It has been weeks now since I stopped biking.
Triumph. Laying on the beach; elated, satisfied. Watching the waves, and reflecting on the road to get there. The end a puncture; tearing through the sands of the desert, washed into the waves. Into the limitless water…beyond, beyond, into the horizon. Completed.
That didn’t happen.
The fantasy of conclusion remains an idealism in my head. The finish never rose to the heights of my escapist dreams, which I played, over and over again. I only used that as empowerment to continue.
When I lay down and shut my eyes, I’m still in the broad valleys of the Southwest.
Dust devils dance, and the wind blows head-on. I’m exhausted, pulling the weight of my belongings, and the stresses of the previous days.
I’m emotionally frail, yet determined.
I remember crying in the desert.
Overwhelmed by my incessant turmoil.
Confrontations with my ego, wrangling into a sustainable, supportive self.
Grated by the sand, to reveal my raw core.
My vulnerabilities at the forefront of my mind.
I keep pushing, further through the friction into the internal void.
I don’t remember the moments when it was too much, yet I recall I experienced it.
The swells of mental storm surged and retreated.
Surged, grew and collapsed.
Long before the beach, I swam in peaceful pools of tranquility.
My tribulations remained aside.
I simply existed.
A spiritual, a universally wholesome self.
I am human, and I am part of it all.
I belong to it all, to everything.
In the grit, in the grunt, I reaffirmed what makes life so beautiful.
And so, that’s why I felt I’ve never completed the bike trip.
I finished this leg of the journey, but there’s still much left to explore.
With my raw self, with my flesh, I can’t wait for more.
For the next ocean waves which beckon, for the next oasis which never arrives.
I’ve only departed on this journey.