The next morning, I woke early and packed the bike after a small breakfast, trying to forget about the bagel I’d clumsily dropped and somehow kicked across the room. Alyssa would have laughed. The hotel parking lot was filled with Ford Mustangs, old and new, gathered for a drive commemorating the car’s 50th anniversary. The Mustang was always one of my favorite cars, and I thought of the beautiful the symmetry would be if I could get a tour of the factory while in Detroit on during the trip's final days.

My heated gear was useless against the cold wind biting at my neck as I traveled along I-40, making my way out of Asheville. Soon, I traded the interstate for the Great Smoky Mountains Expressway, winding through the mountains. The slower pace allowed me to enjoy the scenery, but the cold remained, seeping its way to my boots, forcing me to stop. I pulled into a country gas station that looked as though it had been there for decades, complete with a pair of old-fashioned rocking chairs out front. Inside, the woman behind the counter kindly offered me her stool to sit on as I layered on an extra pair of socks. We chatted about my trip, and when I mentioned my plan to take the Tail of the Dragon, she recommended an alternative route—the Cherohala Skyway. It was just as scenic, she told me, but with less traffic and more opportunities to take in the views. To me, that sounded perfect.

I was glad I took her suggestion. The pavement was smooth, as if the highway had been recently finished. I sped along, nearly alone on the road as it twisted through the mountains. It climbed higher and higher, passing above the mile-high point as I neared the Tennessee border. The view was breathtaking—layers of ridgelines fading into the distance, and the crisp air heightening my sense of accomplishment. It was moments like these that made the journey feel worthwhile, even if I didn't have time enough to stop and photograph every vista.

As I descended toward Tellico Plains, the world changed from winter to spring. The sun came out, warming the air as I rode alongside a river, trees and flowers blooming on either side of the road. By the time I reached town, I was back on schedule, though I had missed the Trans-America Trail I had planned to take. Still, I was content. This journey wasn’t about sticking to every detail. It was about adapting to whatever came my way.

The interstate was a different story. Wind buffeted me from all sides as I rode along I-75, my bike guzzling gas at high speeds. After a fuel stop, I noticed my brake was acting up again. One of the caliper bolts had worked loose, leaving the pads squeezed tight against the rotor. In my rush to escape the cold the day before, I hadn’t tightened the bolts enough. With no spare bolt, I improvised with a zip tie, silently thanking myself for packing them. It wasn’t a perfect fix, but it would hold until I found a replacement.

The sun was setting as I reached Mississippi’s Pickwick Landing State Park, casting long shadows across the fields. After struggling with the knot on my tent bag, I finally set up camp and offloaded the bike. That night, lying under the stars, I reflected on how far I’d come. The bike issues, the missed moments—they didn’t seem to matter as much anymore. What stood out were the experiences, the people I met, and the beauty of the places I had passed through.

That night was colder than I expected, and I woke multiple times, my back sore from the rocky ground beneath the tent. By 5 a.m., I had had enough and decided to pack up and get on the road. The sun barely touched the horizon as I set off, gravel crunching beneath the Scrambler’s tires as I began the Trans-America Trail again. But after a few miles, I stopped, remembering the brake situation. Pushing the zip tie to its limit on dirt and gravel wasn’t the best idea, so I made the decision to stick to paved roads, crossing back and forth along the TAT route where I could.

The ride took me through small, sleepy towns in northwest Mississippi—some seeming no bigger than a few streets long, others felt like ghost towns, and a couple where the post office seemed to be the nicest building around. I couldn’t help but wonder what life was like here, from jobs to entertainment. As much as I craved solitude on the road, I knew I couldn’t live in a place this isolated. It was a world apart from the DC suburb Alyssa and I lived in.

I crossed into Arkansas over the Mississippi River, on a path different from my usual route along I-40 years before. The river always felt like a milestone, even though I still had miles to go. But my luck ran out as I approached Little Rock, where traffic ground to a halt. Seizing the opportunity, I detoured to a nearby Best Buy and replaced my lost GoPro. Small victories, I thought.

The next morning, I woke feeling refreshed. I had stayed with family in Little Rock, and my bike was finally back to 100%. After a quick goodbye and some fresh orange juice—my aunt had insisted—I set off, eager to explore the backwood trails of the Ozarks. The landscape changed as I rode through mountain logging roads, gravel kicking up behind me as I settled into a steady 40-50 mph. Tall pines replaced the short, leafy trees, and the trail stretched endlessly into the distance.

At some point, I decided to change my route, setting the GPS toward Glory Hole Falls—a waterfall I had discovered on Pinterest, of all places. The hike was longer than I expected, and I regretted keeping my gear on as I made my way down the trail. But the falls were worth it. A small hole in the cave’s ceiling let water cascade down into a pool below, creating a peaceful, hidden retreat. I rested for a bit, cooling off in the shade before the steep climb back to my bike.

After refueling, I pushed on, making my way toward Fayetteville for a quick meal. As I rode through the University of Arkansas, I considered staying to watch the baseball game that evening, but I decided against it. Setting up camp in the dark was never fun, and I still had a long way to go before I reached Tahlequah.

As the sun set, I crossed into Oklahoma, surprised that the landscape hadn’t flattened out yet. I found a campground just outside of town and set up my tent, settling in for another night under the stars. The road had been long, but as I lay there, I realized this trip was about more than just the miles. It was about learning to let go of perfection, to embrace the unexpected, and to appreciate the quiet moments in between. Most of all, it was about Alyssa—the person who made all of this possible. And as I thought about her, I knew what I wanted. This trip had shown me just how much I wanted her by my side, not just when I returned, but for every journey after.