Three months. Ninety days -- a quarter of the year.
Settled into it now, the routines. Find water, find a campsite, make camp, cook dinner over the petrol stove, sleep and wake, make coffee, break camp and pack up the bike again. Grinding climbs, sweat pouring into my eyes and my sunglasses and clothes all stained by salt. Then descents like visitations by angels, full of oxygen and endorphins, speed and ease like satori, a sudden bliss dawning in your heart.
I go for days where I do not speak to anyone. I could be a ghost yolked to this machine, cycling some bardo realm, a near-isomer to reality, bottling up digital messages along my way to send out on wifi or 3G to prove my existence. My arms and legs are suntanned to peeling and they itch. Fuck prudence, I'll scratch them anyway.