After weeks of weaving through Scandinavia’s clean minimalism and Nordic quiet, stepping off the ferry from Helsinki on August 29th felt like tumbling into a different chapter—one stitched together from post-Soviet grit, EU practicality, and the kind of charming old-world atmosphere that makes your brain toggle between centuries. Riding into the outskirts, the apartment blocks carried that unmistakable Soviet geometry: unfussy concrete, straight lines, an air of endurance rather than elegance. Threaded through it all were bright signs of the present; bike lanes, clean trams, cleverly repurposed old industrial spaces. It felt lived-in, not polished; expressive, not curated.

Tallinn’s Old Town, however, has a flair for drama. The place is basically a fortified time capsule. A settlement has existed here since at least the early medieval period, but Tallinn really began to flourish in the 13th century when it became a key Hanseatic trading port. The city walls grew taller, the towers multiplied, and the same fortifications still wrap the city like a stone exoskeleton, and wandering through it feels like walking through a Dungeons & Dragons map someone forgot to close. This was also our first encounter with the onion domes of Russian Orthodox churches, the locals regarding them like a weed in their distinctly Estonian garden.

Inside of the walls tells a different story; hotels tucked into medieval merchant houses, trendy boutiques, restaurants serving experimental Baltic cuisine, cocktail bars that would feel at home in Berlin. We dropped our bags and made the very conscious decision to abandon all impulses toward restraint. Sometimes you have to be tourists, and Tallinn has no interest in stopping you.

Our first stop was Beer House, a place with a name so direct it almost felt like satire. The interior was a fever dream of antlers, lederhosen, and taxidermied animals posed as if they were mid-shift at a German brewery. A boar held a tray. A wolf towed a wheelbarrow. A squirrel supervised. The wait staff was fully committed to the aesthetic, leaning into the medieval-tavern-cosplay vibe with an enthusiasm that made the whole thing feel delightfully unhinged in the best possible way.

And the pork shoulder. The pork shoulder deserves its own paragraph, because that thing dissolved like it had given up on structural integrity centuries ago. It was tender and salty and fatty in the way camp meals never can be. After weeks of pasta-with-whatever-we-have-left and stovetop improvisations, this was the culinary equivalent of being hugged by someone who knows exactly how you’ve been living.

We wandered further toward a little house tucked into one of Tallinn’s narrow stone alleys, a cocktail bar so small it felt like it had grown there organically, like moss between cobbles. It was packed with tables, alive with the kind of soft hum that only happens when everyone in the room knows they’ve found something special. The owner moved behind the bar with the precision of a craftsman, his partner (who we could only assume was his wife) gliding through the crowd with practiced grace, both of them radiating that unmistakable glow of people living out their dream. The cocktails were wild in the best way: inventive without tipping into gimmickry, beautifully balanced, the kind of drinks that make you pause mid-sip just to process how someone thought them up. Every shelf, every light fixture, every tiny design detail had intention behind it. The place didn’t just serve cocktails; it felt like stepping inside someone’s imagination made real.

Recharged and slightly dazed, we wandered the old town’s alleys until we stumbled into a motorcycle-themed bar that could have been teleported straight out of an American highway. Neon beer signs, chrome details, custom bikes everywhere you looked—some of which had apparently taken home serious awards. Estonia keeps its surprises tucked everywhere

.The next morning was a different sort of thrill. Tay had booked us into an off-road enduro training session with OneLove Enduro, and Scott’s stomach had been quietly vibrating with dread from the moment we arrived. We rolled up on our travel-worn machines; laden with rally towers, soft bags, tools, and all the emotional significance of being our literal homes. Everyone else arrived in crisp hard-enduro gear with lightweight race bikes unloaded from immaculate Sprinter vans. You could practically hear “who invited the overlanders” humming in the air.

To their credit, no one said a word. But the looks were loud.

Our instructor immediately picked up on our… let’s say gentle energy. Before even touching the bikes, we had to explain that yes, we wanted to learn the rough stuff, but no, we could not send our motorcycles cartwheeling into a bog because then we would have to sleep in that bog. Taylor had the opportunity to again flex her therapeutic calm and talk Scott off a ledge of abject panic, all while stretching her bike Sammie’s slightly abbreviated legs. Our instructor nodded with the patience of a man used to coaxing nervous puppies through agility courses, then eased us into the day.

The trails wound through forests that retained night’s dampness even at noon. Mud that wanted your front wheel. Sand that behaved like someone had spilled sugar across the path. Loam that smelled wonderfully ancient. Taylor wound her way through the landscape like the gazelle that truly must be her spirit animal. Once Scott’s bike Katie was stripped all the luggage, she transformed from a lumbering mule into something with teeth. He even managed to keep up—mostly—without providing the forest any new KTM-shaped art installations.

By the end, our boots were caked, our arms were trembling, and our nerves were pleasantly frayed. The kind of tired that feels earned. Our instructor hinted we might cross paths again someday, and we genuinely hope that happens. Riding skills aside, Scott had the kind of calm, competent presence you want around when you’re throwing a motorcycle into terrain it was not emotionally prepared for.

Estonia charmed us without trying; half medieval fantasy, half post-Soviet reality, all wrapped in unexpected generosity and grit. Leaving Tallinn felt like leaving a friend we’d only just gotten to know, and that’s the magic that keeps the road stretching out ahead.

When Scott and I were at Horizons Unlimited Travelers Meeting in April, we met an older couple (David and Emy Woodburn) who spent much of their life on the road. They eventually had a daughter, and added a sidecar to bring her along for the adventures. For those who don’t know- Horizons Unlimited is an international group of motorcycle travelers. It’s the kind of people we aspire to be- experienced, adventurous, free, and kind. This community sent us off on our journey in April from Virginia- and many pieces of wisdom from that meet up have stuck with me along the route. The most important so far: “the best things in life are free.” Said by this couple who traveled around the world on a motorcycle and a sidecar for over 15 years.

Since then, nothing has proven this statement more true than Scandinavia. If you’ve been, you know. The majestic snowcapped mountains looming above the ice blue glacier water of the deep fjords, with winding roads, 20 kilometer tunnels, cliffs scattered with roaming dots of sheep, lush countryside, and local kindness to warm the soul in the cold, breathtaking landscape.

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Throughout my time in Scandinavia, I am learning to embrace the meaning of free- not just monetarily free, but spiritually free. I witness joyful, content free people embracing their own beauty at local swimming spots, community saunas, and ice plunges in the fjords. Where people of all shapes and sizes celebrate their humanness with respect and comfort, unafraid of judgement, embracing nature as it was in the beginning. No need to ask for permission, or check behind to make sure no one is watching- because no one is watching. Everyone is simply enjoying their own natural experience, naked or not.

In Copenhagen, Denmark, I ventured into a bakery and coffee shop for a treat that morning (not free). After enjoying every last sip of that warm espresso and sticky, spicy cardamom bun, I walked around the neighborhood- stumbling upon a local area designated for swimming in the city center harbor. I watched as young boys pushed each other off the jumping block, screaming with delight at the freezing shock of water hitting their bodies. I lingered long enough to watch people of all kinds take a quick dip, or swim a few laps. Some were clothed and some were not, and no one seemed to care either way. Of course, after watching other women my age brave the cold, calm ocean water I mustered up the courage to join them.

I walked to my motorcycle, grabbed my swimsuit and towel, and marched into the floating wooden dock. The nice thing about having everything you need in two saddle bags and exclusively traveling by motorcycle, is you always have everything you need. After changing in the public bathroom and crossing the threshold between what the public could see and where the swimmers were sitting, I realized everyone back here was topless, shameless, sunbathing in the cool breeze, reading, eating, gabbing. The best part- it was all women. A carousel of 5-10 women coming and going, taking up the entire sunbathing patio in the back of the floating dock. As if to say “this is ours.” It felt like a secret club you were initiated into only once you’d decided for yourself you were ready to dive into the cold. No social pressure, no groups of women pushing each other beyond their comfort zone. Just a space to exist, as if to say “I’m glad you made it here, too.”

In Gothenburg, Sweden, we were welcomed by a lovely older gay couple for two nights in their home. We learned what it was like for them to be out and proud in the 70s, to grow up in Soviet regions during WWII, and to thrive among discrimination by building their own community. A part of this surviving and thriving included skinny dipping in the local quarry, which is swallowed by the icy water of the North Sea. The next day, our new friend took us to the quarry, reminding us in his childhood- bodies were just bodies. Nudity was nothing to fear, nothing to be ashamed of. So, there we were. Skinny dipping with our Bunk-A-Biker host in Gothenburg as the bright morning sun shined through the clear teal water. Freedom in so many directions.

In Norway, we set up camp every night, sleeping on mountainsides, at the base of grand fjords, and in the protection of the forest. One night, we found ourselves camping on a small neighborhood beach that also had a community sauna. We met a lovely man and his two young daughters who were visiting the beach and sauna that evening. He invited us to join- which was a truly welcomed invitation given how frigid it was outside- and we still had a long night of camping ahead. We spent a couple of hours with our new friends, rotating between the 220° wood burning sauna, and the 55° glacier water of the fjord. Again, we found ourselves in the company of kind strangers. A few days later, I found myself camping at yet another fjord with no access to running water- but plentiful access to glacier water. So I did as the Norwegians do, I bravely waded into the water and shocked my nervous system awake, being sure my hair stayed dry because… motorcycle helmet. Locals walked on the nearby trail every so often, smiling and carrying on their way. Again, no shame, no fear, just freedom and oneness with the gift of nature, experiencing it as it was intended.

Finally in Helsinki, Finland, we enjoyed a (not free but not expensive) local sauna. Nestled in the heart of the city, locals were sitting on the sidewalk drinking beer to cool off after a productive, sweaty sauna session. We walked in excited for the local experience- which for me, meant getting a proper scrub by a lovely, burley Finnish woman. I lay on the plastic table face down as she instructed, getting every inch of dirt scrubbed (quite aggressively) away. I was nude of course, but so was everyone else. Again I learned: a body is a body is a body. Being scrubbed by a Finnish woman in the presence of other Finnish women and some tourists was nothing to be nervous about. I relished in the luxury of feeling truly clean for the first time in four months. She even sat me in a plastic white chair and said “I wash your hair.” I don’t know what she did, but my hair has never been so silky.

Of these experiences, I spent a total of €14, all of which went to the profuse sweat and effective scrub down in the Finnish sauna. In a span of three weeks, across four countries, I truly embraced the phrase gifted to me by the Woodburns’. Freedom is doesn’t have to be expensive.

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When you’re a kid, “Don’t talk to strangers” is right up there with “Look both ways before you cross the street” and “Don’t stick anything metal in the toaster.” It’s not bad advice, the world is full of people who might not have your best interests in mind, and when you’re small, naïve, and armed only with a PB&J lunchbox, caution is the right move.

The problem is, that advice tends to calcify. By the time we’re adults, it’s no longer about personal safety… it’s become habit. We avoid eye contact on the train. We give polite nods in the grocery store instead of saying hello. We build invisible fences around ourselves, and then we wonder why life feels so… small.

Here’s the thing: the moment you throw your life on the back of a motorcycle and take off to see the world, “don’t talk to strangers” becomes a liability. Strangers are the road. Strangers are how you find the best campsites, the hidden cafés, the repair shop that’s open when every sign says otherwise. Strangers are the warm bed you could definitely use after camping. Stranger are the most unique aspect of any corner of the world. They’re the reason your trip goes from “a loop through Europe” to “a chapter of your life you’ll tell until you can’t talk anymore.”

The Early Days - Strangers for Hire

Before our bikes even landed in the UK, we met strangers for a living… well, their living. Airbnb hosts, campsite owners, pub landlords. People with a vested interest in making sure we were happy customers. They wanted good reviews. They wanted repeat business.

And sure, sometimes it was just a key handoff and a smile. But other times it was more:

• The Airbnb host who poured us an extra glass of wine and wanted to hear about life in Tennessee.

• The campsite owner who let us watch his adorable puppy as he did chores around camp and eventually is buying you a round of shots for your birthday.

• The random mechanic in France who leaps from his truck, assists you in getting a bicycle lock unwrapped from your rear wheel, and then scoots away after high fives while screaming “I AM ITALIAN!”

Those weren’t just transactions. they were tiny little moments where the wall between “service provider” and “human being” crumbled.

Enter: Bunk-a-Biker

Once our bikes finally arrived, we tapped into the magic sauce of motorcycle traveling, Bunk-a-Biker.

If you’re new to it, Bunk-a-Biker is basically the Couchsurfing of the motorcycle world, but without the “vague promise of a couch and maybe a ferret.” It’s a network of riders around the globe who open their homes, yards, or even just their driveways to other riders. For free. No payment, no catch.

It works on one principle: motorcyclists get it. They know what it’s like to be cold, wet, lost, or just plain tired after a 300-mile (480 km) day. They’ve been the one trying to find a place to pitch a tent before dark such that you don’t anger a rural farmer. They’ve been on the side of the road with a flat tire in the rain, wondering if the next village might have a shop.

Through Bunk-a-Biker, we’ve stayed with people who:

• Had never met us before but handed us a house key like we’d been friends since high school.

• Took us for a tour of their favorite backroads the morning after we arrived.

• Fed us full barbecue dinners, complete with dessert, just because “you look like you could use a proper meal.”

No booking fees. No check-out times. Just hospitality rooted in the unspoken rule that riders take care of riders.

Two Wheels = No Walls

Traveling by motorcycle is different. In a car, you’re sealed off. Windows up, music on, climate control humming. You’re in your own little climate-controlled pod, watching the world like a movie.

On a bike, you’re in the movie. You smell the river before you see it. You feel the crosswind slap you sideways when you ride past a gap in the hedgerow. You’re exposed… to the road, the weather, and the people.

This exposure makes you approachable. People see you, not just your license plate. They see the mud splattered on your boots, the dust on your jacket, the tired grin when you pull off your helmet.

And they talk to you.

We’ve lost track of how many times we’ve heard the same opener: “Well, you’re a long way from home.” It’s usually followed by the kind of questions you want to answer:

Where are you going?

Why are you here?

How long will you be gone?

Our “elevator pitch” is polished now:

Why we’re here: “Adventure, love of travel, and a desire to take a break from the U.S.”

How we got here: “We shipped the bikes from the US to the UK.”

How long we’ll be gone: “As long as it needs to be - we have what we need for years.”

That last part always makes people lean in a little closer. You can see the wheels turning in their head: Could I do that?

Twist the Throttle, Kids are Watching

Then there are the kids. They’re not jaded yet. They see two motorcycles roll into their street and it’s the highlight of their afternoon. Almost without fail, there’s one who starts doing the universal “twist the throttle” motion - the same one we probably did when we were their age.

Sometimes we give them a little rev. Not enough to wake the local council, just enough to send a puff of exhaust and a whiff of mechanical excitement into the air. They grin. We grin. The pigeons glare at us from the lamppost.

It’s a two-second interaction that will never make it to Instagram, but it’s one of those invisible stitches in the fabric of the trip.

The Sweet Spot of Motorcycle Travel

Here’s why motorcycles are the perfect “stranger magnet.”

On foot, you’re approachable, but you move slowly. Seeing a country takes months or years. On a bicycle, it’s the same - maybe a little faster, but still difficult both physically and time consuming to the point of straining tourist visas.

In a car, you can cover ground, but you’re just a moving bubble of metal and glass. You’re safe, but distant.

Motorcycles live in the middle. You can do a 200-mile day (about 320 km) if you push, or just hop to the next town over. Either way, you’re right there in the environment. People can see your face. They can wave you over.

And because you’re so visible, you invite curiosity. At the petrol station. At the supermarket. At the ferry dock.

We’ve had people approach us while we were eating lunch on a bench just to ask about the mud on our panniers. We’ve had mechanics walk out of their shops just to say hello when we stopped for fuel. Sometimes the conversation goes nowhere. Sometimes it leads to a free coffee, a road recommendation, or even an overnight stay.

When Strangers Change the Trip

We’ve had strangers:

• Give us tools when ours weren’t quite right for the job.

• Offer us shelter from an incoming storm.

• Insist we come in for tea and biscuits because “you look frozen solid.”

And none of that would have happened if we’d kept the wall up. If we’d followed the old childhood script and kept to ourselves.

The funny thing is, these moments become the trip. Yes, the landscapes are stunning, and yes, the roads are unforgettable. But ask us about Denmark, and we’re as likely to tell you about the man who walked up dressed in full country western gear because he’d just come from line dancing and wanting to know what the US truly was like and if we’d ever square-danced either.

The Safety Bit

Now, let’s be real: talking to strangers is not without risk.

Some people are bad news. Some situations are sketchy. Trust your gut. If something feels off - the location, the timing, the person’s energy - walk away fast. Some people will even make you feel unwelcome after you’ve been welcomed in. We’ve had occasions of this on this trip and previous ones, but ultimately you’re a guest and you grit it out with a sincere thank you and a handshake out the door.

We have the advantage of traveling mostly in places where random roadside chats are more curiosity than threat. That’s not the case everywhere. And even here, we set our own boundaries. Public spaces? Great. Someone asking you to follow them into a deserted building? Not so much.

If you’re traveling solo, especially as a woman or part of a marginalized group, your radar is going to work overtime - and it should. Awareness doesn’t kill connection. It just filters it.

Why We’ll Keep Breaking the Rule

Every time we’ve broken the “don’t talk to strangers” rule, we’ve come away with something - sometimes tangible, sometimes just a story.

We’ve learned that people want to help. That they want to share their roads, their food, their stories. That the world is full of folks who see a traveler and think, I could make their day better.

So we’ll keep breaking it. We’ll keep saying hello. We’ll keep letting strangers become part of our trip.

Because on two wheels, the strangers aren’t just part of the scenery - they’re part of the ride. And we wouldn’t have it any other way.

There’s this beautiful fantasy that once you strip your life down to its essentials, you reach nirvana. That if you just get rid of the clutter, sell your stuff, leave the house, pack light, and hit the road you’ll be free. Light as air. Drifting blissfully from one beautiful scene to the next with a warm breeze at your back and nothing but a spork in your pocket and wisdom in your eyes.

Well. Sort of.

Tay and I did the thing. We packed down our lives into 48-liter saddlebags each: one for camping, one for personal gear. “Personal,” by the way, is doing a lot of heavy lifting here. It includes clothes, toiletries, headlamps, journals, toolkits, vitamins, backup headsets, a random reusable shopping bag that always ends up full of breadcrumbs and on one memorable occasion, a large amount of spilled soy sauce.

Our home is a tent. Our kitchen rides on the back of Tay’s XT250. Our power grid is a nerdy black briefcase we affectionately call BABS, (short for Big-Ass Battery System and when she’s being annoying she’s treated to her given name of Barbara) strapped to the KTM like some kind of electric possum. The idea was to simplify. Get back to basics. Travel light. Unburden.

But here’s the thing nobody puts on the Instagram captions: simplifying your life is kind of a pain in the ass.

You learn quickly that every gain comes with a cost. Take our cook setup. We have a titanium burner, titanium pot, titanium cup. It all fits like nesting dolls inside a three-liter stuff sack. Beautiful. Minimal. Brilliant. But titanium, it turns out, is like the overachiever of the periodic table - especially when it comes to bonding with burned eggs. Scrubbing off stuck food requires effort, and effort means tools, and tools take space. Which means you’re now carrying a specialized scouring pad, a dropper bottle of Dr. Bronner’s, and an unreasonable amount of righteous indignation.

Or consider clothes. My wardrobe consists of three shirts, three pairs of underwear, three pairs of socks, a pair of joggers, and one pair of jeans, all made of Merino Wool because I pity the fool who travels with cotton. Tay, who is generally a walking confetti cannon of color and charm, initially tried to bring expressive pieces. But reality smudged all of that away. My bright white t-shirts don’t survive a week in these conditions. Patterns fade. Dirt doesn’t. Eventually, we both defaulted to monochrome. Everything’s black or dark gray now - because it hides the road grime and chain oil and mystery stains from that one night we camped next to a muddy flax seed field with mud the consistency of room temperature butter (don’t ask).

Tay misses wearing jewelry. I miss feeling like I have a “style.” Sometimes, I catch myself nostalgically remembering a favorite hoodie - left behind in Tennessee, probably being worn by a family of moths by now. But the tradeoff? We’re out here. Living. Moving. Drinking instant coffee on the edge of a dutch dike like we’re in a budget Eurovision special REI catalog.

Now let’s talk about BABS.

BABS is a mildly absurd project. Inside her rugged shell is a 58V, 20Ah lithium battery with a battery management system, which steps down via buck converter to 24V and then through a Coolgear USB-C power supply that spits out 320 watts. She’s the reason we can work, navigate, write, call home, and binge download Plex and Netflix at 2 AM in the middle of a Belgian swamp. She’s a box of electricity and possibility. She’s our power grid and our datacenter - because she also carries our Starlink Mini, lovingly plopped on the ground and vaguely aimed at low Earth orbit.

The Starlink subscription isn’t cheap. But it is priceless. Tay has work calls three days a week, and with BABS and a patch of grass, we can show up to those calls like we haven’t been living out of saddlebags and eating couscous for dinner four nights in a row. (Pro tip: the camera only shows from the shoulders up. Below the table is just thermal leggings and a half-inflated sleeping mat.)

All this “freedom” we’ve chased? It does exist—but it’s tethered to a thousand tiny tasks.

Every day we pack and unpack. We clean gear. We make repairs. We cook eggs. We wipe down dishes. We repack our panniers in a specific sequence because if Tay’s cutting board isn’t under the spork bag, everything shifts and something explodes.

We don’t have more stuff. But we spend more time managing it. Organization becomes religion. Weight becomes obsession. Volume becomes game. Everything has its place. Every corner counts. You find yourself making little phone notes to track how often you use your third pair of socks. (“Every 4.3 days,” by the way. I timed it.)

And sometimes, when we’re crouched over the bikes in a gravel lot, re-rolling our sleeping mats for the third time because one of them won’t fit, we look at each other and just laugh. Because this is the cost of the freedom we asked for. We traded a couch and a Netflix subscription for a French countryside and satellite internet. We gave up closets and junk drawers and plug-in air purifiers for the sound of crickets and a sky full of stars.

Everything in life is a tradeoff.

The trick is realizing which costs you’re willing to pay.

Some people trade their time for comfort. Some trade comfort for movement. Some trade security for adventure. You can’t have it all. But you can pick what you want most—and deal with the friction that comes with it.

Our friction is sand in the tent, chain lube in the toothpaste bag, a USB-C cable that’s always three inches too short, and endless cycles of packing cubes that never quite zip the first try. But our reward is a life that moves. That stretches. That shows us the quiet edges of countries and the kindness of strangers.

We didn’t simplify to escape busywork - we just traded one kind for another. And honestly? We like this kind better.

So here we are. Two people. Four saddlebags. One Wi-Fi spaceship possum strapped to a dirt bike. Still figuring it out. Still adjusting the balance.

Still living the paradox:

Freedom takes work.

Simplicity takes effort.

And somehow, that makes it even more beautiful.

I started humming it to myself while curled up in the guest room of a Bunk-a-Biker host’s home—our now dear friend Véronique. She’s a retired nurse and English teacher with a heart like a lighthouse: steady, bright, and always looking out for strays. She’s the kind of person who manages to mother a whole house, a few bikes, cats, multiple birds, and two overcooked adventurers without breaking a sweat.

The lyrics tell of Nellie slipping her chains and making a run for the jungle:

“Off she went with a trumpety-trumf,

Trumf, trumf, trumf!”

This ride has been that. Tay and I finally broke loose of all the things that bound us—work, stress, daily monotony—and now find ourselves deep in the thickets of adventure, where the only rule is that there are no rules. It’s liberating. And terrifying. Like being handed the wheel of a ship in a fog with no map—but laughing the whole time.

After our tryst with wild camping in an abandoned water tower, we wound our way down sleepy secondary roads, the sky arguing with itself about whether to monsoon or bake us alive at 35°C. When we pulled into Véronique’s home just outside Le Mans, she appeared at the end of the gravel drive like a vision from a warm dream, all smiles and open arms—the kind of greeting that makes you believe in humanity again.

Bunk-a-Biker, if you’re unfamiliar, is a grassroots community of motorcycle travelers offering each other places to stay—think Couchsurfing meets roadside rescue, but for dusty riders and their two-wheeled companions. No money changes hands, just stories, generosity, and the occasional borrowed wrench.

Wanting to say thank you in action, not just words, we did lawn work and helped seal the timbers of her brand-new carport, which gleamed like a wooden cathedral to responsible adulthood. In return, Véronique gave us peace, conversation, and a crash course in living like locals.

Every day starts with a pilgrimage to the boulangerie—fresh baguette, buttery croissants, and for me, a chocolate or coffee éclair that’s basically a spiritual awakening in pastry form. All for about three euros.

This—this was the head of the herd calling from far away. The thing I’d dreamed of since the first break in full-time employment I’ve had since I was a teenager. We’re slowing down. Meeting strangers who become friends. Watching the light shift across tiled rooftops. Taking too many photos. Getting our boots muddy and our hands full of stories.

We slipped the chain, trumpeting all the way.

Our host Darren emerged from his house at 6:30 a.m. to find Scott frantically removing the seat from his KTM. In the ten or so years since she was built, Katie had developed a short in her harness and was leaching power from the battery, slowly but surely. We only realized this, of course, once we were 15 minutes from boarding the boat. So, with shaky hands and deep breaths, Scott worked tirelessly to jump Katie with the kind help of our host and his battery pack.

Tay was cool-headed enough to call the ferry company and check if we could still make it, which took an immense amount of pressure off Scott as he tried to solve an electrical issue under the gun (or clock, as it were).

Darren took pity on us as Scott sweated into the guts of his bike, grabbing a jump pack and saying, “Here mate, you need this more than I do!”

After a rushed and grateful set of goodbyes, we headed straight to the port, hoping there was still a boat to the land of baguettes and loose women.

Et voilà! There was! We shuffled onto the deck and took our rightful place in the onboard diner. The deck crew had a raucous time pointing back and forth, directing us where to scoot the bikes until one of them grabbed what looked like a gymnastics crash mat and cinched it down across our seats. It didn’t damage the bikes and kept them secure to the deck, which was a relief.

Once aboard, we dined on a sandwich and a croissant, already enjoying the vast improvement in food quality. It was something we desperately missed in the UK: flavor.

After a lovely six-hour ferry ride (including another jump-start for Katie so we could disembark), we devoured our first savory, gooey, cheesy galettes and crêpes. Fueled by adventure and carbs, we rode through Caen and into the woods, where we set up camp under an abandoned water tower. Sheltered by graffitied walls and the sound of happy little birds, we fall asleep feeling accomplished and excited for the days ahead.

Finally, after a decade of waiting, saving, and preparing, McQueensRide is alive and well.