and Kevin Nix, legends of the sands. And as the sun set, I felt that deep Stoic reminder: all this is fleeting. Today’s triumphs become tomorrow’s memories.

 

But rather than sadness, that thought filled me with gratitude. Because impermanence sharpens appreciation. Memento mori—remember you will die. Remember, too, that days like this are rare and precious, and must be treasured while they last.

 

7. Rebirth from the Ashes

Later, in the noisy pub by the beach, surrounded by photographs of legends past, I thought about what to call the bike. It had come from the ashes — a rushed eBay purchase, written off by many — and it had risen to such great heights. From obscurity to museum. From scrap to symbol. 

 

And so, its name revealed itself: Sand Phoenix.

 

Epictetus reminds us: it’s not the circumstances, but what we make of them, that defines us. Sand Phoenix had carried me from uncertainty into courage, from hesitation into history. And perhaps that’s the greatest Stoic lesson of all: no matter where you begin, you can rise.