As I sit at the kitchen table of my cabin in Cornucopia, a very small town in Northern Wisconsin, right on the edge of the south shore of Lake Superior, the mid-evening sun is beginning to set over the lake. The rich golden lights floods through the bay windows that face north. Highway 13, the only road that runs through this town next to the lake is quiet - maybe a car or two every now and then. In one of the bedrooms I can hear the two box fans I have going in order to dry out all of my gear and bike bags. It rained most of my trip today from Ashland to Cornucopia. There's still grease caked under and around my fingernails from the blown rear tire I changed just outside of Bayfield. I had made it almost this entire trip without any rain (except for the freak 10 minute rain shower in Terrace Bay, Ontario) and no flat tires. I guess my luck had to run out sooner or later, and well, why not have both things happen today right?
It feels weird to think that this is my last night on the road. Only about 55 - 60 miles stand between me and the end to this amazing journey. While I've had moments of realization, understanding, and closure - especially in the last several days - on this last night, the end still seems so distant. Part of me is excited to return home, to see the family and friends I left behind who have been so encouraging and supportive of me for the past almost 20 days. Part of me can't really fathom what it will be like to return home. It's a similar feeling to what I had right before I left Korea. I'm having a hard time imagining my life back home and if and how it will all make sense to me again after what I've done. Another part of me isn't ready for this to be over. There are so many transformations and breakthroughs that I feel are just beginning to happen while I've been on this ride. It's almost as if my mind wants to keep riding to closure. I know that as soon as I return home, the day to day routines and tasks will sweep me away no matter how hard I try and keep this ride close to me. I worry about losing what I've gained - well, maybe not losing it, but that it becomes dulled and eventually just blends into the sometimes chaos that is the backdrop of my life.
The air in this cabin is a bit thick and seems to stands still. Time ticks by slower than normal, yet the sun sets just as quickly as it usually does. Tomorrow morning will come quickly enough. The miles I need to put in will constantly roll by. I remember when I was biking the 45 miles into Sault Ste. Marie, thus ending the Canadian leg of my trip, I took my time on purpose. I was ready to be done with Canada and halfway through my trip, at the same time, what I had endured, given, and gotten during my time on the TransCanada Highway - it had worked its way into the deepest part of who I am. It was hard to let it go. I feel similar knowing that tomorrow will bring the conclusion to the ride of my life.
I've gone beyond so much physical pain, rode with and through emotional pain, and pushed through much mental anguish to succeed at this huge goal I set out for myself just 4 months ago. Riding my bike around Lake Superior was a ride I have wanted to do for a while. I promised myself I'd do it before I turned 35. When I cross the Highway 53 bridge into Duluth tomorrow, I will have fulfilled my promise a year and 5 months ahead of schedule. Although I have sacrificed much, I have also gained that much more. I have connected so intensely with believing in myself. I've found strength and courage. I've refused to give up even when I wanted to and was so close to doing so. I've felt loneliness, grief, heartache, triumph, inspiration, and solitude. My purpose and my place have always been doing what I have been doing in each and every moment.
Tomorrow, I will be writing from the comforts of my own home, I'm sure with very mixed emotions. It's been quite a ride!
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