I stepped out of the shower, eyeing the gear spread across the room. The process of packing and unpacking every day was wearing me down. I thought about the journey ahead and realized that, after reaching the Pacific, my goal had shifted. My focus was now on getting home. I made a decision: it was time to lighten my load.
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Google led me to a UPS store just a few streets away. I parked the bike outside and carried in everything I wouldn’t need for the remainder of the trip—the tent I’d bought in New Mexico, the sleeping bag and air pad purchased in Tulsa, and the folding chair and cookware that had traveled with me since the start. The clerk, seeing my struggle to find a box large enough, kindly stepped in to help, and soon enough, my 31 pounds of gear were packed and shipped. I then readjusted my remaining gear on to the bike, having to relearn how everything needed to be strapped down, and set off once more.

With the lighter load, the bike seemed more agile, as if it too felt relieved of a burden, and the miles began to pass effortlessly under my tires. I soon passed through Sacramento and as I merged onto Route 50, I strangely felt as if I was almost home. Of course, there were several thousand miles still to go, but this one highway stretched the entire way there, passing within a block of the apartment I shared with Alyssa. I wouldn't even need the GPS to get there.

After lunch at a pizza joint in Tahoe, I rode around the lake, marveling at its majesty in the midday sun. Cyclists pedaled along the steep inclines and sharp turns around the lake, and I couldn’t help but think they were crazy. The irony wasn’t lost on me—many would call a cross-country motorcycle trip crazy.

By the time I reached Fallon Naval Air Station, the sun was setting. I was "welcomed aboard" as I passed through the base gate and given a key for a room on the hotel's “bottom deck.” The naval jargon made me chuckle, considering how far I was from the sea or anything resembling a ship.

The next morning, I was back on Route 50, heading east towards Utah. This stretch of highway was everything one would expect from a road nicknamed "The Lonliest Road in America." There were long stretches between towns, each one barely avoiding being labeled a ghost town. The sense of isolation was palpable and, although I passed the occasional car, it seemed that the only reminders of a recent human presence were the occasional small stone messages I'd see left in the sand by some other traveler.

Eventually, I turned north, making my way to the Bonneville Salt Flats. As I approached, the horizon opened up to reveal what looked like a vast, white desert. However, as I drew closer, I realized a layer of water sat on top of the surface. The salt flats were flooded, the wind creating small ripples in the water as it whipped across the surface. There was no way I'd be able to set a land speed record that day. Although I had planned to spend the night in the nearby town of Wendover, it was still too early in the evening for me to consider calling it a day. I decided instead to push onward to Salt Lake City, where I’d arranged to stay with a fellow rider from an online forum I frequented.

A few hours later, I was pulling into his driveway, parking my dirty, bug-covered Scrambler next to his clean, matte green one. “I feel like I’m meeting a celebrity,” he said, recognizing my bike from the ride reports I had been trying to post online each night. We shared a meal, then spent the evening touring Salt Lake City and nearby Park City, though by then it was too dark to fully appreciate the sights. After a long day on the road, I fell into a deep sleep in their guest room.
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I set out the next morning, heated gear keeping me warm. Making a last minute change to my itinerary, I programmed in a new route into my GPS, choosing to sacrifice a visit by Dinosaur National Monument in order to spend more time in Moab. The ride south was beautiful, and I was once again impressed by the landscape of a state I had known so little about previously

By the time I reached adventure mecca, the day had warmed significantly, and I was peeling off my insulated gear, stuffing it into the remaining bags strapped to the bike. I spent the evening riding through Arches National Park, captivated by the towering rock formations and the incredible natural beauty that surrounded me. The light wasn’t perfect for photography, but the landscape itself was enough to make the experience worthwhile. As I snapped pictures of the Double Arch, I couldn’t help but imagine returning here one day with Alyssa. It was the kind of place we could explore together.

The following day, I was excited to head into Canyonlands National Park, a place I had looked forward to for weeks. The gravel roads soon turned to dirt, and I found myself on a rough, rocky trail. The bike, stripped of most of its gear, handled the terrain well at first, but as the road became more challenging, I struggled to maintain control. The rear tire slipped on loose rocks, and I braced myself against the inevitable. The bike tipped, and despite my best efforts, it crashed to the ground. I picked it up and tried again, and again the bike fell, the street-oriented tires unable to find grip on what might have been marbles.

I picked it up, only to find that the shifter had snapped off again—the weld from California had failed. Without the vice grips, which were back at the hotel, I had no way of shifting gears. Stuck in second, I knew I had to turn back. Frustrated and exhausted, I tried to turn the bike around on the steep, rocky incline, but it slipped once more, crashing yet again. This time, as I stood beside the fallen bike, I saw a dust trail in the distance. Two trucks approached, and their drivers stopped to offer help. Together, we hoisted the bike and got it turned around.

The ride back to town was slow, my confidence shaken. I limped the bike back to the hotel, knowing that my day of exploring Canyonlands was over. I spent the evening searching for a welder, but being Sunday in Utah, nothing was open. I’d have to try again in the morning.

The next day, I was pointed toward a local bike shop but had no luck. I resigned myself to riding to Durango, Colorado, stuck in a single gear. The road was long but, with the vice grips and a good balance of throttle and clutch, I reached Durango and managed to find a welder willing to take on the job. He was careful, even advising me to disconnect the battery to avoid frying the ECU. His precision and attention to detail gave me confidence, and after an hour, the bike was back in working order.

That night, as I explored the town, I was approached by a man in a black leather jacket who asked what I rode. “A Triumph,” I replied with a grin. His response was unexpected—he flipped me off, saying, “F___ you.” It was a bizarre interaction, and I couldn’t help but laugh as I continued on my way. Maybe he was just envious?

I walked inside a pizzeria, hungry for dinner, and sat down at the bar. Striking up a conversation with the bartender, she told me how she had moved to Durango for her boyfriend, only for them to break up shortly after. She chose to stay, finding solace in the small-town charm. Her story reminded me of how little it took for people’s lives to change course, something I saw mirrored in my own journey over the past couple of weeks. Later that night, I thought about my trip and the journey ahead. It had been an adventure, but the thrill of exploration was beginning to fade, replaced by a growing desire to return home, safe. I opened the blue jewelry box and looked at its contents. I didn't want a mishap to change the course of the life I was wanting to build