some more highs and lows , the hollow feeling remains , and I am unable to shake it . The finishing ceremony is high on another hill , in an old fort , above the port city of Genoa . It ’ s surreal as a heavy mist rolls through , and the surrounding view is obscured . It ’ s hard to see twenty feet ahead , let alone the Mediterranean Sea below .
A weary band of riders gathers in the mist , but I can ’ t stomach it . The bike and I are both destroyed . I sit out of sight , behind a thick stone wall and have a cigarette like a petulant child , as the names are called out and finishing trophies handed out . I don ’ t collect mine . I don ’ t think I deserve it , nor do I think I can ride a motorcycle .
I am in that place beyond exhausted . I would have thought it would become more familiar by now , but it ’ s not . My spirit is broken and my mind too . My beloved bike and I have fallen out and are not talking . It ’ s heartbreaking . She sits ruined and ravaged , begging for love , a love that I don ’ t have to give . I am disgusted with myself . The debilitating feeling of failure has brought me to a giant void , which I cannot navigate out of , and depression has enveloped me completely .
I tear away my overlanding motorcycle identity and cast it to the wind . It ’ s time for something new , it ’ s time to be reborn . The road never ends , but the way we travel it changes . I shed my skin and disappear into the cloud of mist , to become something else , somewhere else , where I can only hope sleep and rest are plentiful . WB
TRAVERSE 167