A Solo Travel Lesson: Alone with My Bike in New Brunswick

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When I finished university, I wasn’t ready to settle into the “prescribed” way of living: get a job, find a partner, rent a home, build a family, and climb a corporate ladder.

Instead, I packed my bicycle and set out on a new solo travel adventure—from Toronto to St. John’s, Newfoundland. Beyond the destination, I didn’t have a plan. No GPS. No smartphone. Just a tablet with a few saved maps, some dry food, and the naive belief that I’d figure things out along the way.

Now, this wasn’t my first time throwing myself into the great unknown.

A year earlier, I hitchhiked from Toronto to British Columbia—an adventure that gave me a taste of something I couldn’t quite name at the time. You might call it “the travel bug,” but that never felt right to me.

For me, this wasn’t about checking off destinations or collecting experiences. I wanted to strip life down to its rawest form—uncertain, uncomfortable, and entirely mine to navigate.

Now, starting a solo trip like that is easier than most people think. You make a decision, pack your bag, and go. And arriving? Well, reaching any destination often gets all the glory, but it’s almost always underwhelming.

What no one tells you is that the road stops being romantic after the first few hundred kilometers.

That’s when the real lesson begins.

When the Romance Ends, the Work Begins

The first few days of solo travel is freedom at its finest.

Morning coffee beside a misty river. Sunrise rides through backroads and countryside. A cool breeze on a hot afternoon. The satisfaction of starting something no one else around you would even dare to do—or experience in their lifetime.

But it doesn’t last.

Eventually, the soreness sets in. The chain starts slipping. Bike tubes are popping thanks to an unseen pothole. Your tent’s still wet from the rain two nights ago. You haven’t eaten anything that isn’t dry or boiled in days. The people you meet stop asking where you’re headed—and start asking why you’re doing this at all.

And there’s no cinematic answer. You’re just doing it. You made a decision, and now you’re somewhere in the middle of it—too far to turn back, nowhere close to done.

That’s when the romance fades and the work begins.

It’s no longer exciting. It’s just hard.

Waking up sore, stiff, and tired—still needing to ride 100km.

Cooking in the rain. Fixing your tire in the dark.

There’s no applause. No checkpoint. Just motion.

And that’s where most people quit their solo travels. Not because they’re weak—but because no one tells them this part exists.

The part where your only reward is knowing you didn’t stop.

But if you’re lucky, somewhere along the way, the road gives you a moment to realize just how far you’ve come.

Why Progress is Difficult to See

Starting something is monumental——whether it’s a solo travel adventure, a romantic relationship, or a new business venture.

It takes guts to say yes to something most people will never attempt. You feel the thrill of movement, the rush of something new. And ending—arriving—is just as powerful. You made it. You crossed the finish line and you enjoy a momentary dopamine high.

But everything in between?

That part gets blurry.

Day after day, the scenery changes—but your body feels the same. The aches don’t go away, they just become part of you. Your knees crack. Your back tightens. Your hands stay raw from gripping the bars. You wake up more tired than you were the night before.

The ride feels the same too.

No matter how far you’ve come, every day starts with another hill. Another stretch of pavement. Another wind pushing back just enough to remind you you’re not in control.

Welcome to your life’s new routine: cook, ride, sweat, fix, sleep. Repeat.

Here’s where progress becomes invisible—and self-doubts come wandering in:

• Am I actually moving forward?
• How do I know if I’ve improved?
• What if I’ve made a huge mistake?
• Who even cares that I’m doing this?
• Am I wasting my time?
• What’s the point?

Self-doubt has a way of growing louder in motion. Sometimes the only way to hear yourself think is to stop moving.

So instead of pushing to the point where your legs give out before your mind does. It’s time to pull over, lean the bike against a railing, and just sit.

How to Bridge Uncertainty with Clarity

By the time I reached New Brunswick, I’d already put over 1,400 kilometers behind me. I also crushed my longest day cycling in my entire life—over 200 kilometers from Ottawa to Montreal in one push.

My legs were wrecked and my cooch was still tingly and numb.

So when I rolled into Hartland and saw a long, covered wooden bridge stretching across the river—I stopped.

I didn’t even know it existed.

But there it was.

Solid. Still. Waiting.

A wooden tunnel stretched over the water, holding up under the weight of time and weather. And at its entrance, a quiet little gazebo stood waiting—like it knew I was coming. I leaned Posmo—my bike—against the railing and stepped into the shade.

It wasn’t much, but it felt like the first space in weeks that was actually offering me something back: rest, calm, stillness.

A moment to breathe. A moment to recover—not just physically, but mentally too.

For most people, this would just be a tourist stop. A place to pull over, snap a few photos, and post them on the ‘gram.

But not me. This was a milestone, a checkpoint my journey had prepared for me.

For the first time in weeks, I slowed down long enough to see how far I’d actually come.

Not on a map. Not in distance.

But in effort. In discipline. In showing up—again and again—when no one was watching.

That bridge gave me something I didn’t even know I needed: perspective.

What Solo Travel Really Teaches You

Solo travel strips life down to the bone.

And the longer you’re on the road, the less it becomes about where you’re going—and the more it reveals who you are when there’s no one else around.

You learn how to keep going when no one’s clapping. How to sit with your own thoughts without needing to escape them. And how to trust yourself, not because you feel brave—but because you don’t have any other choice.

You don’t come home with answers. You come home with scars. With stories. With a deeper, quieter sense of self.

Ultimately, the point was never to arrive.

The point was to keep going—until the road showed you something you didn’t know you were missing.

Here’s what solo travel teaches me:

• Progress is quiet. It shows up when you do.
• Your path can’t be measured by anyone else’s compass.
• Stillness is where you see who you’ve become.
• The journey doesn’t reward the strongest—it rewards the committed.
• You don’t have to find yourself. Just keep going long enough to meet who you truly are.

So if you ever find yourself on a solo trip—tired, unsure, somewhere between where you started and where you’re going—keep going, and clarity will come.

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