And I would walk 4500 miles...

Riding home in the heinous Sydney traffic last week, I looked down at the odometer to see an even 47,000km staring back at me.

I'm not sure if it is just me, but I usually love those moments when I see the '000.0' tick over - it's almost like seeing a shooting star: you know it happens, but to actually be looking at the right place at the right time is rare, and strangely enticing.

But last week this milestone was not enticing at all. Admittedly, there was that moment of glee at seeing the actual event; and then I realised what this means.

When I took ownership of this particular motorcycle in January this year the odometer read something along the lines of 39,500km. The first 500km or so of riding were marred by mechanical monsters sabotaging the machine every week. It wasn't until that 40,000km mark that we really started working together as partners.

That means that this year I have travelled 7,000km almost completely trouble free.

Great, right?

Until I realised: I may have covered 7,000km aboard my bike, but I haven't actually been anywhere.

What a bloody waste.

In fact, of the 7,000km I would be lucky if i have spent 700km doing riding that I have enjoyed and actually wanted to be doing.

I guess this is the sickening joy of the suburban commuter. 6,300km of wasted mileage on a fine machine in a beautiful country. 6,300km of horrible city riding in horrendous traffic along the same worn-down roads with the same dangerous drivers.

I could have travelled to Perth and (almost) back. Or up and down the east coast of Australia, exploring the back roads.

I could have revisited my entire trip through the UK and France, with kilometres left to spare.

Instead I have spent 6,300km battling along Parramatta Road, the M4, James Ruse Drive, Epping Road, and a variety of other equally-ridiculous roads all within the boundaries of greater Sydney. What a magnificent tour. What a wonderful use of my time and money. Hoo-bloody-ray.

Please excuse my cynicism. Since my return I have been extremely disenchanted with certain aspects of Sydney, and find myself itching to let it out.

Living in a city like Edinburgh I came to value space and time as extremely desirable commodities. The short walk to and from work allowed me more time to do things that I like to do (sometimes constructive, sometimes indulgant, always enjoyable).

Travelling 60km+ each day in a two-hour (minimum) round-trip across Sydney is the opposite. I arrive at destinations stressed and already worn-down. The activites that follow are usually attacked with less vigour and are rarely as enjoyable.

Sydney offers some wonderful opportunities, and I have definitely benefitted from many of them this year. It is a great city, with a lot of positive aspects.

But it comes at a cost, and at the moment I am struggling with finding the means to pay that cost. I am struggling to find the desire to justify the expense.

Mostly, I'm just struggling. Is this what life was always like here?