The Life To Your Story

"In the end the only thing that matters is your story" - Anonymous Aborigines Australian

The rock and roll of this boat sends familiar gulps of discomfort to my stomach. These waves, this tide, this sour salty smell so thick I can taste it on my tongue. A cold misty air bites at my skin and leaves its residue upon my beard. Like soft slick wet beads attaching themselves to the jagged sharp tips of freshly sheared neck stubble. I look out at the flat horizon composed of exactly half water and half clouds, searching hard to find its divide as the white caped waves blend so well to the misty white clouds above. I can’t see it yet but I know it’s there, beyond the curve in the earth is the land in which I was born, beyond those waves is Nova Scotia Canada, and beyond that horizon is my home. I can’t tell you how many boats I’ve been on since, I’ve simply lost count but this one I remember. I used to take this boat every summer to New Brunswick to visit relatives, years ago, a lifetime ago, before the days I could grow a beard in which this sticky wet air could grab. I’ve spent so many nights lying awake dreaming about the thought of my home, a comforting memory in which I wouldn’t allow myself hope of ever seeing again. I don’t why or what I’m afraid of finding in my old footsteps but I do know that being absent from them for this long was no mistake. What I do know is that we’re always searching for something whether we know it or not. To hike a mountain we aren’t looking for its peak, to kayak a river we aren’t looking for its source, to cycle a road we’re not looking for its end, we’re searching for the reasons in why we’ve originally embarked on them. To travel to world is not for the sake of chasing a sunset, it’s to discover the reason we left in the first place.

As this boat edges closer to the other side, I can’t help but to be reminded of the time I worked alongside an aboriginal Australian as we sat in the dirt next to a fire eating a kangaroo in the outback. I asked him how much money he gets paid for the work he does but what I was about to hear was the single most important aspect to living a full meaningful life. Without answering my question directly he told me this “We are the people of Arnhem Land and we believe in only one thing. Life is your book; everyone has a book be it white, black, rich, or poor. The only thing that matters is how full that book is and how well it’s written, because in the end, the only thing we have when we die is our story. All that matters between the day we are born and the day we die is the story we write for ourselves.” Ever since that day I try and fill every page per day with something worth reading, If I had to write my story it would go a little like this.

[[  There once a boy who spent his entire day standing on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean watching the sun rise over the water. He dreamed of travelling far across the vast lands and seas, believing he would find all the answers to life in the void from which the sun rose from the soil. One cold wet winter day the boy shivered away on the shore when he saw in the water a reflection of himself as on old wrinkly bearded man staring into the horizon dreaming of finding the source of the sun and the wisdom it held. Not wanting to grow old into a hopeless old man, the boy embarked on his journey and left everything he knew and loved to search for the place in which the sun rose. The boy spent years searching the plains of Europe, the deserts of the Middle East, the rivers of Australia, the Jungles of Asia, the rolling hills of Africa, and beneath the waters of the Indian Ocean. He was scared and timid at first but as the good and bad experiences presented themselves he grew braver, less hateful, learned languages, cultures, and religions along his way. Three years later, with thousands of experiences and tales of the adventures he had found on the road, he returned to the land of his youth from the direction in which the sun had set. As the man approached the shore in which he had watched the sun rise on that very same ocean so many years ago, there silhouetted on the rocks, still stood himself as a child looking for the hole in the ground In which the sun rose. The man walked up behind the boy completely unnoticed and placed his hand on the child’s shoulder. The boy looked up into his own eyes as a grown man and asked himself “Did you find the answers to my questions in the void where the sun rises?” The man smiled and said “I have found many things along my journey but I’m no closer to finding the answers you seek” The boy disappointed with himself, turned around and began to walk home with his head down. As he paced away, back against the rays of light, he noticed a long shadow of his body cast upon the ground from the early morning sun. He stopped shocked to see his friends and family were behind him only a few paces away the entire time but he had been too busy looking into the horizon to notice. The sun rose all around his body leaving his shadow cast out before him resembling a void in the earth.  The boy spread his arms and puffed out his chest until all he knew and loved fit perfectly within his shadow and only then did the boy find the answers. The man, still standing there, smiled and felt no guilt for lying about what he had really found, for he knew that if he hadn’t, the boy would have spent his entire life searching for what was behind him all along. As the child embraced his friends and family, the old man walked into the ocean and swam towards the sun looking for the things he never intends to find. ]]

I can see the land now before the bow appearing and disappearing with the rhythm of the sea swell. The freezing cold rain falls against the windows and the outer deck, 6 degrees and rain, it’s funny I’ve been gone for three years and this place exactly as I left it. The passengers on this ferry are getting antsy and moving towards the exits waiting for the gates to open. I sit here writing, watching, reflecting on my past and procrastinating going out into that weather, and ultimately retracing a road I’ve already traversed. I half hope for this boat to sink before it reaches shore so I can spend a few more months floating around the Atlantic Ocean in a life boat, giving myself more time to make sense of this crazy life, piecing together why I’ve ended up where I have and why others haven’t. Whatever I’m afraid to find in my past mustn’t be good if the ultimatum is to starve myself in jungles, exhaust myself on bicycles, and expose myself to deadly waters rather than facing my final demons found in the place where it all began. The temptation to turn south and embark on a new journey is hard to resist but I’ve been starring into a horizon for too long. It’s time to saddle up and embrace ones who have been here all along.  

 I’m almost home.

Bat Shit Crazy

                There have only been two times in my life where I’ve slept with a 7” hunting knife against my chest. One of those times was when my hotel was broken into at 2:00am by thieves in Papua New Guinea, and the other was last night In Thunder Bay, Ontario. It’s often as a traveler to find yourself being accommodated by all kinds of people varying between good, bad, and plain crazy. I can honestly admit I’ve been overly lucky with the people and strangers who have offered up their houses and hospitality in the past to accommodate me in their homes and treat me like family but luck only gets a man so far before he finds himself on the doorstep of a chick who is bat shit crazy.

                Now before I start to tell you about the revealings of yesterday and last night let me just back up a step to introduce my situation and how I got there. Traveling nowadays is made fairly easy and affordable with the internet offering social media sites specifically angled at free accommodation for travelers. Such sites in particular include the most popular couchsurfing.org which can be used for anything from big group meetings, having coffee one on one with a stranger, to offering a spare bed or room in your house to save on otherwise pricey hotels. Since starting this trip I’ve been introduced to another online site called warmshowers.org which is specifically catered towards touring cyclist who need a place to do a laundry, have a meal, and refresh before continuing on. So far I’ve had nothing but good luck with these hosts I’ve found on these sites, one of which in British Columbia was so nice I spent a week and half renovating a bathroom for them. So partially from being a male and the chances of being raped are less frequent and the good history of previous couches and houses I’ve stayed at I really had no reason to be skeptical about someone offering up their spare bed, but let me tell you after my experiences in this last encounter, I’ll be scanning profiles and choosing my host’s much more carefully from now on.

               Four days ago I sent four requests to four different people who were offering a bed in Thunder Bay, Ontario. A day later I had three replies from two guys and one girl. One guy was going to be out of town, the other had family visiting so both were unable to host with no reply from the third guy. The girl emailed me back asking if I used couch surfing so she could brows my profile and look at my references to make sure I wasn’t an “Axe murderer” as she put it. Fair enough I thought as women are more vulnerable than men when inside a house alone together, something in which I never consider often being pretty oblivious to most things and care free about all the rest. Luckily I did have a profile and sent away my info for her to make her judgments but being on a bike all day got me wondering why she would consider a cross country cyclist to be an “Axe Murderer” Personally If I was such a person, I could probably put in a little less effort than cycling across a country to cover up my serial killings but anyhow I still had the 4^th guy to wait on a reply if this girl deemed me too risky to host.

                In the end I reached Thunder Bay Yesterday morning with a reply from the girl telling me her intuition is usually right and sent me on her address, still with no reply from the third guy. Having no other option and no real reason to not accept her hospitality I peddled on over to her house with nothing on my mind other than to be a little  more reserved than usual to ensure the fact that I‘m not indeed a creep or an axe murderer. Little did I know then of how opposites these judgments could have been as I spent the next 24 hours in complete and total discomfort and fear.

                The general introductions were pretty normal but it didn’t take long for her personality to start slipping past the mask and revealing itself to me in an increasingly uncomfortable way. As we sat and chatted she became comfortable very quickly whilst she read me the txt msgs between her and her girl friend which were horribly sexual and vulgar. Now there’s nothing wrong with having a bit of slander between you and a friend, and as a construction worker myself, I’m fully aware of the things discussed between same sex friends and generally those things are funnier and better kept between the parties involved. Clearly not impressed I asked her to stop but it continued as she began laughing uncontrollably and then planted her laptop on my lap insisting I read her Couchsurifng profile, and then brows her Plenty of Fish (online dating site) profile which was horribly uncomfortable as she stood above me analyzing my every reaction to her comments and pictures. The only thing I discovered was she was a crazy sex addicted single 35 year old.

                Things were getting weird way too fast so I decided we should go for a walk and tour the city and takes some pictures of all it has to offer. Well it turns out her only job is working a soup kitchen feeding the plentiful heroin addicts that littered the streets of ThunderBay, meaning that on our walk to the waterfront each one would run over to say hello while clearly off their face on something while I was introduced to these guys not knowing if they wanted me to shake their scabby hands or stab me with a syringe. After a small walk on the waterfront where she told me she hated children, she pulled the textbook “I’m so hungry, we should eat out, omg I forgot my wallet do you have any money?” Normally this shit would never fly with me but because I was staying in her house and a campground is at least $20 anyway I don’t mind paying for her meal…. At Mc Donalds I thought, plus it would be a nice to get off the streets for minute and out of the attention of drug addicts. But of course she lures me into the most expensive restaurant in town where a guest chef from Montreal was cooking a signature three course meal.

$60 and two drinks later we set off home but not before she walked directly into a door leaving a massive bump on her eyebrow. She was unsteady on her feet and I practically needed to carry her home she was acting so drunk and it was on that walk back to the house I learned about the medication she was prescribed and it clearly didn’t mix with alcohol. She kept making flirty gestures about me trying to hold her hand followed by her telling me to “shut the eff up, you piece of sh*t” and must have mentioned over ten times passively that she would smother me in my sleep that night. When we got home I made us both a cup of tea just to calm things down a bit but the computer came back out and she insisted on playing some seriously deranged animated videos of a guy sticking his fingers in his butt. She then put on a video of a naked asian man dancing around with a horse head mask on when she appeared out of her room wearing the same horse head mask which sent my effing skin crawling up my spine. I was already planning my escape but my clothes were in the washing machine and there was no discrete way of sneaking away.

Now this next part would normally be incredibly awkward but given the circumstances it was a godsend. She had been on this online dating site all night talking about the guys on there and how she never uses it, yet she calls this one guy and invited him over for fire at 11:00pm apologizing to me and acting as if she needs my approval and using me as leverage because he had also been to Vietnam, which made me wonder what she thought our relationship had evolved to. Lucky for me the guy showed up and he was normal, unlucky for him, he was coming to see her. He was nice and for the first time that day I had a normal conversation and it took the attention away from me. After he left I lay in my bed waiting for her to go to sleep and making sure she didn’t bring a butchers knife with her into the room next to me. But instead, she sat at the end of my bed for an hour asking me how I thought their date went. At least I know what a stage 5 clinger is now. She finally left but reappeared shortly after sitting on my legs and farting (listen to sound clip I recorded) Finally asleep in the next room and the attention off of me I figured it was safe to doze off around 2 am.

6:00 am I awoke, no word of a lie, with a pillow against my face with her leaning over me and pressing it into my head with a demonic smile on her face. She wasn’t pressing hard enough to honestly try and smother me, more of in a joking way, but none the less not a comfortable way to be woken up. I looked around and my clothes had been dried and folded and placed next to my head without me even knowing, my spandex pants hung from a light fixture in the corner where it looked as if she tried to dress the lamp in my underwear. She sat on my bed and wanted to talk about the guy from last who she met on the dating site and continued to rehearse every single conversation he and I had had. She then showed me the pictures she had taken of me on her phone while I was still sleeping this morning. In her defense I found out she had been in a near death car crash five years ago with brain damage and part of her frontal lobe removed and on heavy meds to combat drowsiness and seizures. Some of the memory loss and sporadic swearing can be explained but taking pictures of someone sleeping in your house roots deeper than a car accident I’m afraid.

There are pros and cons to meeting strangers and risks involved in doing so, most are good, some are bad, but sometimes you just get the one that’s bat shit crazy.

Soundtrack

Finding Zen

                The warm bead of sweat slithers down my spine in its straight cooling flow. There’s not a single nerve of protest between my shoulder blades as my skin finds comfort in this welcomed moisture. The steady rush of air streams past my ears in a gentle melody of movement. My calves bulge into tight balls beneath the knee and for the first time in my life I understand why thighs are called quads while all four defined muscles relax and contract in opposition of each other between the forward and rear push of my peddle strokes. It’s already 8:30 at night and I’ve done 155km today but my heart pounds on in a steady rhythm content of pushing on, it knows better than I. Hill after hill are conquered with nothing more than a simple downshift as if it were flat ground, they present no challenge anymore. I haven’t felt the shrill pain of pins and needles in my hands for days now, my ass is finally molded to my seat, a tough leathery skin welcomes the post for the 10^th hour today.   A smile grows upon my face in which I can’t control, this is it, two months and 3500km later I finally love the feeling of keeping pace into the late hours of the night. Nothing inside of me tells me to stop, I dread the moment the tyres seize to make their gentle whooshing whisper when my ride comes to an end that day. I want it and I like it, clear mind, fresh air, enjoyment, simple and pure. I’m no longer enduring these longs days but enjoying them, it took a while to find it but now that I have it I welcome it and all I can think about is waking up and getting back on the saddle. Like the 40^th kilometer marker in a marathon, similar to the weightlessness of a 20kg pack 1 month into a hike or the millionth paddle stroke in a kayak, the mind is conquered and the body flaunts what it’s been holding back all this time. My mind is free and my breath is steady, my legs push on without me needing to tell them so, it took a while but this is it.

This.. is… Cycle ZEN.

               I’m out of the prairies now, I’m out of the USA in which I have no plans to return on this journey, I’m into the isolated forests of Canada’s largest province and I love it. All the hard work throbbing up the mountains in B.C, the endless hours of scorching hot days across Alberta, the thousands of mosquito bites and freak hail storms summoned from Saskatchewan, and the merciless soul wrenching headwinds of Manitoba have all paid off as I find myself pushing out 150km to 200km a day and still finding time to go for naked swims, smelling the roses, and capturing the memories on my camera. I don’t get the hunger cravings that used to haunt my stomach. My skin is golden brown as its developed a natural deterrence against the sun. I’m fit, happy, and flying down the sealed roads edging my way closer to the Atlantic Ocean. I’ve summited the last hill dividing the water shed from the Arctic to the Atlantic, I’m still a long way but rivers are my friends now as we share a mutual destination. I passed yet my 4^th time zone entering into Eastern Time, not quite Atlantic yet but I’ll envy anything providing the word east.

               Two more weeks of crossing the mogul landscapes of northern Ontario as I circumnavigate the largest lake in the world and wind my way to Toronto where friends and family await my arrival. I feel like the hard yards are behind me as I have an incredibly scenic two weeks ahead of me before reaching so many friends I’ve been anticipating to see for so long. One leg at a time is the approach to conquering a journey like this and the only bit that remains unfamiliar is the next two weeks before reaching Toronto. From there those lands are mapped into my mind with small distances between friends and family all the way to Halifax N.S. A massive endeavor in itself but I’ve come far enough to let my fantasies and dreams run free as hope of reaching home replaces stubborn determination. Pain and determination come from being tough, hope comes from the heart and unlike determination, there is nothing in which can break hope.

               

Mental Maintenance vs Mechanical Break Down

                I’ve been wanting to write more about this bike trip, to document it properly, to explain the obstacles only present in an endurance of this scale however when I write about the day to day events, I find myself at a loss for creativity and excitement. As I’ve hiked 1000km, kayaked 2500km, been lost in the mountains of Papua New Guinea to name a few, I never have to second guess myself as if I can accomplish this trip with previous endeavours like those under my belt. Yes, prior to this cycle I’ve never ridden a bike further than 40km in a day but anyone with great perseverance will know that they will make it to the end, no matter what, even if it means slugging out thirteen hour days of back breaking work for four months straight, or longer, whatever it takes, I will make it. So when a decision is made to cycle across Canada, that’s final, it will happen and I won’t give up until I either finish or get killed trying. It might sound a little dramatic but when you’re soaked through lying in a cold dark tent huddled in a wet sleeping bag as you listen to the wind howl in the trees above, the same wind that’s impeded on your progress for the past four days, it takes a constant reminder that dying trying is much more honourable than giving up on your dreams. It’s not that the fame of cycling across Canada is worth dying for, rather its dark lonely moments in a tent like these that make the rest of my life worth living for.

                I hate writing anything without meaning. Meaning for me is something that comes from the heart and can be implied every day for the rest of our lives, so as I rewrite this now I’m scraping the 3000 words bellow that I just spent the past four hours working into an adventure about the events between Saskatoon and Winnipeg. I’ve realized that this cycle trip is tough, I mean really tough but contrary to what most people might get out of a trip like this is not a self-discovery of overcoming physical feats, it’s an emotional journey for me to reconnect with the people in my life which have meant so much to me in the past and of course meeting new and interesting people along the way. Being gone from my family for three years I can honestly tell you there were times I thought I would never see them again. There were times when I lay on a bamboo shelter in the jungle not knowing if I’d see the light of day tomorrow, there were times on the beach when I saved people and gave them another chance to see that light again, and there were times on the road when I witnessed people who would never wake up to see that light again. Now as I’m already half way across Canada it’s slowly starting to reveal itself. Every time I drive by a lake I’m reminded of my summer home in which is the catalyst for my love of the outdoors. Every time I sip a coffee I can smell the slow drip pot in my parent’s kitchen brewing a fresh cup. Every time the daisy seeds blow in the wind, they swirl like flakes of snow dropping from the sky at the Halifax waterfront on Christmas eve. These are my memories and each and every day they get stronger and more vivid. It’s a horrible aching tease for myself to want these things so bad and yet I throw in more obstacles to overcome before getting what I really want. I often times wonder why I couldn’t have just bought a plane ticket and see my family again. I often times wonder what I’m holding myself back from. What am I going to find at the end of this trip that I’m so afraid to see that I need to spend four months on a bike clearing my mind and writing about it. What is it that we all seek in life but are afraid to find?

                On a trip like this it only really starts getting tough when your mind becomes harder to push than your muscles. On average I spend ten hours a day on a bike, prying myself awake at 4:00 am when everything is still soaking wet, cold, and uncomfortable. The early morning clouds offer no protection from the plagues of mosquitoes piercing my skin in hundreds of different locations and sucking that precious hard earned blood from my body. My back is sore from the log beneath my tent, the third time this week. The passing trucks during the night would lay on their horn when spotting your tent off the side of the road, just to be dicks. When the trucks don’t wake me, the curious moose, rodents, and mice trying to get into my food will. All a great nuisance however trying to cycle against a 25km/h or more head wind is the biggest moral thief I have ever experienced. Cycling hours into a head wind only to gain a measly 30km on the day is enough  kill your spirits and send you into a depression. I had my first mental break down on my way across the prairies last week when I fought these conditions day after day. Eventually I couldn’t push on and I spent an entire day huddle in a cold wet tent all alone, contemplating my motives to finish this trip and contemplating pulling the plug on my entire adventure. I know better though, I’ve been among these ruins before and it won’t be the last for this trip, hang tight relax and things will get better, they always do.  In hindsight I’m glad I have days like that because it makes the good days really good and ultimately when I do finish this trip Il remember every one of those thoughts and be happy I pushed through and didn’t give up. The reward is worth the misery.

                On a 7000km bike ride your own mind and will power will most definitely be your biggest obstacle however from time to time some broken equipment can be a good distraction from the emotional side of it. My bike has been increasingly impressive. Each day I realize the bike I’m riding is much more capable than the legs that push it along but everything has its breaking point and as my legs get stronger, the hardware on my bike gets weaker. As I was chugging along down the #1 highway into Winnipeg the dreaded sound of a crack pierced through the hollow swoosh of cars and trucks blowing past my shoulder. Instantly my front pannier buckles and mangles itself into my front tire with bouncing metal against metal as the front spokes repeatedly hit the front pannier rack PING* PING* PING*. The constant bumps, bangs, and vibration from the imperfect roads between Vancouver and here have paid its toll on the lightweight aluminum front rack. The main support bar sheared off leaving my front right pannier in a sloppy flopping mess. Having done 195 km already that day I opted to throw up my thumb and hitch hike into Winnipeg where I could find a bike shop to have it replaced with a new strong one.

                Winnipeg has been one of my favourite stops to date. Having no expectation what so ever and knowing nothing about the city at all set me up for a great surprise when I was greeted and hosted by my friend Bailey who I partied with in Vietnam for a week. Let me tell you that the location in which we find ourselves in has no effect on the amount we party, and partied we did. I’ve had an incredible time this week being shown around the city and exploring bars, geocaching, and riding the many bike trails that zig zag the city. I was so surprised to find so much culture and diversity here with an apparently limitless amount of things to do. The city has done a great job of keeping green spaces and public facilities, it almost seems as if every park has a little concert, show or gathering going on in it. I really like it here and I think I’m lucky to have been shown the things I have in the amount of time given, as an east coaster Manitoba is the black sheep of Canada and I’m so happy to have seen it with my own eyes and experienced it with my own hands. I spent an entire day at mountain Equipment Co-op where I met and hung out with the mechanic. I spent the entire day tuning up my bike in his shop as I replaced my broken front rack, put on a new back tyre and tube, and had my rear hub rebuilt cleaned. It’s been a great stop for me to drink up, sleep in and prepare my bike for the longest most isolated section yet, northern Ontario. Time to push off and head for the border into the USA where I’l reconnect and make my way into Ontario. Its been swell Manitoba but its time for me to push on and close the 2300km gap between me and my friends in Toronto.

Friends and Family

               Since leaving Canada years ago, the smell of pine trees, the sound of blue jays, and feel of frigid salt water weren’t the only things left behind. The longer I’m gone the more I come to discover how meaningless those memories can be and how important the people who fill them are. One of those people in particular is my childhood companion, best friend, and Cousin Lorenz Arsenault. I’ve known him for as long I can remember and being hardly a couple month apart in age, we’ve always challenged each other throughout our youth in which ultimately shaped us to the men we are today. Much of the mentality I have now probably wouldn’t have been inspired without him by my side in those developmental years where we’re in full awe of discovery and curious of limitations. It was Lorenz who made a deal with me at 17 years old to run our first marathon. Two weeks before the race day I received a call reminding me of our deal in which I couldn’t back down from. Two weeks later on one over cast rainy day in May, we both completed our first marathon without a single kilometer of training. The medal around my neck wasn’t a symbol of running 42 km/s but my first realization that I could push myself to accomplish things in which most people would never try and others would consider impossible. More important yet, those medals were proof of friendship bond that would last a lifetime. 

                The years went on so did our challenges as we ran another marathon together the following year, dressed in black and broke into active grain elevators, spent long nights with a bottle of rum in fishing boat looking for parties to crash, and swamped the competition when we played on sports teams together. An incredible companion to have growing up but life has separate plans for all of us. On the last night before my plane left Canada we sat high above the street lamps on the peak of my parents’ house drinking a beer and smoking the last of my Cuban cigars before saying goodbye. Both twenty years old we sat gazing at the same glow of city lights but were looking at perfectly opposite futures. As I wondered how many countries I would see in the next couple years, he wondered how many diapers he we need to change as it was that night he told me he was going to be a dad. That’s why it was so important for me to push out over 800km in 5 days from Calgary to Saskatoon in order to be reunited with my long lost friend and spend time with his new family.

               An unequal heat spread itself throughout the cottage in a gentle crackle and pop. The occasional backdraft emits a smoky plume into the building lingering in a dull wonderful aroma of burnt hard wood. There’s just nothing like a real wood fire in a cottage that warms me to the bone. Maybe it’s the fact that I spend most of my nights huddled in a cold dark claustrophobic tent with the horrendous smell of my feet and clammy body that make an environment like this so appealing. I’ve spent the entire weekend now, sitting back being immersed in this wood fire while drinking ice cold beers and playing games with my two little second cousins. I love adventure and can’t sit still for more than a few minutes at a time but sitting here in this cottage doing a whole lot of nothing and spending some much needed time with my cousins kids fills me with such an overwhelming sense of satisfaction.

Spending time with my younger nieces and cousins fills me with a feeling I had never expected to feel prior to grandparenthood. I know that these kids won’t remember me the next time they see me, whenever that may be. I do my best to absorb their company in the short amount of time I have to visit but there’s no making up for the years of absence that have gone by. I can’t help but to feel guilty in a way for missing them grow up. Traveling the word is probably the most liberating and satisfying feeling il ever have but like Isaac Newton put it so honestly (For every action there is always an equal and opposite reaction) My own uneducated interpretation of this is for every moment gained is a moment lost somewhere else. As much as I want to stay and spend more time with my family here in Saskatoon, I know that there are friends and family anticipating some cold beers by the fire and an earful of ridiculous stories at my destination. It’s time to push on and get these wheels back on the road, next stop Winnipeg Manitoba.

It’s tough to leave but I’ve learned a valuable lesson in the past few weeks that life is too short to be a stranger to the ones in your heart. I’m no longer a stranger to myself but there’s no way I want to spend any longer being a stranger to the ones who fill my memories. Bring it on Manitoba!