Somewhere between the rhythmic click of my gears and the gentle whisper of the wind, I discovered the soothing, quiet hum of my own heartbeat once again, a reassuring reminder of my existence in this vast and enchanting world.
This biking journey—this strange, stubborn commitment I made after sitting in an uncomfortably sterile room, nodding my head in agreement as a surgeon calmly said, “You’re getting a new hip”—has evolved into so much more than merely counting kilometers and achieving physical fitness. It’s gradually transformed into the essential thread that is now stitching back together the jagged pieces of a heart that had been long cracked by the passage of time, profound emotional loss, deep-rooted betrayal, and by fears that I rarely dare to speak aloud or even acknowledge in the quiet moments of reflection.
At 4am, when the world is still and silent, and even the birds are peacefully sleeping, I slowly rise from my bed. Groggy, aching, and feeling uncertain, yet, somehow I still manage to push myself to rise. Because somewhere out there is a field glowing gold with wildflowers I haven't seen yet. Somewhere out there is a forgotten memory waiting to be remembered—and released.
I ride with ghosts.
Sometimes, it’s the gentle scent of lilacs that brings unexpected tears to my eyes. Or perhaps it's the warmth of a sunbeam softly warming my face, just like it use to when I soared barefoot on the old rope swing hanging from the giant maple tree out front my childhood farmhouse. I pedal through landscapes that seem to speak to me, softly urging, “It’s okay to let go now.” And I do. I let go. I give those heavy memories to the wind and watch them scatter like dandelion seeds.
Turning 50 once felt like a death sentence. The looming hip replacement, a closing door.
But now, after 370 km of hard-fought, soul-sweating trail, I know the truth: it’s not the end: It’s a beginning. A hard-earned one.
In my 20s, I never could have imagined this strength. Not just in muscle or mileage—but in heart. In presence. In forgiveness of myself and others.
And as the wheel of the year keeps turning, and blankets of snow fold gently over the trails I’ve ridden, I’ll find myself standing in the serene hush of my birth eve, and in that moment, I’ll know which direction my soul truly longs to go. I’ll feel it deep in my bones, like the sun on my cheeks, or the wind through my hair.
This journey isn't just about moving forward.
It’s about coming home.
If you’re out there right now—wondering, aching, seeking—go out into nature. Pour your heart into the trees, the wind, the wildflowers. Tell the river your fears and whisper your hopes to the sky.
And then be still.
If you choose to listen—truly listen—nature will answer.
She always does. <3