It’s 19:19 on the 7th of April. I’m sat in Barcelona airport with a cold beer in front of me, typing this out.
And I keep coming back to the same question.
What the fuck am I doing here?
On the surface, it’s straightforward enough. I’m heading to France to do a training course, keep my certificate of competence up to date. That’s the practical side of it. The sensible bit.
But there’s more to it than that.
I’ve got a backpack with me, packed for what comes next. Flights are booked. Accommodation sorted. My bike is already waiting for me in Phoenix, sitting in storage. There’s even a brand new handmade wheel over there, built up with a dynamo hub. That’s a story for another time, but it says something about how committed I’ve been to this whole plan.
Everything is lined up.
And still, I’m sat here wondering if I should be doing any of it.
The last two weeks in Palma I spent time with friends, the kind of people who know you properly. Old friends, good friends. The kind of connections that don’t need explaining.
I’ve written before about airports, about the feeling of them, the in-between nature of it all. But this isn’t that. This isn’t about travel or movement or any of the usual thoughts that come up for me in places like this. This feels different. This feels like a proper question.
What the fuck am I doing going back to the States?
Last time I did this, I was done. Burnt out from work, mentally and physically. The trip was an escape as much as anything else. I needed it.
This time is different.
I didn’t leave because I had nothing left. I left at what felt like the right moment. I’m not exhausted. I’m not trying to run away from anything. Which makes this feeling harder to understand. Because I should be excited.
I know what this kind of trip gives me. I know the rhythm of it, the way it pulls me into the world. The places, the people, the small moments that make it all feel worthwhile. It’s something I’ve chosen again and again for a reason.
And yet, sitting here now, I don’t feel that pull in the same way.
What I feel instead is this quiet, persistent thought.
Maybe I shouldn’t go.
Maybe what I actually want, what I’ve been saying I want for a while now is to stop moving.
To stay.
To put my feet on the ground somewhere and start building something that isn’t temporary.
And Palma… Palma felt like a version of that.
Now, to be clear, it’s not that simple. I can’t just stay there right now. There are visa issues, logistics, real-world constraints that make that decision more complicated than just choosing it. But I don’t think this feeling is about logistics. It’s not about whether the ride will be good. I know it will. It always is in its own way.
It’s about something deeper.
It’s about the fact that for the first time in a long time, the idea of staying feels stronger than the idea of going. And I didn’t expect that. I thought this trip would be the thing that helped me figure everything out. A bit of space, some distance, time on the bike to think through the ideas that have been building over the last few months.
That was the plan.
But now I’m not even sure if the plan is pointing me in the right direction.
It feels like I’m caught between two versions of my life. The one I know well movement, travel, independence, the bike, the road. And the one I say I want, something more grounded, more connected, something that involves staying long enough for things to actually take root.
Sitting here, I can feel both of them pulling at me. And I don’t know which one I’m supposed to follow. If I’m honest, the voice telling me to stay is louder than I thought it would be. Maybe that’s something I need to listen to. Or maybe it’s just fear of stepping back into something familiar and demanding. I don’t fucking know. And that’s probably the hardest part of it.
So for now, there’s not much else to do.
I’ll finish my beer, get on the flight to France, and give myself a few days to sit with it properly.
— Adam