A Morning from a High-Rise
October 25th. I found myself looking out from a high-rise condominium, the kind of place that makes me wonder if I am really living the life of a bicycle traveler.
My body had finally begun to recover. The fever was fading, though my throat still carried a faint discomfort. Before heading out, I took the vitamin C I had bought yesterday. Until this journey began, I never once thought about vitamins. But after falling sick—chills, eye strain, throat pain—I had been forced to pause for nearly five days. I learned the hard way that health is everything. From now on, vitamins would be my quiet companion on the road.
Breakfast and Gratitude
That morning, breakfast was a simple bowl of noodles with meat. It was prepared by the kind host who had opened his home to me.
As I sat at the table, the warmth of the food filled me, but what filled me more deeply was gratitude. This man, a stranger just days ago, had given me shelter, meals, and comfort. His kindness reminded me that the road is not only about the miles—it is about the encounters that nourish the soul.
I told myself: one day, I must pass on this kindness. Like a baton, gratitude should be carried forward.
Farewells
That day was filled with goodbyes—three of them, each heavy in its own way.
The first was with my bicycle trailer. For two months it had followed me, carrying my things and shaping the look of my journey. But the reality was harsher—repeated punctures, no replacement parts, endless repairs. It slowed me down more than it helped. The decision was not easy, yet simple: I travel to move forward, not to be chained to problems. So, I left my trailer behind.
The second farewell was to the condo host. I thanked him sincerely. When I arrived, it had been late and I was desperate for a place to stay. He welcomed me without hesitation. His generosity will remain etched in my memory.
And the third farewell was the hardest—my travel companion from Bangkok. We had cycled together, but her message that morning made it clear: she wished to travel alone. Our styles, our rhythms, our ways of being on the road had not matched. I regretted my own impatience—brought on by illness, by visa stress, by my own shortcomings. I feared I had made her journey harder.
Regret is a heavy thing, but the road demands movement. I whispered to myself: forward.
Alone Again
After repairs at a bicycle shop—where the kind worker fixed my light for free—I set off. Alone. The first ten kilometers passed quickly, but the silence pressed heavily. Traveling solo, the road feels longer. My smile felt forced, yet I kept pedaling.
Soon, the scenery changed. The city faded behind me, and nature opened wide. The air was fresher, the sounds softer. I stopped at a small rest spot, bought water and a can of 7-Up, and laughed quietly at how soda can feel like a strange kind of medicine.
It was there that an elderly man approached me. He was French, living in Thailand, and a lover of Japan. He told me he had visited Japan just this spring. His cheerful words lifted my spirits. Even short encounters like this give strength.
The Endless Road
The road stretched endlessly, straight as an arrow. There is a special kind of fatigue that comes from such roads—your eyes see no end, your body feels no progress. At around 30 kilometers, I stopped at a small shop. Looking up, I froze. Above me was a giant wasp nest.
My heart jumped until I realized it was no longer in use. The shopkeeper told me they kept it as decoration—like art. Strange, perhaps, but also oddly creative. It made me smile.
My body was slowly regaining its strength. With each stop, each encounter, the sickness felt further away.
Arrival
By evening, I reached a guesthouse. To my delight, it was clean, modern, and even had a bath—a rare luxury in my months of travel. And most importantly: strong Wi-Fi. Out here, that is as valuable as water.
Later, I went searching for dinner at local stalls, but luck was not on my side. Not a single food stall was open. I ended the day with Thai milk tea from a café. Sweet, simple, enough.
