“Adventure is a path. Real adventure – self-determined, self-motivated, often risky – forces you to have firsthand encounters with the world. The world the way it is, not the way you imagine it. Your body will collide with the earth and you will bear witness. In this way you will be compelled to grapple with the limitless kindness and bottomless cruelty of humankind – and perhaps realize that you yourself are capable of both. This will change you. Nothing will ever again be black-and-white.” 

~Mark Jenkins

It's been a month since I mounted my bike, heading east with a flimsy plan to make it to Chicago. 31 days ago I had an apartment full of things apartments are filled with. In my case, things that normally went unused, acting as decoration or filling the void between walls and doors. I laugh now at the things I have carried with me over the years. At the things I wanted to bring along, like that pillow that would only take up too much space. It would hardly alleviate the tired anyway. It has become a relic from a life I hardly recognize. One I'm in no hurry to get back to. But days like today, when the rain keeps falling it makes me nostalgic for home, wherever that may be. I miss the familiar faces. I miss the warmth of the desert. The sunsets that exploded into the sky and the sunrises that saluted my rides into the mountains. I miss the crunch and sweetness of apples. The acidity of the lemons from the tree outside my bedroom door. The familiarity of all that makes all of this so raw, like opening your eyes for the first time. It is real. All of it. The road, the traffic, the trees, the bugs eating my flesh, the sweat, the Confederate flags, and the men with broken teeth, waving. All of it. Oftentimes I have felt as if I've been crawling. My entire body scraping against the black pavement, my hands scrambling, gripping the ground. Not in a hurry.