September 28: Woke up sluggish and unsure. I felt weak from recovery and homeward sentimental and somewhat defeatist in my outlook. Despite that, I started pedaling. the wind was insistent and naggingly pushing against my head and feet the whole day, and for the first forty miles, I was of a pitiful character. The fifty miles had taken seven and half hours and with the already late start of checkout or 11 am, I found myself twenty one miles still away with an hour of day light left. I got to a point where there was an opportunity to turn off and cut the day short, but doing so would either add miles another day or put me behind again. for me it became a deeper thought, if I stopped now there and then and didn't make Malta, I wasn't going to keep going. it scared me because I'm so close to finishing the crossing (relatively speaking, what's a thousand miles or so?!) and what would it mean to give up now. I couldn't do that and so I kept going, my pedaling growing stronger as I filled my lungs with air and determination. The wind slowed me still but I pushed through in the fading light, and continued to go forward as the gravely shoulder of the road became shrouded in the cloudy dark night. The wind finally died about five miles before town and the chill settled into consistency. Trucks and pick ups and sedans whizzing by two or three for every mile or so, and for the first time since Sam's been gone I'm happy. Biking with a smile even. It's like I rediscovered that I'm out here because I want to be out here. Sometimes it is miserable, yes, monotonous, and stark, but at the same time most of it is often astonishing and winding, new yet redeeming, genuine but surreal. The path goes ever on, it's you who chooses to get on an off. That day was the closest I came to quitting.

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