Morning Farewell to the National Park
October 27th. I woke up at the campsite inside the national park, greeted by a sight I had never seen before. The tide had retreated nearly fifty meters. The vast stretch of wet sand shimmered under the morning sun, as if the sea itself had quietly slipped away in the night.
Then I noticed something else—jellyfish. Dozens of them, scattered across the beach like translucent reminders of the ocean’s hidden dangers. I felt relieved I hadn’t gone swimming the day before. My relationship with jellyfish so far had been nothing but trouble.
I strolled along the beach, breathing in the salt air. But today, I had almost sixty kilometers ahead of me, so I soon turned back. Packing up my bicycle had become second nature now. Each strap, each bag, each check of the trailer—it was a ritual of departure.
Before leaving, I stopped at a local restaurant for breakfast. Not knowing the language, I relied on what I jokingly call “menu roulette”—point and hope. This time, I lost. A plate of deep-fried vegetables arrived, heavy and bland. Hardly the fuel one dreams of before a long ride. I ate what I could, but I knew I would need another meal later. With an unsatisfied stomach, I pedaled away from the national park, grateful for clear skies that promised no rain.
Along the Roadside
About ten minutes into my ride, I spotted something curious—a row of small boats tied along a riverbank. They looked like they could carry a dozen people at most. I remembered hearing this was part of the park’s attractions, though today it sat quietly, no tourists in sight.
Not far from there, an unusual temple appeared. Its walls glistened among the green trees, and in the center once stood a golden statue. Only the legs remained. The upper half was missing. Looking around, I finally found it—tucked in the shade.
It seemed almost comical, yet strangely fitting. To stand under the sun all day, in relentless heat and with no visitors, was perhaps too cruel for a golden figure. In the shade, it looked more at peace. For a moment, I smiled and felt oddly happy for the statue, as if it too had found relief from the world’s demands.
The Call of the Cave
The day’s main attraction was ahead: a limestone cave. From the parking area, it was only a two-minute walk to the entrance. Alone, the cave looked eerie from the outside, but once inside, the fear melted away.
Light filtered through openings above, casting soft beams that danced across the walls. The cave was silent, timeless, and strangely welcoming. Being there felt like stepping into another world, one both hidden and eternal. I lingered, taking photos, breathing in the cool air, before returning to the sunlit road.
Against the Wind
From that point on, the journey was straightforward—just me and Highway 4. The wind turned against me, and every push of the pedals felt like dragging an anchor. My thighs burned, my body begged for rest, but I kept going.
After three hours, I finally found a small rest stop. Normally, I take breaks every two hours, but today the hills had kept me pushing longer. I ordered fried rice and, for the fourth time that day, a cold Coke. Soda on the road is a strange temptation—it gives a temporary burst of energy, but once you give in, it’s hard to stop. Four in one day was too many, I knew, but at that moment, it felt necessary.
The fried rice was simple, but the care put into cooking it made it delicious. One of the comforts of cycling through Thailand is knowing that wherever you stop, the food will always be good.
The Last Push
By late afternoon, my body felt battered. My legs moved like pendulums, rhythmically, automatically, as if they no longer belonged to me. Stopping now, I thought, would mean I couldn’t start again. With ten kilometers left to the guesthouse, I pushed through the pain.
Finally, I arrived. Relief washed over me when I saw the wide, open space of the guesthouse—a single-room unit with its own garage. I could park my bike and spread out my belongings without worry. I washed my clothes and hung them outside to dry. It felt like a small luxury after a long day.
Evening Comfort
For dinner, I wandered to a nearby food stall. The staff welcomed me with warm smiles—the kind of friendliness that makes a place instantly feel right. The stall turned out to be serving Thai-style ramen. The broth was rich, the noodles comforting, the flavor unlike Japanese ramen but close enough to stir a memory of home.
After a day of exhaustion, it was the perfect meal. Sitting there, eating slowly, I felt both worn out and deeply content.
Tomorrow would be another forty kilometers. But tonight, I rested in gratitude—for the tide, the shade, the caves, the roads, the smiles, and the simple joy of making it through.
