And suddenly it’s the day. I have run out of squares. The tailor has finished sewing on the fasteners to my bags this very morning. I have tied the carriage to the bike and I don’t know if it will work, but it’s time to leave. I know I can bike the 60 km to The Village in one day, because I have done it before. Twice. All my stuff is cleared out, my good-byes are said and I feel as ready as I will ever be; strong, excited, prepared. The melancholy is balanced my the knowledge that Dakar will remain a 2-hour bus ride away and that I will come back here in the weekends to dance.

My initial optimism turns out to be a necessity. The first drops of rain start falling just as I’ve turned into the big street and fifteen minutes later, while I am lost after a wrong turn, comes the downpour. Later on the road I will have to cross puddles with water up to my knees, stop to mend two flat tires (and to ignore the third one, instead stopping to pump every half hour) and avert one creepy harasser before I will reach The Village around midnight. Then get lost again, drag my bike through sand on twisted paths in the dark to finally end up locked out of the house because can’t get a hold of the person with the key.

But I don’t know any of that yet. Everything is packed and ready, the bike rolls, the carriage has a little wobble but it works, I am off and it is just me, my strength and my whims now. Toward the next chapter and adventure!

…

(This story told in pictures and video.)