“You mean you’re traveling alone?” is a question I am asked nearly every single day. In truth, yes, I am traveling alone. But that’s not what I say. “No, not really. You’re never really alone out here,” I answer. I smile and continue along.

From my experience on this 2,500 km highway that stretches from Vancouver, British Columbia to Winnipeg, Manitoba, everyone seems incredibly troubled by my apparent lack of company. But friends, I am far from alone.

Cycling through the first cities — Vancouver, Maple Ridge, Mission — I feel like Dr. Seuss in How The Grinch Stole Christmas when I say, “All the noise, noise, noise, NOISE!” I am definitely not alone here. The sounds, the exhaust, the stars — or maybe those are street lamps — are almost comforting.

It is only later in my trip that I will realize these cities are the probably the loneliest places I will pass through for the entire 26 days of my journey. No one seems interested in me as I sit by my fully loaded bike in a parking lot, eating a bun and banana. For these first few days, that’s okay by me.

My body is so busy trying to adapt and recover from these increased physical demands that I tire easy and am in no mood to socialize.

When I arrive in Hope, BC, I have officially traveled 120 km in a single stretch, which is more than I have ever accomplished in one day! In the weeks to come, I discover that my body is amazingly resilient, and begin to cultivate a new and deeper appreciation for my body and what it can accomplish.

That isn’t to say I don’t wake up at 2 a.m. several nights in a row with an unrelenting need to stretch my quads, or a near-nauseating hunger! Eventually, though, my body adapts and my mind is next to bat.

Regarding the mind, the remark I hear nearly every single day suggests that I must “really get to think a lot.” On the contrary, the ‘thinking’ part of riding during such long hours is actually much smaller and less profound than the ‘non-thinking’ part.

I travel through several layers of thought, the first being quite practical and tangible. In this mind, I read road signs, dodge potholes (if I’m lucky), think about what I’m going to eat in the next town and hone my math skills estimating the number of minutes until the next rest stop.

With sufficient sleep, ample food and water, and a regular dose of coffee, this practical mind is always alert and ready to step up to the plate if necessary. Usually though, after a few hours of riding, this mind quiets and I come to the more challenging layers of my mind.

I come to understand this: my day either begins or ends with several hours of “Ughhh!! Am I
there yet!?” and other creative idioms of complaint. I learn that I experience negative feelings in incremental and predictable steps. First I am uncomfortable, then I am irritated and then I am frustrated.

Fortunately, with practice, I become more skilled at separating my self from these thoughts and my experience of negative mind becomes shorter and more tolerable. I reach a place of observance where I can watch my thoughts, and it soon becomes: there is discomfort, there is irritation and then there is frustration.

Neat!

Suddenly, I realize that when I am able to convert the ‘I am’ into a ‘there is,’ the feelings of doubt and complaint are much more tolerable, and the rest of my day is not only possible, but actually enjoyable! Hmm . . . maybe this can be useful in my everyday life?

Furthermore, overtime I come to recognize that this layer of the mind is often lying. Yep, it’s a big fat liar with its pants on fire. For example, when climbing up the Coquihalla towards Merritt, this mind often chimes in with a persistent, “You’re not strong enough. Better just get off your bike and thumb a ride.” Lies. All lies. I know this because somehow, I arrive. It is 12 hours later, but it happens. In reflection, I arrive in Merritt not in spite of being alone, but rather because I am alone.

If anyone else had been present at my most doubtful moments, I might have opened my mouth and materialized those doubts. I can’t be sure, but perhaps if someone had reaffirmed my self-doubt, I might have been keener to call it a day.

Alone, I could acknowledge these powerful, tomato-throwing thoughts, shake their hands and trudge along despite them. “Thanks for your input guys, but I gotta go!” In learning to separate myself from these thoughts, I feel liberated and empowered. I ride on.

And as I ride on, I have left behind not only uncertainty, but also inhibitions that often held me back me from fully embracing spontaneity and joy. I say hello to cows in the morning (okay, sometimes I “moo”), I belt out Disney songs and I laugh out loud often. Sometimes I write fervently. Sometimes I cry. Eventually, I arrive in a place of simplicity and quiet mind.

It is here, which is somewhere between A and B, that my mind is tired of thought and I enter a place where I can quietly observe. It is here that I don’t need to be anyone, or anything. I don’t need to be a yoga teacher.

I don’t need to be working towards an education of any sort. And I don’t need to meet the expectations of my friends, my family or even the expectations of the Brenna at point A.

It is here that I feel both emancipated and terrified at the same time. And it is here that I realize I am not going to be the same person when I return to Vancouver at the end of my journey.

So when someone asks, “You mean you’re traveling alone?” I pause.

Mentally, when I separate my self from my mind, I create more than one. I am not alone.

Additionally, weaved into my hours of riding solo, I meet other touring cyclists. Occasionally, we ride together for a few miles (or a few days!) before we fork off on different paths or take our unique paces. Later in the evenings, I am sleeping on the couches of kind strangers, who share their stories and offer helpful wisdom for the road ahead. I am not alone.

And finally, I am not alone because I repeatedly stroke the beads that adorn my neck made by the women in Uganda from the Shanti Uganda Society. I remember that these incredible and resilient women are with me here in spirit. They serve as the inspiration for my trip, and are quite possibly the reason I arrive in Winnipeg one day ahead of schedule, alive and, despite a minor tailbone injury, in good health.

But that’s not what I say. “No, not really. You’re never really alone out here,” I answer. I smile and continue along.