The three most important words in mindfulness meditation: simply begin again.

There are two types of ceramists: throwers and hand-builders.

Control the process and let the outcome take care of itself.

There are many times I have failed and or been rejected in my life. And many, many more to come. That is certainly guaranteed – but the only thing I can control is if I stay out onto the water and keep getting on the surf board. If I simply begin again, and learn to see every rejection as a redirection. To find joy in the process.

In surfing, you simply cannot catch every wave. You will fall off the board. For an amateur like me – you will undoubtedly and repeatedly eat shit. Falling, failing, losing balance is all part of the process. Equally as important, and perhaps more mentally challenging, is waiting.

I have always enjoyed swimming, and I find that swimming out into the water to be a core part of the surfing process that I have started to increasingly appreciate. If you break down the total time breakdown in a surfing session from water entry to water exit, perhaps no more than 10% of my process involves me standing on a board able to wave to my mom and say: “Hey, look– am I really doing it?”

I have enjoyed various forms of pottery for a long time. My relationship with ceramics, similar to surfing, has come in seasonal waves. Recently, I have found myself deep into it, and leaning into the joy of the creative process.

Creating for the sake of creating. It is meditative in a similar way cycling can be, wheel spinning, mind and body in motion.

“I am much more of a hand-builder, a sculptor.” Says Jonah about himself. Jonah, rightfully, identifies as a ceramist. A description I have never thought of myself. Suitably, Jonah has earned the appellation, as he does it semi-professionally, sells his pieces, and often teaches.

“What about you, Mark – are you a thrower or a hand-builder?”

I had never considered the dichotomy, but then again, I had never considered myself a ceramist. I make pottery, but I do it for fun. I give my pieces away as gifts. Sometimes I keep ones I like, but I don’t teach or make money, and don’t ever plan to. I do it for myself, because it’s fun. Sometimes because I want to build something specific, sometimes because I want to scratch the itch to build something.

When I first thought of starting a company, and pursuing entrepreneurship as a career-path, Mati- my co-founder and I must have gone through at least 50 different ideas. Hypotheses, questions, what ifs... To be frank, we had no idea what we were doing, only that we wanted to be entrepreneurs. We wanted to build something. We were throwing until something sticks.

“Hand-builders often want to build something very specific.” Jonah says. “Throwers on the other hand, are more motivated by the process.”

What is the process of surfing?

Swimming, waiting, trying to stand on the board and riding a wave and surfing it, and then repeating until you are hungry or tired or cold or ready to get out of the water. There is a delicate balance between waiting and trying. Wait too long and it can get boring. Try too often and you can get prematurely exhausted.

Throwing and hand-building are very different but also can have a lot in common.

When I throw, sometimes I have an idea of what I want to build, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I start with a certain size of ball of clay, and I have fun with it. Many of the pieces I had the most fun making all contain a rich history of mistakes. But because I was not fixated on making something in particular, I had the freedom to make something different, something unexpected, and to appreciate the beauty in that.

I am trying to approach building a startup in the same way, and be guided iteratively to discovery of product-market-fit, the promised land.

But, when I remove the clay from the wheel and let it dry, one process ends, and another begins. Waiting. Drying. Trimming. Waiting. Drying. Sanding. Waiting. Glazing. Waiting.

There is a convergence of the hand-builder and thrower’s paths when you start trimming, despite a different genesis at the top of the funnel.

There is a Japanese brand of eyewear called KameManNen that I recently learned about. The brand name comes from the following Japanese proverb:

“A crane lives a thousand years, a turtle ten thousand years” (Tsuru wa sennen, Kame wa mannen). The brand symbolizes the pinnacle of Japanese meticulous craftsmanship. Of precision and longevity and their founder’s desire to create durable, timeless eyewear that lasts a very long time. They are expensive, perhaps forever outside my budget. But, the idea is that you will purchase one pair for your life and repair rather than replace when damaged. I like that. I want to build with that attitude.

In 1981, KameManNen was the first company in the world to use titanium for eyewear production.

Kame means turtle, and mannen means ten thousand years in Japanese, reflecting the founder’s aspiration to make eyewear that stands the test of time.

I suspect Kame’s founder and Caletti would get along well, and share not only a respect for craftsmanship but for titanium.

I also suspect they would get along well with Jonah.

I wonder what I will learn about the process of entrepreneurship as we go through our pre-seed phase? Is it more like throwing or hand-building? Or both? How can we balance the need to go fast and iterate quickly, with the desire to cultivate a deep sense of craftsmanship while building.

Are Mati and I a good team because I’m a little more of a thrower and he’s more of a hand-builder?

What’s the right mix of people to bring onboard as we get our little startup off the ground?

I look forward to spending more time thinking about it on the saddle, and writing about it here as I find out.

John Caletti

We live in this world of mass production, and we're so far removed from the things that we consume – why is it important, that still, things are made by hand? I ask John, as we sit in the lobby of his inviting shop in Santa Cruz.

Yeah, that's a great question, and I'm not sure I could totally articulate it. It is very multi-layered – and it’s much more like there's a relationship that's going on here. John says.

You know who the person who made your bike is, and you know they are really into riding, and they took a lot of time with it. It's far more fascinating, when you have a different relationship, a different story with it. And when it's made really, really well. He continues.

Tell me more about the relationship with time, the patience required that goes into building a frame. Some of these bikes, unlike other possessions, can truly last a lifetime. I ask eyeing the frames like art sculptures adorned on the walls of the shop.

I’ll make maybe 50 frames a year on a good year, and things have slowed down since my accident – but yeah it takes time, and I have fun doing it. He describes. And yes, it’s different – it’s not like a factory in China that’s producing so many frames per minute, my frames can last for life –

How about the character of different metals? What is it like building with steel vs titanium?

I started with steel. John says, but in a lot of ways titanium is a better teacher. It really requires more from the builder…

Welding is very challenging, but I think at this point, I've done it long enough where I know that I can sit down with the frame and weld it out and it's gonna come out great.

Hood down, the colors are different, it's just, super concentrated, these little movements, both hands and my foot at the same. It's a nice, flow state type of thing. He adds with a smile.

This state of consciousness, the flow state – that you’re describing, I feel like when I’m on the bike sometimes too. I say. Or when I’m doing things that require all my attention, and feel this expanded sense of time. I enter this other space in myself and there’s a kind of zen-like quality, this flow zone where I don’t feel the hours pass –

I just like dipping into that zone, yeah, I love that. He says. Sometimes I come in on Sundays and say, I don't answer the door. I don't have anybody come by, no computer, just fabrication. So just get back there, get on some music and get concentrated focus time. It’s really nice.

I like the notion of that, there's this kind of overlap with an expansive mindset, a different mindset – cycling can do that, and there’s this organic nature to that mindset, and so it makes me think of nature and the mystery of nature, and so much of that is what’s so great about cycling, and particularly in our area, is how we get to go out and have those experiences, plugging ourselves into nature. Caletti continues.

I find it's hard for me to cycle now while listening to music, and harder still to cycle while I'm thinking about something else. It becomes this meditative state that is very, very present. You know, I feel very in the moment. I reply.

Who is your ideal customer when making this bike? Or was it for yourself? Was it more like an artistic expression?

The adventure road style of bike - that’s the style I like – it's very much a bike I'm gonna ride. I think it's killer. It's a style I've developed over a long period of time. So I guess I feel, I ride that bike the most personally, so I feel more of an affinity to it.

Where do you let beauty take the lead, and where do you let function take the lead? How do you solve for what the customer wants, in a way that's aesthetic, but also very practical. How do you want your customers to feel when riding?

I think of that more as a question of where they're gonna ride, and how they like to ride – and it's different for each of us. I hope they ride and feel like: “Oh, my God, this is so fun. Like, yeah, kind of childlike, like, kind of giggling because it's so fun. Or, yeah, I rode my road bike through the dirt, like, that was crazy…”

Or, some little weird path, it just invites more exploration, more adventure, being less serious, having a good time, that what would be the ultimate – just people out there, smiling, giggling, doing something new.

I love that - and love the idea of having a bike that explores that type of exploration and risk taking. I respond. What do you think makes a Caletti bike, a Caletti bike like, what are those different defining elements that you think about when you start a build? Do you focus more on function in the frame, and aesthetic more in the finish? I ask.

I suppose that the biggest thing is just that I'm so involved that it has so much to do with me and how I work. So that might start with, really trying to listen well so that I can understand them and what they want and what's important. And then be responsive to what their wants are, and help.

I think for some people, the aesthetic is what stands out to them. My particular style and the way that I do things resonates with people. Also they really like the process.

I feel like my customers have a lot of trust in me, and they come to me for my expertise, and I can share that with them in a way that is really meeting them where they're at based on what they want. So it's a nice back and forth, and it feels fun and comfortable. Caletti continues.

It's not a top down pressure kind of a thing. It's pretty nice, people have a good time with that and feel very comfortable, and they're getting their bike that they want, and that works well for them. And I make that easy, and then I take that into the bike. They don't exactly know everything that goes on behind the scenes, but, I'm really putting a lot of effort into doing a great job with every step along the way to make sure that it comes out as best as I can do it right now.

Are there other artists or craftsmen that inspire you? Architects, musicians, artists?

Just love these guys: Khuarangbin. Vibe wise, they have a bit of a minimalism to the whole deal, particularly the drummer, it's like, part of the magic that makes it work is, like, this really nice mix of where there's complexity and where there's simplicity.

I like this a lot. What you're suggesting, this interplay between simplicity and complexity. I think that’s awesome — there's elements of that in design and in riding, like there are certain routes when riding that can offer the same thing, that can be very pure, low traffic…and offer a mix of more technical riding but more simplicity at the same time too –

If each bike is a poem, what would you want it to express? I ask John as we wrap up.

Wow, I'm not a writer – I don't know how it would be the best way to articulate it, but some things that are kind of coming to mind might be something really to do with really absorbing the experience.

These themes of absorption, of the flow state – there's a bit of that kind of mindfulness or moment of, when you're out there really, taking this in. I mean, sometimes we're really in that flow state. Just like wow. What a great thing to be out here doing this, riding, and then in here in the shop too, it's that - appreciating this, the work that I get to do, and the mind state and the physicality of it.

“That's life…We can play like children play…We can say like children say…Have we got the time?”

- Khuarangbin

You can’t get stronger without ever riding into the wind or climbing hills.

You can’t do entrepreneurship without failing, and failing fast.

Dave, or DTL, the fourth master I meet in Santa Barbara is an alumni from my program at Stanford. He is in the second half of his career, after achieving enough success, has the type of generous spirit that cares more about teaching others how to win.

We meet for a coffee at 10 am in downtown Santa Barbara, before my 12:20 train back north. And chat for two hours.

“You need to find a problem, that the cost of not solving is very, very high.” He says to me about starting a business, that is pre product and pre everything.

“Yeah but how do I that? Can you teach me?”

Can I learn how to be the best listener in the world? Can I learn how to fail?

Failure isn’t the risk here— it’s the method.

“I have half a good idea every month.” I tell DTL.

“20-30 interviews.” He says -“That’s what I’ve found to be around the sweet spot to figure out if you’ve got something.”

“Open yourself up — the customer conversations are so crucial…everything is going to flow from that...”

Idea. Interview. Prototype. Listen. Repeat

Think. Talk. Build. Fail. Again.

Ideate. Test. Break. Learn. Loop.

Plan. Pedal. Suffer. Adapt. Repeat.

That is my task: to go through the failures and reduce the cycle time between mistakes.

And to cycle...

To treat feedback as a gift on the discovery of the elusive product-market-fit — the secret sauce or black magic of a startup.

I arrive at the camp in Carmel Valley at 10 pm, end of day two. It is a lot later than I would’ve hoped, but am grateful that another Good Samaritan found me riding on another dimly lit path. Carmel Valley road is a charming, quiet road cutting through the heart of Carmel Valley littered with wineries.

It’s getting cold, and my body and light batteries are both close to empty. I shouldn’t have taken all those stops I think as I motor along.

The Good Samaritan pulls over ahead of me and opens their door, and I wonder if I should be concerned.

“Excuse me, sir” I hear a woman’s high pitched non-threatening voice in the darkness ahead.

“Hi, do you need a ride somewhere honey? I can put my seats down and take you.” The kind lady says.

“It’s getting pretty dark and cold and I could hardly see you.”

Note to self: buy the expensive lights with the long battery life, and always carry a backup or two. This is not the place to celebrate failure.

“I’ve got another couple miles…” I reply, “If it’s not too much trouble could you ride behind me?”

The kindness of strangers all over the world, never fails to amaze me.

I get to camp and am exhausted, I scarf down some lasagna the staff saved me and review my data from day two’s ride: 110.7km and 1,258 meters of vertical.

Tomorrow, day three, is the big day: 163.8km and 2,333m of vertical.

I lamentably set my alarm for 5 am.

“I don’t want to do something easy.” CG says on the beach. “I’ll get bored.”

“I wanna have my own business because I think it will be fun. And because I want freedom.”

Having your own business seems like the opposite of freedom to me, at least until its successful — but we both want it, and I remain silent.

Freedom it seems often hides on the far side of commitment—like the rush of a downhill only earned after a climb.

“If I want to spend the summer here or the winter there, I can go.”

“I don’t want to have a boss.”

“Everyone has a boss.” I reply.

There is a leisure class on both ends of the economic spectrum.

On these cycling trips, my alarm clock is often the boss, and I get around four hours of sleep, and feel hardly recharged before the big day.

The first climb of the day is up Carmel Valley road. This is what the day’s elevation profile looks like.

Two big climbs, one at the start with fresh legs, and a bigger one at the end, with less fresh legs, but with a beautiful descent down to sea level to end the day.

I am a joyful but slow cyclist and with my trusty steel bike, my firstborn unicorn, and two heavy panniers strapped to by side I am even slower. Especially on the climbs.

No music today, I have to conserve my phone battery, but also want to focus on the beautiful scenery, the quiet roads help tidying up my thoughts.

“How you make your money is important. And it determines how a lot of people in your life will treat you.” Ben, a friend from my swim group, says at lunch the day before setting off on my little trip.

I get to Treebones at the end of day three at 5:45 pm, a little over 12 hours after departing Carmel Valley. Fueled by one subway foot long sandwich, a subway cookie, two bananas, two apples, many dates, a bag of chips, and close to 10 liters of fluids.

It was a long day for me.

My second longest ride ever. My longest ride was a 205km ride I did in February on a much lighter bike, no panniers, a lot less vertical, and it took me an hour less than my ride today.

I wasn’t sure if I was going to make it in time for dinner. There are no other food options an hour north and south of the lodge, and guests have to give the lodge notice if they want to eat at the sushi bar or the normal restaurant.

I hear some helicopters overhead as I pedal, and ask myself, if I had a free out or a way to fly over the hills right now, would I take it?

No broken eggs, no omelets.

I stop at a gas station about an hour or two south of Greenfield, where I stop for the subway sandwich, and am a few hours before the start of the second climb of the day.

The scenic pacific coast highway is closed south of Carmel, which means my route looks like this rather than going down the coast.

“Are there any more gas stations down this road?” I ask a couple, with kayaks in the back of their big white truck, who look like they know the area.

“It’s a long dry road, son.” The driver with the cowboy hat says.

Is this about entrepreneurship?

“I’d load up here if I were you.”

“You will regret not having more water.”

“Thanks.” I say.

It’s not a helicopter, but as I hit the road, their white truck zooms by to my left, and as I gaze at the kayaks get smaller and smaller in the distance, I imagine my bike next to their kayaks.

No failure. No learning.

No hills. No power.

I’d feel a touch of shame — maybe even defeat — if I gave in. After all, this is the route I chose and the trip I planned. Although I’m running on a little sleep and am hungry and tired. But, I remember CG’s voice: find my why, stop making excuses.

I want to be a more powerful cyclist.

I want to be an entrepreneur.

But maybe it’s not just about finding my why—maybe it’s about choosing who I want to become. And be that person.

I am at peace. It is 2:30 pm and I’ve been on the bike already for 7 or 8 hours. The big climb is remaining. The day has been incredibly beautiful and meditative, what could be more satisfying than cycling on the coast with a slight tailwind and the smell of the sea. But I was not expecting how much better the scenery it was about to get.

Ben, from lunch earlier, was a two or three time entrepreneur, who started and sold an electric bicycle company.

He worked hard and was a humble, no BS guy.

“Most venture capitalists I meet are kind of disconnected from reality.” He says. “They only have one lever to solve problems, it’s throwing more money on it. Or replacing the CEO….”

Ben wanted to build stuff. I like his way of seeing the world, and the questions he asked, and how he listened.

“There’s a lot of stupid startups and stupid investors out there.” He continues. “There’s a whole class of them…like, I think at some point we stopped asking if we should build something just because we can…like should this exist? Do we really want this world?”

“It used be that people built stuff because they had a lot of conviction in the technology. That it should exist.” He adds.

What is the world I want to create? What is the world I want to live in? What is a missing product or service that I can bring to the world that should exist?

It seems along the way I may have misunderstood the direction of causality between building and selling.

Which of the following statements below is false:

The reason we should build things is to sell them.

If something is not selling, then it’s not worth building.

Only build things people will buy.

The artist creates for themselves—chasing feeling, beauty, expression. The entrepreneur creates for others—solving, serving, scaling. The artist cares more about aesthetic, the entrepreneur about utility.

But aren’t the best things both beautiful and useful?

Maybe the real craft is learning to do both.

I had a professor at the University of Toronto, Paul Gooch (if you are reading, hi Paul!)—who taught me that happiness shouldn’t be the north star on the compass, but love. Aim to be loving, to love others, your work, yourself—and happiness follows as a byproduct.

There are certain problems in optimization and applied statistics that are just like this: if you try to optimize directly for the thing you want—you can get stuck. But if you optimize for some other proxy, the solution often reveals itself much more easily.

Building startups seem like the same. Chase money, get stuck. But if we shoot for genuine value creation—for building something elegant and useful that truly serves a customer—revenue will follow. I know it.

There are two and a half reasons companies die:

1. Team dynamics (tough)

2. Nobody wants to buy what you are trying to sell (yet)

   1. You are tired and give up (run out of stamina).

      ---

“My wife and I built Treebones from our heart.” John, the owner, said on our drive from the lodge to Cambria the following morning.

“We bought the land when we’re 27, which was super risky.” He says as we curve along highway one. I feel a tinge of longing to be on the bike on the beautiful ocean road, but am also endlessly grateful to be listening to John.

“And we camped on it for a few years, and when the permits finally came, which was a super lucky, we thought let’s build something we want to stay at…”

I arrive at Treebones exhausted.

“Can I get you a beer?” The receptionist asks, eyeing my dirty cycling clothes and helmet still clipped.

“It’s on the house because you cycled here.”

“We wanted to build something that meets the pent up demand.” John says.

People wanted somewhere to stay in Big Sur that’s connected to nature, not just another lousy hotel.

“You need to find the gash in your customer’s neck…” DTL says as we split one chocolate croissant and a poppy seed swirl.

“You know we have a yoga class tomorrow at 8 o’clock…” The receptionist adds as she hands me the most delicious beer I’ve ever had.

“Oh that sounds lovely, and I’m sure my body needs it, but, I’m not sure I can make it…I have to leave at 8 am so I can catch my 4 o’clock train from San Luis Obispo to Santa Barbara and meet my friends for dinner, and I don’t think I can afford to leave that late.”

“Let me ask if any of the staff are going that way tomorrow, maybe they could give you a ride?”

“Sure.”

John, treebone’s friendly owner is in his sixties with a stout stomach and an arm full of tattoos, him and DTL are likely around the same age.

He has kind eyes, a solid handshake and a big electric truck and offers to drive me to Cambria the next morning, cutting my mileage by half.

I welcome the help—and look forward to the conversation. When the receptionist mentions that John, the owner, will drive me, I feel an inner smile widen. Another light-post on my path about to be lit. A golden opportunity to listen closely.

“Your job as the designer — I come from decades of leading the design team at Mattel —”, he says “— and my job is to design the success factors, and then build a team where people can do their best work.”

“Did you enjoy the sushi yesterday?” he asks me.

“Yes it was incredible…”

“I had zero input on that menu and that whole experience. My job was to find Yangtze, and tell him this is your sushi bar. And then to get out of the way...”

“And his job was to find TJ - his sous chef - and for them to deliver that experience…And you’ll find people take a lot more pride in their work when they feel like it’s really theirs.”

Fred, an investor I respect and worked with briefly the summer before Stanford said: “the role of the CEO is two things: one, set the vision, and two, make sure the company doesn’t run out of money.”

I think there is some wisdom there on the macro level - but it’s like saying to a footballer your job is to score goals.

Okay, great but how do we do that as a team? I think on the micro level, as the leader, it’s a combination of four skills:

1. listening (downloading, factual, empathetic, and generative)

2. equipping teams: or finding the sushi masters and giving them their sushi bars

3. architecting systems,

4. and ultimately, making decisions.

Focus.

More on architecting systems and decision-making in future posts.

“When we started Treebones, it was just my wife and I, and two other people. And our first few hiring decisions were a nightmare.” John says.

“The property is well off grid and most of the staff is working and living on the property.”

“It creates a really unique working environment, especially when my wife and I are managing it remotely.”

“How did it all come together?”

“Tell you the truth, Mark, it was pretty random. And lucky…”

“Why did you start Treebones?” I ask him. “Did you think you’d be here 20 years later?” I add.

“There’s this concept of a delight factor that we built into a lot of our toys at Mattel…”

“Those are things that we don’t advertise but we let the customer discover themselves.”

“We wanted to bring that to this space.”

“My girlfriend in college, she’s my wife now, asked me what I was was majoring in”

“industrial design.” John says.

“What is that?”

“You know designing products that are used by millions of people. Like toasters. Forks. It’s everything. It’s how things are made.”

“Do you really wanna build something that nobody wants…”

“No, I want to build something that people really want and love.”

Build something people want. Find the bleeding gash in the neck.

John’s energy reminds of Ben, of wanting to build something that matters, and of CG’s too —

“I want to build something that somebody will pay me money for…it can’t be that hard to make money.”

“You want to build a great team, but you don’t want to tell them: hey, make this.” John says.

I think that’s what I thought being a good entrepreneur was about - knowing what we should be build. Having the brilliant idea…

“You want everyone to be on the same page about what a successful product needs to do.” He says.

“You start with a blank canvas.”

And you give the sushi chef his bar.

It’s not telling people what to paint on the canvas…

set the vision, make sure there’s enough money, then get out of the way.

“We came up with a lot of terms…you gotta be careful because some of the best ideas aren’t going to come from you - you have to listen - and pull them out of people.” He says.

Generative listening. And building a team of generative listeners. That is my task.

“One of the terms we came up with was perching lightly. We wanted to perch lightly on the land, because the land is beautiful because it's in its raw form.”

The second climb, on the beautiful Ferguson road, and the descent down to highway one was one of the most rewarding experiences I’ve had on the saddle in a long time.

The climb passed faster than I expected and the descent, even faster.

There is no higher high than flying downhill on an empty road, carving through each turn, waves crashing beside me. I slow down, then soar again — my momentum flowing, legs spinning, wind in my face, rhythm syncing with the sea.

It was a hard day but I’m feeling a deep sense of satisfaction from finishing it.

I wonder if I can find the same sense of satisfaction on an entrepreneurial road.

“I’m not sure if I’m ready...” I tell CG as we move our stuff back a few feet, retreating from the rising tide on the beach in Santa Cruz.

“You have to try, the first one will probably be shitty.”

The first pancake principle.

When I started at Stanford, I thought entrepreneurs came to Stanford because they had an idea they were passionate about building.

I am realizing that my perspective has evolved, and I see entrepreneurship through a different lens.

The idea doesn’t matter right now.

The process does.

The process itself is a craft - and before we are building anything, we are building a company.

And a company is nothing more than a group of people.

Saint Augustin said:

"Since you cannot do good to all, you are to pay special attention to those who, by the accidents of time, or place, or circumstances, are brought into closer connection with you."

So what am I going to do after graduation?

Listen.

Pay attention. Listen generatively—like it’s my job. Because it is.

Not just to those drawn into closer orbit—CG, John, DTL, Wade, Caletti—but to every stranger on the road. Each one carrying a story, a signal, a lesson I might otherwise miss.

To approach them as my superiors and learn from them.

To listen to potential customers to figure out how to serve them. To fail and fail and fail, until I deeply understand where the gash on the deck is and how to build a product that stops the bleeding.

Where is all the pent up demand?

But before that to actively listen to myself. To my body. To my intuition. And build a team of athletes that will treat listening as our team sport.

Yes, team.

Is cycling an individual or a team sport?

I’d wager that it’s both. But my most important lesson from any of my trips so far, is that with who matters more than where.

Success—whether on the saddle or in a startup—comes when people move as one: with shared purpose, mutual respect, and the will to push each other forward. Family spirit. It’s the culture of waiting at the top of the climb when it’s cold and windy, pulling when someone’s tired, and celebrating together when we reach the summit.

That is my next climb.

Our family have an annual tradition of choosing a word as a banner for the coming year.

2024 — mine was persistence.

2025 — Mom: harvest; Dad: faith; Sister: higher; Mark: focus.

About a year ago, almost to the day, I set off to Cartagena, Colombia — on the six months bicycle adventure across South America that I blogged about here. One year later, I have completed my MS degree in engineering at Stanford, and set off once more, on another bike trip. Slightly shorter this time, a four day, 600+ km trip solo combo bicycle and train trip south to Santa Barbara and back.

Focus. It means saying no to almost everything, so I can keep saying yes to the things I’ve already said yes to. Who is the most focused person you know? What can we learn from them?

One year ago, I put my academics on airplane mode, and was completely focused on cycling across South America. During my days on the saddle on the continent, I was focused. It was difficult focusing being back and readjusting to being a graduate student again, difficult focusing on classes, difficult focusing on what’s to come next.

This journey down on the California Coast, was different. The prevailing winds on the western coast of California are north to south, so I travelled down mostly by bicycle and back up with the train from Santa Barbara, where I was happy to stay with my friends Nishka and Shradhey for a couple of days. Thanks for hosting me, guys!

Trains, I come to appreciate are excellent places to write. And the complementary combination of traveling with bicycle and train, in addition to being low cost and environmentally friendly, has already become my new favorite way to travel.

I graduated a little over one week ago. My headspace leading up to the ceremony was a cocktail of anxiety, gratitude, and a little sadness. Being a graduate student at Stanford has been so good. How could it get better than this?

My first stage on my California coastal journey was the ride from Stanford to Santa Cruz, a 77km ride with ~1,100 meters of elevation. Fortunately, this was one of those rare rides where the elevation profile was beautifully symmetrical. One big climb, and then coast downhill to the beach.

My dorm room and my inner world, in the weeks leading up to graduation, both were quite far from immaculate.

I was frustrated and feeling agitated that I would probably not have a juicy job offer by graduation. But the truth is, I was not even sure I wanted one. I know the broad strokes of what I wanted my life post-Stanford to look like.

I want to stay anchored in California, and work at the intersection of entrepreneurship and sustainability. But I was not so sure where to focus. I focused instead on planning this bike trip while trying to find gainful employment.

I was fortunate that CG, a cycling buddy from Stanford, who’d been interested to join on the bike trip, drove down to join on the beach in Santa Cruz. Naturally, CG asked the same question I had been hearing for weeks.

“So? What are you going to do next?”

Listening. One of the most important, if not the most important skill. Who is the best listener you know? What can we learn from them?

So Mark, what are you doing after graduation?

What’s next?

Are you staying here?

Where are you going to work?

Are you going back to Egypt?

It seemed like that was all everyone wanted to talk about for the last season of my life.

I detested the question, and found it almost as distasteful as asking someone you think is pregnant if they are pregnant.

If I had a baby or a job, surely, I would tell you.

To all those who asked, I would retort that I am cycling to Santa Barbara.

But sitting on the beach with CG, their friend, and a medium sized border collie in Santa Cruz, at the end of day one of four of my little solo trip, thankfully, listening was in no short supply.

What a beautiful thing, if not the ultimate act of kindness, to truly listen and be listened to.

I read a book that described four levels of listening: downloading, factual listening, empathetic listening, and generative listening. These levels represent a progression from simply hearing information to actively engaging with and understanding, and ultimately, co-creating new possibilities.

It was a couple of hours before sunset, the tide was starting to come in on the shores of Santa Cruz, and we sat. Listened. The sound of waves crashing. The dog panting.

“A whale! A whale!”

I have always admired good craftsmanship, and been inspired by those that achieved mastery in their craft. And the reason I stopped in Santa Cruz, rather than somewhere else was to visit a few craftsmen the following morning.

“I would like to be working at the intersection of entrepreneurship and sustainability, but I am not sure what that looks like yet…” I tell CG, staring at the waves, my hands immersed in the sand.

“I am having some trouble finding a job…So I’m thinking maybe I should just make one for myself.” I add.

Is there a comfort that is more profound than the one that is found when we feel listened to.

A good listener, once you get at the generative listening level, helps you understand your own thoughts better, generating different maps to navigate through our own emotional topography and arrive at more clarity.

“Why do you want to be an entrepreneur?” CG asks. “It can’t just be because you couldn’t find a job.”

I met with a number of wonderful craftsmen-entrepreneurs on my trip, who feel like sherpas to me on my own entrepreneurial journey. All very, very good listeners.

The Santa Cruz duo — first, Caletti, the founder and frame builder behind Caletti bicycles based in Santa Cruz. He makes some of the most elegant custom hand-built titanium frames I have ever seen.

The second, Wade, a master bike fitter, who has been referred to by those in the cycling community as the best in the west. He has over 30 years of experience fine tuning bipedal machines to best fit their human counterparts.

And later, I meet with John, a former professional toy designer who started the beautiful boutique Treebones lodge in Big Sur (photo below), where I was fortunate to spend the night of my third stage. And Dave or DTL — who you will meet in Part 2.

“Why do YOU want to be an entrepreneur?” I asked CG back, mostly to buy myself a little bit of time to think of a better answer.

“I want to own my time.” They replied while closing their fist in the air, in a way that made you want them on your team, or want to be on theirs.

I want the same grasp.

I was lost in my own head.

What was my why?

I want to own my time and design a great life.

I want to live on my own terms, make money, and do meaningful, beautiful work.

I want to excel at a craft.

“What are you scared of?” I ask CG.

I want to do creative work, and build something people want.

I want to serve others, and make my small corner of the world a little better.

I want to create.

And have work that feels like play.

I want to bring people together, who are excited to go to work and also excited to come home.

Is that not what it means to be successful?

“I am scared of failing.” CG replied.

Fear is a stranger we all dream about…

“What are you scared of?” CG asks in return.

“The same.”

“You need to figure out your why…”

They say in a nonthreatening challenging way that sounds harsh, but I know comes from a place of kindness.

“Because it’s not going to be easy, and if someone offers you a job where you can chill, it sounds like you’re going to take it.”

Focus. Downloading. Factual Listening. Empathetic Listening…

What am I scared of? What is my craft?

I have my fair share of failures and doubts. I wonder if I had them all on the phone, what I’d tell them…

I’d probably thank them for their help.

Do I want it bad enough?

What do I want?

“What do you want the money for anyway?” I ask my friend on the beach. “We don’t need thaaaat much money to be happy.” I add.

“I want a horse. And horses are expensive.” CG replies.

“I want a garden.” I respond.

I want to be an entrepreneur, and to live creatively, to approach entrepreneurship as a creative and artful craft.

It’s easy to see Caletti in his workshop, welding and polishing a beautiful titanium frame, refining his process decade after decade. His intuition becomes embodied. The lines between him and his process start to get blurry. It’s easy to see Wade at his craft too. Effortlessly moving through all phases of listening: absorption, analysis, problem-solving — three not four spacers there, the angle of the stem should be four degrees higher... He listens and translates my slight hip pain, to a hypothesis about an imbalance between my hip flexors, testing the hypothesis and experimenting with a couple of solutions until the discomfort disappears. Mastery. Generative listening.

But what is my craft?

Where do I focus?

What is my why?

My purpose now is to listen.

I leave Santa Cruz on my second stage to Carmel Valley after spending the morning absorbed with masters Caletti and Wade.

My head is full of more questions than answers by the penetrating conversation with CG on the beach.

I spend a few hours with Wade getting my rebuilt South America bike fitted to my body. My trusty steel bike was in complete need of an overhaul after my six months odyssey. Is it the same bike? The frame has been repainted to a denim blue, the frame, saddle, and pedals on my Ship of Theseus are the original - but every other nut and bolt have been replaced at least a few times.

I pay Caletti a visit to his workshop too and observe the beautiful bicycles hanging like sculptures, all custom built to order often surpassing $10,000. He lets me take one for a short test ride to see what it’s like. Unnervingly light. I feel like a little leaf in the wind.

“There’s always an excuse.” CG says to me. “It’s never a good time.”

“If you really want it, you need to stop making excuses.”

“But I was thinking of attending my friend’s engagement party in Toronto, then going to Montreal…. showing up for the people I care about…that’s important too…” I lament.

“MARK. Now is the time you need to show up for yourself.”

I finally hit the road from Santa Cruz at 2:30 pm, and get to Monterey at sunset - and although I realize diverting to the beach to watch the sunset would mean I’d cycle another hour in the dark until the camp in Carmel Valley - I couldn’t resist.

I replay snippets of my conversation on the beach over and over in my head as I peddle. Little did CG know that our discussion would set the tone for my meditation down the coast on the saddle.

I recognize I could have been a better generative listener. At most I was meeting CG at the factual or empathetic level, when they were meeting me at the generative level. Lo siento.

A good listener holds up a mirror to the blind spots, surfacing new questions, while making our own ideas clearer to ourselves.

“Maybe I just need to let things unfold and see how things play out.” I say to them.

“It’s not one of those things that will just happen on its own.” CG says - “It’s going to take a lot of energy and work.”

“If you want it. You need to make it happen.”

But what was my brilliant idea?

Part of me feels like I’d be content with a cushy 9-5 somewhere and I’ll find myself creative outlets outside of work. Maybe I don’t need to work for myself.

I can make my pottery and bread and ride my bike and be happy.

I’m not so sure I am the best steward of my time all the time after all, although I do prefer to have a high degree of autonomy.

I think that’s what motivated me to apply to PhD programs in the first place (thank God that didn’t work out!) - I had no unquenchable thirst to write research papers - but rather a deep craving for intellectual freedom and the possibility of a career powered by self directed inquiry. I wanted to be my own boss.

Can entrepreneurship as a career pathway offer the same?

The bike path around Monterey was beautiful, and I try to find somewhere scenic to stop for my sandwich, and find this small windy spot by the beach where I stop.

“Where are you from” asks me a stranger who emerges next to me on that small walking path to the vista point above.

How do I answer her question, I wonder with a mouthful of sandwich.

“I started in Palo Alto, and I’m heading to Santa Barbara.” I reply, wiping some mustard from my beard. “But I’m originally from Egypt.”

We exchange stories, and I unfurl all my half baked thoughts from the cold shower CG gave me to the listener in front of me.

“I have a lot of faith that God’s going to show me the right path to take.” I tell her. “Things have worked out for me so far, so I feel like they’ll workout… This journey is a little grad gift to myself, to meditate a bit and be in nature and clear my mind and focus on what’s next.”

“I’m a believer too.” The listener says.

“It will workout. But you have to listen.” She says. “And pray.”

“That’s all you can do. Really.”

Usually, I don’t hold a lot of stock in chance, and feel emboldened by the CG’s tough love and the encounter with the stranger - it feels like those things happened at the right time. I feel that same satisfaction I do when I read a book at exactly the right time.

The encounters with all the strangers on my path feel like lampposts are being lit, evaporating the fog, illuminating my route, confirming that I am on the right path - thank you for listening.

Stay tuned for Pt. 2 to follow soon —

The truth was some days I was not. Some days, I was sick of it. I didn’t want to ride or deal with other people or camp. I still did, but I didn’t feel like doing it.

Although the final weeks of the trip were the most beautiful, they were also the most remote and windy. But southern Patagonia and the Tierra del Fuego region has been icing on the cake for this long cycling adventure.

We were mostly lucky in Patagonia weather wise, criss crossing from Chile to Argentina a couple of times, across gravel roads and ferries and having favorable winds on most days, and only a few days that were horribly cold, wet, and headwindy.

Riding the Carratera Austral, a newly mostly unpaved 1240km (770 miles) road that runs through the heart of southern rural Patagonia through multiple national parks was easily the most beautiful road of the journey. Most of the Carratera was traversed by other cyclists, backpackers, motorcyclists, or camper vans. And the final stretch of the road was the most unique border crossing so far from Villa O’Higgins in Chile to El Chalten in Argentina.

Phase 1 of the crossing was a 3:30 am alarm, breakfast at 4 am and a bus to ferry terminal at 4:30. After a 1.5 hours ferry, we exit the Chilean side immigration, the unique border crossing can only be made by bicycle, horse or walking, before hiking/biking and arriving to the Argentinian border and another ferry to El Chalten.

“We don’t expect to navigate here for 3-4 days because of the weather” said our early morning ferry captain, explaining to us why we’d been lucky to have a small post-dawn window with calmer winds.

“How was your hike a bike day?” I asked Andy, the rider who resembles the character from Pixar’s Up. “It would’ve been a lot better if the Argentinians got off their ass and cleaned up the trail on their side.” He replied.

The distinction between the unmaintained mostly unrideable Argentinian side of the island, and the well kept Chilean side was stark, and representative of their differences in style.

Our reward after the hike/bike was a pristine view of Mt. Fitzroy as we wait for our evening second ferry de jour and roll into El Chalten before the sunsets at 9ish. The more south we go the longer the days.

Most of the rides on the Carratera were quiet, and I found myself using my phone less frequently for music, enjoying the silence, and the sounds of crunchy gravel roads slipping below me, accompanied by the sound of rushing water everywhere. On one occasion, I heard a certain knocking sound. I slowed down, unsure if it was something with my bike. Sped up again, slowed down. The rhythmic knocking continued uninterruptedly. I stopped, and started walking slowly investigating the metronomic beats coming from the forest.

To my surprise, I see three handsome red-headed woodpeckers hanging on a branch, one upside down, and I stop and observe them for a while. I reflect on something I read about woodpeckers in Leonardo Da Vinci’s biography, on how he carried a notebook and curiously penned note to himself to ask fulano to describe the tongue of a woodpecker.*

It’s these small moments that are so special to me while traveling on a bicycle. To hear the sound of a gentle knock that would be so easily muted in a bus or a car, or even in a larger group of cyclists.

It’s these small moments that made me want to pinch myself to make sure I was really appreciating where I was and what I was doing? Hearing these woodpeckers, seeing baby rheas and guanaco on the side of the road, or condors soar overhead. I ride solo and much slower in the last few weeks to take long stops like this. It’s easy to get swept up by the rhythm of the group, or the exhaustion of long days in the saddle, fixing flats, staying hydrated, etc. but I try my best to keep the small flame of wonder lit.

*A woodpecker’s tongue can extend over three times the length of its bill and when retracted, it wraps around the skull and curves down to its nostril!

Getting into El Chalten, I was surprised to see an old friend and dorm-mate from my first year of university.

“Alex? What are you doing here?” I say startled to see him in the middle of the street. “Mark? What are YOU doing here?”

And after sharing dinner, we made fortuitous plans to go for one of the more famous hikes in El Chalten to Mt. Fitzroy, the inspiration behind the Patagonia clothing brand logo.

In addition to the hike in Fitzroy, we also had some extra time to explore the beautiful Torres del Paine National Park in Chile as well as the Perito Moreno glacier. I was stunned by the almost earthquake-like sound of ice pieces falling.

Why are the pieces falling? Why is the glacier so blue? I wonder, and learn that pieces of the Perito Moreno Glacier fall because the advancing ice breaks off at the edges, as it is one of the few glaciers in the world that is still growing. While its intense blue color comes from denser, compact ice scattering blue light while absorbing other colors.

Bumping into Alex made me reflect on how wonderful spontaneity can be while traveling. And in our tight schedules, covering 100+ km a day, roughly five days a week, for five and a half months, how sometimes it’s been difficult to create space for it.

Someone asked me if I would do something like this again, and although I feel immensely grateful for the chance to have done this, I probably wouldn’t.

It was a little too long, and the schedule a little too regimented to allow for more flexibility and spontaneity, and having to deal with a big group and the people dynamics was not always easy. I was often reminded by Jean Paul Sartre’s famous quote: “hell is other people.”

But I am proud of myself for sticking through this to the end, and pushing through. I’m not someone that had much routine in my life before the trip, and the struggle for me wasn’t only the cycling but sticking to the timetable and schedule, as well as the dynamics of cycling with a unique group of folks who have children or even grandchildren my age.

It’s the people over the places isn’t it? And perhaps I would do something like this again with a buddy or two, or alone, for something shorter, and can have more space to explore and for spontaneity. Although, a ride will always feel like it passes quicker when you are riding with good company. And I have greatly appreciated the unique cross generational friendships that formed.

I did often try and do my own thing, and take the daily route more as a suggestion rather than a command. On one occasion on the carratera, Stephan and I took a fun hot springs detour, skipping lunch and the opportunity to refill our water. Fortunately, not a problem with Patagonia’s fresh water supply.

Another of my most memorable detours was our first day in the Tierra del Fuego, the tail of the dragon region, and after getting off the ferry, racing on a gravel into a headwind to a remote king penguin sanctuary shortly before their closing time.

Notice in the photo below how the penguins incubate their eggs on the tops of their feet. Unlike other lesser progressive penguinos, the king penguins take turns incubating the egg, I learn.

Seeing the welcome to Ushuaia signs made my eyes well with tears. This journey was the most difficult thing I’ve done so far in my life. I was thinking of all the doubts and uncertainty that had come before this.

What started out as a dream over two years ago, turned into a reality.

Saving money, taking time off, Spanish lessons, workouts, planning, pedaling, camping… I was overwhelmed with emotions riding the final kilometers into the city. The two anthems ringing in my head were: I can and I am lucky.

I felt emotionally and physically exhausted by the end of this, but at the same time this deep sense of accomplishment. That I can do hard things. Things that are (very) slow and take time. That I can be patient and persistent. I can do things when I don’t feel like it, day after day after day after day. That I can dream up big loco dreams, and follow them and chart my own course.

And then, that I am lucky. That I am incredibly blessed. Deeply fortunate with close relationships that have been behind me from the start, and endowed with a healthy mind and body, and with the time and money to be able to make a trip like this happen. I am full of gratitude. Thank you to everyone that helped make this possible.

I wanted to visit South America, learn more about the continent, practice Spanish. I also wanted to push myself to become a better cyclist, and challenge myself. Although doing a supported bike tour like this has its disadvantages, it also has many advantages too. Everyday I knew my purpose, had a community, and there was a schedule in place: eat, cycle, camp, repeat. There was always a magenta line on my GPS that I could follow (or not) and the knowledge that I’m off course if I am. I will miss that sense of simplicity and purpose.

I know my course looks a little different than others, but I feel more confident that it’ll all work out. And of course, I will miss the people. I tried to learn something from everyone, whether practical cycling tips from other riders like how to patch a tube on the go, or how to prepare a maté from local Argentines, as well as more personal lessons on the importance of investing in health, relationships, and experiences over possessions (except perhaps bicycles).

I feel like this whole adventure has been about the bike but also not about the bike. And although Ushuaia is the end of this, it’s the start line of something else…

Thank you for being a part of my journey.

The sentence lingered in my head as I tried to unwrap its meaning like one of those fortune-cookie lines.

Crossing into Argentina was a welcome reprieve from the harsh altitude of the altiplano plateau and the more desolate Bolivian environment.

Argentina compared to Bolivia has been the land of milk and honey, with cheap steak, cheaper vino, and fantastic empanadas and dulce de leche flavored ice cream.

What more does one need in life?

One gelato place was even open until 4 am! A big difference between Argentina and its neighbors so far is how late everything opens.

The difference between Chile and Argentina is continuing to unravel to me, but so far both have been wonderful. Argentina is certainly cheaper, and I like their more Italian, old money, laid back vibe. Chile feels more modern, and richer, privileged with their mineral wealth compared to Argentina’s more traditional agricultural wealth.

I also have come to appreciate that it’s normal to have things open so late in Argentina, where typically dinner is at 9/9:30 - as it reminds me of Cairo.

But although I’ve loved northern Argentina and Chile so far, the story of riding here has not been as sweet, but dominated by winds. One of the days, I recall having a favourable tailwind for most of the ride and then in one second, the bipolar wind changed directions by 180 degrees and I find my speed significantly drop and the last half-hour of the day felt like it took half the day.

On another brutal day, we had the duo of brutal headwinds gusting over 50km/h and pouring rain, and I am sure every single car, bus, truck who looked out at their window was wondering what on earth we were doing cycling. This was probably one of the toughest rides so far, and I was fortunate enough that one stranger stopped his small truck, asked if I needed water, or a ride somewhere? I told him I’m good to go, but if he doesn’t mind slowing down perhaps I could draft behind him until the next town? And I cruised behind him for a while, full of gratitude for the shelter; the kindness of strangers continues to be overwhelming.

As we battle the winds, I think of the role headwinds and tailwinds play in cycling and finding fulfillment. If things are easy because of a headwind, am I on the wrong track? If I have a tailwind, do I need to remind myself that it’s not going to last forever?

I wonder if I have the tendency to overly blame the wind when it’s rough, and give myself too much credit when it’s blowing behind me?

The winds did teach us to ride better together, and work as a team. And they’re only supposed to get much worse the further south we go into Patagonia - arguably the most beautiful but toughest stretch of the journey.

It’s not supposed to be easy, I remind myself.

In earlier times of my life, I sometimes would find myself asking: God, if this is for me, make it easy, make it effortless. I wonder if that is the right frame of mind? Of course wishing or praying for a tailwind all the time would be nice, but not having it isn’t the absence of grace; avoiding discomfort isn’t the right posture for maximal growth.

Growth takes effort, hard work. The opposite of love isn’t indifference says Scott Peck, it’s laziness. What do I gain by avoiding effort and discomfort?

Discomfort is what I signed up for. Just because something isn’t easy, doesn’t mean it’s not worth it. While at the same time, if it’s always a headwind, it might get overwhelming. But is it ever always a headwind? The wind isn’t a river…

Perhaps I was misunderstanding fulfillment, seeing it before as more consumption and comfort, but perhaps I should see fulfillment coming from giving more and overcoming challenges, helping others, and not avoiding what’s hard.

Embracing discomfort and pushing through the headwinds sometimes solo, and sometimes with a team does generate more satisfaction.

Despite the discomforts, there have been moments in the last few weeks where I felt overwhelmed by awe.

I will never forget stargazing in the atacama desert and seeing Saturn‘s rings, or the stripes on Jupiter through the lens of a telescope, or seeing the elegant flamingos do their thing at 4000m in the salt flats.

We are so small in such a vast universe!

As we’re making our way more and more south, I do feel a certain bittersweet feeling, full of gratitude for everything that I’ve seen so far but also overwhelmed that there is so much of the world still left to see. So many questions to ask, people to meet, animals to learn about…

And as I am now only 6 weeks or so and approaching the end, I do find myself feeling more tired of it too. And I am trying not to let the tiredness cloud my curiosity, or sense of awe, especially at what is to come.

The stars and the planets are always there…and the sense of awe, grace, unconditional love are always accessible…even if I’m tired or facing a nasty headwind.

I struggle to remind myself of this sometimes. Especially when I find myself overthinking about what’s to come next for me career-wise. How can I have a fulfilling career where I can improve the world, and enjoy it at the same time.

But my career and this journey are both rides, still unfolding…

The wind is not a river?

Rivers always flow in the same direction, but the wind dances -

It is shifting and unpredictable. It challenges me, sometimes pushing me back and sometimes sweeping me forward in ways I don’t expect.

I’m learning to accept the mystery of it— accepting that I can’t control it. I can only control my attitude towards it.

The wind has its own rhythm. Sometimes, it pushes me right into discomfort, testing my patience, my resolve. Other times, it fills my sails and lifts me up, and I feel the joy of moving effortlessly.

I’m learning that maybe it’s less about reaching a final destination quickly and more about the way I lean into each turn, each climb, each descent.

Perhaps fulfilment too comes in riding with it all—the headwinds and the tailwinds, the easy days and the hard ones—knowing each is part of the story.

I think that’s what this journey is teaching me: to find strength in the flow, even if it changes direction. To let go of some of the pressure to always know what’s next, and to trust that I’ll figure it out as I go. Maybe even appreciate the mystery of not having all the answers yet…

Fortunately, we had our longest respite so far, where I was able to enjoy some hiking in the mountains. I opted to skip Machu Picchu to avoid the crowds and save some money, and instead went to the sacred valley to rest and recharge.

Wayra, my peaceful Andean guide, had an incredibly comforting energy and throughout my last hike I found myself opening up to him about things that were on my mind. The usual anxieties about the future, career,  relationships…am I in the right place? Doing the right thing? On the right track?

“You think too much with your head”, he said to me. “You have another brain in your stomach. And when the two are out of balance is why you feel anxious…feel more, think less.”

“We were all connected to our mothers and the world first through our stomachs” he continues. “That was our first source of information, of intelligence...”

I reflect on his words, and realize how the western world rewards intellect. Our western institutions program us to over-index on the brains in our heads instead of the brains in our bodies. But, Wayra is right. I needed to reconnect more with my body and heart, and learn to rely on my intuition and my intellect in unison, rather than only the brain in my head. It’s the balance between the two that’s important.

Soon we left Cusco, and rode towards Lake Titicaca on the border with Bolivia. Our crossing into Bolivia marks roughly the halfway point of the journey to Ushuaia, and I thought that I would reflect on what are some lessons, reflections, what I want more of and less of so far:

More listening to my body, embracing the sides of the mountains rather than the top, connecting to more locals, more detours, more street food…(although, for my stomach’s sake- I’m not sure if I should do more or less of that last one…)

One of my most memorable meals so far had been in Puno, on the southern tip of Peru. It was a long ride into the city, a beautiful riding day in the saddle, but absolutely exhausting. After showering and catching my breath, it was time to sort out the rest day errands, the first of which: laundry.

I flag a taxi to a lavanderia in the center of Puno to avoid getting ripped off by our fancy hotel.

I chat with Wilfredo, my friendly taxi driver, and we realize he’s only one year my senior. It hits me how lucky I am to be able to do this adventure at my age, and how I had seen more of his country than he had.

“I would love to try local food.” I say to him after dropping off the dirty clothes. “Can we go to one your favorite spots and dinner is my treat. But, I want to go somewhere without a menu, and only locals.”

Puno is around 3,800 meters and a hotspot for tourists that want to see Lake Titicaca, and as we journey, I find myself getting more allergic to anything that smells touristy. Growing up in Egypt, I know that some of the touristy things are worthwhile, but more often than not are expensive crap. And it’s more fun to feel the local pulse and eat at markets, street stalls, and experience what the places we pass by are like for their own inhabitants rather than through the foreigner veneer. And with my darker skin, curly hair, and conversational Spanish, I often pass as Brazilian - which is close enough that I’m not flagged as a gringo.

Wilfredo and I go on a little food crawl across Puno, and we hit many of the items Matias said I had to try (thanks for the recommendations, hermano!). Starting with a green aguadito de pollo soup (a traditional chicken soup with cilantro and vegetables, which tastes incredibly similar to our Egyptian خبيزة or mallow), then some pollo a la brasa (rotisserie grilled chicken), followed by some warm emoliente around the corner, a traditional Peruvian herbal drink made from a mix of medicinal herbs, barley, flaxseed that’s served hot and known for its soothing and digestive properties.

And to top it off, we find some fresh out of the fry picarones — crispy fried doughnuts made from a mix of squash and sweet potato, drizzled with a rich syrup made from chancaca (a type of unrefined sugar). So good.

As we indulge on the side of the road, the bustling streets of downtown Puno come alive around us, filled with the vibrant aromas and sounds of local life.

Each bite tells a story of tradition, culture, and the unique flavors of Peru and is a special way to close my Peruvian chapter. It’s hard to believe it’s been a month here, but I know I’ll be back, Peru.

The following day we receive some unexpected news that there is a peaceful demonstration planned to reach La Paz and our tour leader decided that we’d be better off to get ahead of it just in case. And so we bus from Puno to La Paz, sadly forfeiting the few days of riding around the lake.

As some of the group are disgruntled with the change of plans and the extended time off the saddle, I decide to have a little fun on our group chat, and inject some levity by sending the following message:

Hello all,

I’ve decided to stay in La Paz, to join the march and complete the revolution... It’s been great riding with you. But, I’ve been assessing the situation and believe Bolivia needs a fresh, young leader. I’ve been practicing my Spanish, and am looking for a new job to pay for my next cycling trip. If my parents ask, please tell them I’m still riding.

Before we heard of the unexpected change of plans, I had mentioned to the riders that I was lucky to be expecting Özlem, my partner in crime, in La Paz and we were going to be there for a few days. And most of them remembered this and picked up on my sense of humor with the following messages:

“Bonne chance et bon courage mon ami!!  We’ll miss you but understand that it’s your destiny. You’re perfect for the job!!”

“... Mark can I apply for  minister of tourism post?! Make that minister of yoga... changed my mind”

But one rider I had roomed with a couple of times, Andy (73, Texas), who reminds me of Carl Fredricksen, the older gentlemen from Pixar’s Up with the square sunglasses, must’ve missed the joke:

“Dear Mark,

I can only wish you the best of luck! You will learn a whole lot more about life and yourself by staying here than riding to Ushuaia. Your sense of adventure should be pegged as well. Trying not to be condescending as someone who lived through the 1960’s be careful. Politics is a murky business. I am reminded of the (falsely) attributed quote of Winston Churchill, “If you’re not a liberal when you are 25, you have no heart.” Trying to solve the inequities of the world is truly commendable. The second part of the quote is, “If you’re not a conservative by the time you’re 35, you have no brain.” You need neither my advice nor approval and my sounding pompous and pretentious comes from being north of 70. But please try not to do anything from which you can’t recover. I hope you have a positive experience and again I wish you the best of luck!

- Andy”

Thank you, Commandante Andy. Sorry to disappoint you…

Özlem and I have a fun time exploring La Paz, and she notices a resemblance between Bolitiva and Ethiopia. And then I start to notice it too. Both countries have almost identical flags, tricolor rectangles, with red, yellow and green, in a ratio of 1:1:1. Black markets for dollars, good coffee, political instability, and a bit of socialist vibe…and both capitals are quite high, La Paz at ~3,600m and Addis Ababa at ~2,300m. And generally, both people have been quite welcoming and friendly. A few days earlier, Mike had forgotten his wallet in a taxi and the driver brought it back to our hotel an hour later. Not sure if that’d happen in Ethiopia though…as I still grieve getting pick pocketed in Addis a few years ago.

Where La Paz takes the cake, however, is in its unique public transport system. A network of cable cars that replaces the metro or bus system, and makes it an incredibly amusing way to get around the city.

The demonstrations turn out to be peaceful and uneventful, and we enjoy some good food and unique hikes in the lunar-like terrains around the city. I drop off Özlem to the airport to fly back to SF (thanks for coming!) and press on with the same cab to the altiplano or Bolivian highlands to catch the group as we head towards the Salt Flats.

The few days before and after the salt flats are stunning, quiet, dry, and so

llamazing…

The vastness of the highlands, and the simplicity of being on the bike everyday make me reflect on how little I need in life to be happy. I think of what Lao Tzu said on “health as the most important possession, and contentment the greatest treasure.”

Out here, surrounded by the emptiness of the altiplano and the enchanting beauty of the salt flats, it’s easier to feel that truth sink in.

In a similar way that I feel our society and systems train an over-reliance on the brains in our heads, it also feels in our western world of abundance we are still surrounded by a storyline about a bottomless hole of never having enough. Being in Silicon Valley for the last year, it seems despite the comforts and technology, that everyone is obsessed with making more money and getting more rich—software, artificial intelligence, startups, venture capital, etc.. an endless pursuit of the next big thing. Of more.

It’s a world driven by the idea of constantly seeking more, and needing more, and more and more and more, yet here, among the Bolivian men and women who live on these highlands with so much less, that sense of never-enough feels so distant, almost irrelevant. I am all for progress but it’s the perspective or posture that matters more…

There is something mesmerizing about riding on the salt flats. The bright almost snow blindness, the crunching sound of the salt below, but the strangest thing about it was the total loss of perspective. What looked like a 30 minute distance between myself and our island, was really closer to 2-3 hours away on the bike.

The stark contrast between these two realities, between more and less, nothingness and abundance… distances that seem like they never end, the desert-like barrenness of the salt makes me question what “enough” really means? What “getting there” really looks like? How “less” can have so much more? It’s all a matter of perspective isn’t it?

I recall a prior conversation with another cyclist, “do you know the right number of bikes to own?” He asks me. “N+1” he replies.

But how much happier can I be if instead of wanting more, I can learn to want what I already have, which is already so much…

My revolutionary ambitions in La Paz imply that I miss a couple of days from my group, and on my return, I'm surprised to learn that Avi, my quirky, competitive, and often complaining roommate from earlier, had picked a fight with another rider and been booted from the tour.

The group dynamic is noticeably different with his departure, and it strikes me how one individual can shift the energy so quickly. The group feels lighter and more peaceful—an unexpected reminder of how much our environment and the people and perspectives we surround ourselves with shape our experiences.

I wonder who do I want to surround myself with in my next job? In my next chapter? In my life? What perspectives am I lacking that I want others to provide?

As the sun sets on my last hike in Cusco, Wayra glances at me softly and says, “un día más de la vida, un día menos también.” (One day more of life, one day less also). His words sink in, as we sip our soothing lemongrass tea. A simple yet profound reflection on the passage of time. Each day brings us more life, but also less time.

It’s a reminder to me to embrace the journey I am on everyday with both eyes, rather than have one here and the other checking to see how much longer I have until the destination.

Un día mas, un día menos…

I reflect more on the perspective I want to have on the second half of my adventure.

Más—more openness, more kindness, more curiosity, more gratitude, more generosity, more play.

Menos—less anxious thoughts, less complaining, less stress, less greed, less dependence on thinking with my head alone.

I love this Einstein quote: “Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance you must keep moving." And love my dad’s version of it even more: “balance leads to progress.”

As I ride the second half, I hope to find some more of that balance between adding what matters and letting go of what doesn’t.

Más y menos.

Perspective.

Next stop: Argentina

One of the most memorable days in the jungle involved a cable car crossing over a rushing river below. We arrived at our cable car stop at 7 am, and the operators must have not been up yet, and looked surprised to wake up to a caravan of some 30 eager cyclist rolling in, curiously trying to find the end of the cable obscured by the thick fog.

We board the cable car two by two, and zip across, the other side slowly coming into view over the river.

We bid farewell to Ecuador, and to the climbs (for a few days) and the jungle, and cross to Peru, where we meet a few flatter days on the coast that come with their own challenge: fierce headwinds.

“I’ll take a climb any day over this brutal headwind” says one of the riders on one of our roadside refueling stops.

Our first few days in northern Peru were challenging and unremarkable. We battled heavy winds, mostly back on the pan-Americana highway, with few turns, climbs or descents, and the monotony of the road, the heaps of garbage on the side, and the gray skies made it difficult for me to stay motivated at times.

“The garbage here is so demoralizing…Why can’t we just look after ourselves?” Asks Brenda (retired doctor from British Columbia)

The difference from Ecuador to Peru in terms of garbage on the side of the roads was startling. Ecuador, I learned later, recognizes Nature as a subject of law, and (to the best of my knowledge) is the first, and to date the only, country to recognize and protect the rights of Nature at the constitutional level.

On one of our riding days in northern Peru, I met another cyclist on the side of the road, which although was common in Colombia and Ecuador has been a rarity in Peru - where it feels like some of the drivers actively resist the idea of sharing the road with some lowly cyclists.

Michael and I start off our conversation in Spanish before realizing that we can switch to English, as he tells me about his own cycling adventure from Oregon to Northern Peru, his orange sleeping mat (like mine!) flapping on the back of his bike.

“People everywhere are the same” he says…They’re nice.”

We catch up later for dinner, and discuss how northern Peru has been our least favorite compared to Colombia and Ecuador. Fortunately, a few days later, the route starts to get much more interesting.

“It must be tough to be away from home for so long?” I ask him, and he shares how he cycles 6-8 weeks at a time, then goes back home, before coming back to do another stretch.

“What about your wife and kids and grandkids?” I ask.

“My marriage is easy.” He says, “And it makes everything else in my life easy.”

His words remind me of a prior conversation I had with Mike over some beers, on what’s important in life.

“My family is my crowning achievement.” Mike had said.

I hope one day I can also be a grandparent like them and say the same things.

As we get closer to Lima, the ceviche gets better and better, and as the landscape starts to shift, we encounter some of the most beautiful days in the desert followed by the most spectacular remote camp sites.

Throughout our voyage to Lima, we’ve found ourselves on many “false flats”, or stretches on the road that look flat but have a small slope. Similarly, many downhills that force you to peddle much harder through a headwind. Something about the mismatch between expectations and reality during these stretches makes them feel a lot more difficult. Maybe it’s best to avoid expecting any easy days?

As we pass in and out of small towns, we develop a new game among ourselves trying to finding a tok tok or a truck that’s going slow enough for us follow and pickup some speed for a few minutes.

Sheltering behind one another can make a huge difference, and I found myself behind Mike’s rear wheel for a few long stretches towards Lima.

“I find it a lot more fulfilling to help others finish the ride, rather than ride for myself” Mike says one of the days he pulled along a long line of riders.

One of the questions that’s been lingering as I’ve peddling, like a puzzle that’s in progress is: what does a fully lived life look like?

And it’s clear this may be different for everyone, but one of the corner puzzle pieces I’ve found is having a posture that is like Mike’s - devoted to helping others on their ride.

Generosity. Giving.

“How is the journey going for you so far?” I ask Jess, our medic - who has the deepest most infectious laugh on our tour.

“Everyday I feel so present…It’s like this sense of flow everyday… At home I feel like I’m a bird in a cage.” She says.

How can I cultivate this sense of flow and presence everyday, especially through these false flats on the road? I think to myself as my mind swings from the past to the future like a pendulum.

“Your mind will take on the character of your most frequent thoughts” writes Marcus Aurelius.

Another day at lunch, Jess asks how my day’s going. “Not too bad.” I reply, having not found much sense of flow in my first few hours of the day. “Yours?” I ask.

“It’s a great day! To have a GREAT day!” She whips back.

I can’t help but smile. This should be one of my most frequent thoughts…

The fog driving into Lima was unbelievable.

I took a taxi a day earlier than the group, because I was fortunate to have my parents come down and we celebrated my dad’s birthday - (although a bit early but happy birthday, dad!)

Lima to me, had the closest resemblance to Cairo so far (especially due to the traffic), and of the cities I’ve been lucky to visit, it’s up there with Tokyo for having the most incredible food. And was where we finally tried a little cuy — or Guinea pig — and it was pretty tasty. I thought it tasted like quail.

On separate occasions, I ask both Michael and Mike, given both are grandparents, what advice they’d have to their grandchildren:

“To be fair, kind, caring”

“Not to worry”

“Open yourself to something great, rather than worrying if everything is optimal all the time.”

“Get going, but know when enough is enough.”

Next up: Cusco —> Bolivia

“So put me on a highway,

show me a sign -

take it to the limit,

one more time.”

- The Eagles

From the shores of Cartagena to the sun kissed mountains of the Desierto de la Tatacoa, and crisscrossing the nose of the Andes — Colombia has it all.

It’s been fun riding across tolls, through tunnels, or over bridges on my bicycle — and across my first land border to Ecuador!

But what’s been most amusing is traveling with my two-wheeled chariot on some ferry rides, such as this one across Colombia’s mighty Magdalena river.

And yes - that’s a donkey, on an earlier boarding group.

In our final stretch in Colombia, we leave the gravel backroads (mostly) behind, and hop onto the Pan-Americana highway- an iconic road weaving northern Alaska to el fin del mundo Argentina, that we will be revisiting a few more times in later parts of our journey.

The highway is a character on its own that has been full of surprises for us around every corner.

I stopped for water at this corner kiosk, lured by this shopkeeper’s wide smile, and wondering why two goats were tied up on platforms.

A few minutes later, as I cooldown and sip my water on the side of the road, a car rolls up, and the driver pulls the window down and the customer exchanges some coins for a glass of freshly squeezed goat milk…

No almond milk option on the pan-Americana…

My new roommate for the leg, Mike, is a lovely retired professor of biochemistry who lost his wife of 30+ years to cancer a few years back.

“Everyone will face a cancer of some sort or another in their life…” Mike says.

His words shake me. We all face difficulties. We all face pain.

I think of how I have been fortunate so far in my life. Extraordinarily fortunate that I can be on this expedition, and because of the great hand I’ve been dealt, being born into the loving family I am a part of, and being able minded and bodied.

When I measure the mountains of misfortune I have hiked in comparison to Mike’s, although at the time they all scarred me deeply: the sudden loss of my uncle, a challenging breakup, an unexpected investment loss… they seem like hills in comparison to Mike’s Everest.

“The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.” Writes Gibran Khalil Gibran.

This truth holds for Mike, with his contagious smile and abundance of positive energy on our most difficult days.

Before we know it, we have our final day in Colombia, finishing with hours and hours of climbing on our last few days. Across on the Ecuadorian side of the border, we were greeted by more climbs across Ecuador’s volcano alley, sunnier weather, as well as a local Ecuadorian tourist agency and a police escort that will roll with us across the equator until Quito.

“You know Mark, the climbs don’t get any easier, you just get faster...” Says Kenny, our Scottish mechanic.

I think of how many hours or days we’ve spent climbing in Colombia, the tally is over 38,000 meters of vertical. And of course every climb is different, and although we’ve had a few crushing multi-day climbs, the descents provide a dose of amnesia for the struggle. I’ve never heard a single complaint that a downhill was too long…

There is nothing as exhilarating as descending effortlessly, hearing the wind whistling, and soaring on saddle surrounded by mountains. But while the climbs can last days, the descents only minutes.

I think of something my parents told me while growing up: “that everything worthwhile is uphill” and the story of the tortoise and the hare.

“Inspiration is not reliable. It’s about endurance. Doing it day after day when you don’t feel like it.” Says Tom, as we discuss both writing and climbing.

I think of how the investment loss I faced a few years ago seriously set me back in terms of preparing me for this trip, but how the pain from that setback had become a springboard to course correct my compass, to focus on endurance.

I wanted to get the summit. I still do. But “to live for some future goal is shallow. It’s the sides of the mountain which sustain life, not the top.” Writes Robert Pirsig in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. And I was following the hare trying to get to the top quickly, while I should and now embrace the wisdom of the tortoise. Patient progression. Compounding. And more importantly, to be far more skeptical when I hear that it’s “all downhill.”

In the end, the tortoise not only wins the race, but by going slower there is more to see and absorb, and on our journey, everyday there is something new to notice, something new to learn.

But who wants to live on the side forever? Climbs are tough. And once you get up there it can be miserably windy and cold, and Kenny was right - none of numerous climbs we’ve faced have been easy.

The past few weeks have been the most I’ve ever ridden and climbed in my life, certainly more than I thought I could handle. While I’ve gotten stronger and a little faster, I have stopped checking how many more hundreds of meters it’ll take me until the top. It’ll take as long as it takes, I tell myself, I’m just going to keep peddling and remind myself that I get to do this, not I can do this - I now know I can.

Everybody wants to get the top: financially, physically, romantically, professionally, spiritually, socially, mentally, etc. but the sweaty struggle on the sides, not the glory on the summit are what I’m understanding is more worthy of respect.

That is a big part of what this journey means for me, is falling in love with the sides of the mountain, and to open myself more to be transformed by them.

To be committed to the process rather than the outcome.

To trust the tortoise.

Our few days through Ecuador’s volcano alley are marvelous, and the crowning climb of the trip for me (so far) was leaving Quito’s cute street and climbing on volcanic terrain to 3800m above sea level to the Cotopaxi volcano.

Despite the fact that all the riders share the physical journey, we are all on our independent inner journeys.

Take Klaus (46, Switzerland) who was smoking a pack (“minimum”) a day for 25 years, and hasn’t touched a cigarette since the trip started. Or Crum (60+, New Zealand) who had a stroke in January, and has been riding half days since the start until he builds enough strength to peddle full days.

Colombia has pushed us all.

But it’s for the challenges, the thrill of discovery mile after mile, the uncertainty behind every corner, the character of every climb, and the surrender to the process that I’m here.

Hasta la proxima, Colombia — gracias por todo.

Looking forward to continuing the journey from down the southern hemisphere.

The term “burn-in” is not statistical in any sense, but borrowed from the electronics industry, where components of a system are stress-tested before being placed in service. This testing process is often conducted at elevated temperatures, pressures, and voltages.

When I asked Tom, one of my favorite riders so far (Toronto, documentary film writer), who cycled Cairo to Cape Town and Tuktoyaktuk (very very far north in Canada) to Panama City, earlier how long it usually takes to get adjusted to a tour of this length, he replied calmly with his gentle wisdom: “give yourself roughly two weeks.”

Stephan and I forget to pickup our laundry in Medellin before the laundromat closed, a rookie mistake, and consequently started an hour behind the convoy the following morning. Fortunately, it meant we could ride on our own pace and enjoy a little coffee stop before we ascended from Medellín’s urban cradle.

For a country of its reputation, the coffee, or tinto, has been more a miss than a hit.

“All the good coffee’s in London.” Says one of the other riders at a later coffee stop.

“The past few days [from Medellin to Bogota] have been some of my toughest cycling days ever.” Says Jim, one of the more experienced riders.

We covered close to 550km and climbed over 11,500m of elevation, and I’ve been stunned by the incredible landscapes Colombia has to offer.

Although some of these hills take your breath away (in every sense), I’ve been more overwhelmed by the generosity of strangers that we’ve encountered, such as Monica-Sanchez - who invited me into her home and offered me some watermelon and coffee, or Carlos who offers me some bananas and refuses to accept any money.

“Colombia es para todos…nuestro país es lida” (Colombia is for everyone. Our country is pretty). Monica says to me after our photo, as she wishes me a safe journey.

“Everyday brings a new challenge.” Says Avi, my new roommate for the few hotel nights we have in Medellin and Bogota. Avi is quirky, and the type of person that likes to be the first to enter a room, or a campsite.

“When it’s not the heat, it’s the hills, and if not hills, rain, or headwind…” he says.

We have several back to back days where we face enormous climbs and I swallow the pain and keep moving at my tortoise-like pace up every hill. Our most grueling day started with hours of climbing on slippery gravel roads until a peak elevation over 13,000ft as we climbed into the clouds.

Several riders are defeated by the altitude, one slips and breaks a rib, another gets hypothermia, and a few get in the truck because they couldn’t feel their fingers well enough to brake on the descent.

I think of how the FAA requires the flight crew to use oxygen if a flight is between 12,500 and 14,000ft and lasts more than 30 minutes…how long have we been at 13,000+?

“Are your ears popping?” asks me Paul, as we climb together, stopping for tea to warm up halfway through the climb.

It is freezing at the top of the mountain, and I am the last to arrive to the campsite that night, at 6:05 pm, close to 9 hours of riding for the day.

“Well done not getting in the truck today, Mark.” Avi says to me.

“I’m proud of you!” He says.

“I didn’t do this for you, I did this for me.” I want to say, I’m cold, sweaty, and hungry and not in the mood to chitchat. But, he wasn’t done with his pep talk —

“Keep pushing yourself. Every time you get in the truck you make it easier to get in again and again. Your limits are only in your head…”

Despite his quirks, I hate to admit there is truth to what he’s saying.

Most of the riders are in bed by 7 or 7:30 that night, but I find my way to the nearby hot springs and reflect on the day and how I completely miscalculated what starting a climb from 2,500 meters above sea level feels like compared to starting one at sea level.

“How did you feel with all the altitude?” asks Jairo, one of the staff, a day out of Bogota.

“I definitely struggled…” I reply, if it wasn’t already obvious.

“Wait a bit…in Peru some spots — up to 6,000 meters!” he says.

When I ask Klaus, the oldest of our jovenes group, if he’s ready for our final ascent into Bogota he replies coolly:

“It’s just another hill.”

The cycling culture in Colombia has been incredibly impressive, but nothing beats riding into Bogota on Sunday morning after a long climb into nasty headwind. It didn’t feel like just “another hill” pushing through the headwinds, but we arrive at the top of the climb with leagues of cyclists, many cheering, celebrating, and socializing at the sides of the roads with beers and coffee.

Finishing that climb was the most euphoric I felt since we started. Our reward from the climb was racing downhill for an hour or so into the city on a road that was closed only for cyclists until 2 pm, on the day the Copa America final was to played, and the energy around us was incredible.

We race past Colombians sporting their yellow, red, and blue jerseys, balloons, hats, on every street corner…, and although Colombia loses later that night, the vibe in the city is unforgettably electric.

Bogota is rougher than Medellin, larger, and less organized. Like a bigger brother who’s not a stranger to tragedy.

However, I am thrilled that my parents and sister were able to make it for the rest days, and we are all blown away by the city’s extraordinary culinary scene, and (at last) very good coffee.

We descend out of the city on a series of serpentine gravel roads. Leaving Bogota was our 14th day of riding.

The last 14 days have been tough. We have all struggled from the long days, from the weather, insect bites, from missing our loved ones, and missing comforts we take for granted, like warm showers, clean beds, and sleeping past 5 am.

Although there are some moments on these beastly climbs when I feel burned out, I try to zoom out from the moments and consider the weeks, and trust Tom, that we’ve been burned in.

I was fortunate afterwards to work on applying universal basic income among other interesting economic policies in Khartoum. You may recall from my last newsletter, I was posted in the lovely family-run Acropole hotel, and it was there, from the multitude of “TDA” stickers on the office windows that I first learned about TDA or Tour d’Afrique, the tour company organizing our adventure.

The accommodation after the boat ride was a rest stop for truck drivers, and I was delighted with my small windowless air conditioned cell but not as much with the greetings from the insects.

I put my pillows in the sun to disinfect them and slept snuggly in my sleeping bag above my tent ground cover as a makeshift bedsheet to minimize contact with the bed.

I could have camped outside in the humidity but for $5, it was a small price to pay for the air conditioning before the climbs to Medellin.

You get what you pay for…

The next day we rode almost entirely in friendly rainfall that made all our fingertips look like we’ve lingered in the swimming pool for too long. The ride was 120km, the first hundred were smooth sailing that we covered in under 5 hours with a lunch stop around 80km and a quick sock change.

I feel infinitely grateful to the gentlemen at the bike shop in Palo Alto who insisted I take a few pairs of their premium waterproof socks that feel like a warm hug after the rain.

The next 20km, however, take me close to two and half hours as we conquer our first proper climb of the tour, a windy ascent through lush greenery and waterfalls gaining over a mile of altitude.

I find myself thinking about the decrepit room I slept in the night before while climbing as I try to shift my attention away from the GPS below me reminding me of how much longer I still have to the top. Despite its lack of hygiene they still had WiFi courtesy of Starlink.

After my time in Sudan, I learned that although projects such as UBI are well intentioned they can become muddled in politics and bureaucracy. And while I was inspired by the experimental nature towards improving livelihoods, I resolved to find that in the private sector - investing in startups or bigger experiments that can promote wellbeing and also make money.

As I slowly climb, pedal after pedal, I wonder if another “UBI” or universal basic internet could do to the countryside of Colombia?

I climb at a glacial pace, and for a split second my eyes find those of another cyclist whoosh by me, as he’s holding a rope attached to the back of a lori truck.

I think to myself if UBI, or giving people money has the same economic boost as that rope?

I wonder what analogous projects for the electricity/energy sector similar to Starlink for internet could look like?

Do we want to live in a society full of ropes on the back of trucks?

Finishing my first big climb was euphoric. I was thrilled to be over with it and more thrilled not to be sharing a road with so many trucks and busses.

The thought of doing double the incline the following day is unfathomable. Comical.

Fortunately, we have beds and an incredible view from our rest house.

After warm soup, and during the evening rider meeting we’re briefed on the following day’s +3,000m ride profile: three major climbs and not too many descents, and with the help of our support car, we have a few options if we want to skip a climb or two. But we are warned if we want to attempt the whole thing the only caution is to arrive before 5:45 pm rider’s meeting.

I think to myself: if I start pedaling at 6:30 am, should be enough time I think...

“You ready for the hills?” I ask Will, as we pack up our bags and head to breakfast.

“Yeah - just need to pay a visit to the crapola first” he replies in his strong British accent. I think of how the crapola and myself have not been the best of friends lately; and I’m apprehensive about how my stomach will handle the day’s climb.

We crack on. A fair number of riders elect to start the ride after the first or second of the big climbs. But, others like myself and Tom (70, documentary writer from Toronto, who only started cycling a few years back on the tour from Cairo to Cape Town) attempt the whole thing.

“How you feeling?” I ask Tom as I find him on the first of the three climbs. A beastly 20km of steady pedalling that takes me over three hours of zig zagging to the top.

“I’m moving. Slow and steady.” He replies between catching his breath. “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to finish the while ride, but I will go at my own pace and see how far I go…”

I love his attitude and adopt a similar view as I push through from corner to corner.

“You’re a damn hard-headed rider.” Says Jim (an American who retired five years ago, and bike tours full time around the world now). I am the last rider and rock into the camp at 5:35, 10 minutes before the rider’s meeting.

“Thanks.” I respond. “Yesterday was my biggest climb…”

“So today was your biggest, biggest...”

“You got grit kid.” He says offering me a high five.

The ride takes me 8 hours and 38 minutes, not counting the millions of stops along the way for photos, Cola, or aloe vera juice (a new favorite for Will and myself).

After an ice cold beer and an icier shower, lights out at around 8:30 pm.

The following Sunday morning, we had the best ride of the trip so far, a beautiful 30km of winding roads and rolling hills we had all to ourselves, before we started another 35km descent into Medellin. I was pleasantly surprised by the presence of other cyclists on the road, and bike lanes as we got closer to the core of the city.

“Medellín es la mejor ciudad (best city) de Colombia.” Suggests my Venezuelan Uber driver later. I learn from him there is a strong inflow of economic migrants from Colombia’s eastern neighbor.

“¿Por que? I ask.

“La clima… y la gente (the people)… mucho mejor (much better) que Bogota.” He says. I wonder if there’s a rivalry between the two cities, and curious what their residents of each-other.

My first impression of Medellin on our descent was spectacular:

But as we lost altitude, and got closer I realized she looked more beautiful from afar; up close Medellin looked more grungy, and carried some attitude.

If it was a music genre, I thought it would be loud punk rock, with the spiky hair and leather etc.

“House music, jazz, rock and roll” thought Katie, Stephan, and Klaus respectively, the “jóvenes” or youngens of the group.

“Does this remind you of India?” I ask Nithya, a dear friend and classmate from the development economics program who fortuitously was in Medellin during our rest day.

“Yes! Of course…although we add more cardamom in ours” she replies as we dig into our rice pudding.

“No, I meant being here in Colombia?!”

“Oh yeah for sure - does it remind you of Egypt?”

“Definitely…it’s got that developing country vibe…” I reply thinking of the grilled corn on every corner, the way people drive, and the messiness.

“What is it about Medellin that brings back that feeling?”

“Oh, it’s the chaos, the crowds, the sounds, smells…you know what I mean” she continues as we wander around in search of some fresh “jugos naturales.” I opt for a lemon (sadly no mint) and Nithya goes for the fresh Guanabana juice.

“Why is there such a big community of Venezuelans here?” I ask my third Venezuelan Uber driver during our rest day.

“la economia y la moneda (currency) en Venezuela es una mierda (💩)…” he says.

At the end of the day I suppose the shittier the currency, the sweeter the juice.

Next stop: Bogotá

“Aren’t you a little too young to be doing this?” Asks one of the riders at the reception of our hotel in Cartagena.

You’re not even 60 yet…”

Our group is up at 5 am the next morning, descend with our boxes, bags, and bikes down to the parking lot. Group photo at 5:45, breakfast at 6, and we roll out of Cartagena about 6:30 am.

Our convoy is 33 cyclists, 18 full tour riders, planning to ride all the way down to Ushuaia (the small Argentinian town where the boats to Antarctica depart) while the remaining 15 stopping somewhere on the way (some to come back later for more cycling), plus about a dozen support staff.

The city is quiet as we roll out on a cloudy Sunday morning, but the clouds quickly fade and we find ourselves riding in close to 40 degrees celsius, fighting dehydration and the scorching heat.

We ride for about 4 hours covering a little over 90km, stopping for drinks at 45km and lunch at 60km before arriving to our campsite, the garden of a restaurant, before midday.

Despite the group’s older average age, I find myself inspired by the places they’ve gone and the distances covered on the saddle:

Istanbul to Beijing, Paris to Dakar, Cairo to Cape Town (a common one among the group, and how I first learned about our tour company while I was working in Sudan), Perth to Sydney, London to Moscow, and many others across Canada, Korea, Japan, the Himalayas, North America and now South America…

I’m the youngest in the group; followed by three other riders - and new friends - who are also below 50, and we have formed a little squad that I am endlessly grateful for. As I am in the bottom half of the group in terms of bike touring experience, I do find myself overthinking and overpacking compared to the pros. As I’m stretching in the afternoon after our second ride, one of the more experienced riders remarks with a wonderful British accent:

“O goodonya mate, doin some stretchin aye ya?”

“You’re welcome to join me” I reply.

“Nah. Imma have a beer” he says.

I have a lot to learn from them I think…

Thankfully day two is cooler, with overcast skies as we ride our way to our beach side campsite in the small fishing town of Tolú.

Our first night was rough. It was painfully hot, which normally, I would find unpleasant but manageable, but add the humidity, a rain tarp, and the dehydration and it feels like a sauna inside the tent.

I move my hammock to the beach on our second night with the hopes of catching a little breeze, but the mosquitos are unrelenting. Some of the other riders and staff pitch their tents closer to the water, as we all try and find relief from the heat, and about midnight I give up on the hammock and go find my tent too.

I am happier with my second night of 4 hours of sleep than the first, and feel grateful for the sound of the waves, and a morning swim before hitting the road for day 3.

Usted Argentino? Ask me some friendly police officers who find us at our lunch stop.

“No, soy egipcio” I reply.

The police officers suggest I have an Argentinian accent, which I credit to my wonderful Spanish teacher.

“Son todos gringos?” They ask me, I laugh and say yes and tell them about our adventure. They assume I’m one of the staff, given I’m younger, speak some Spanish, and noticeably not a gringo and ask if they can take some photos with the gringos having lunch.

“Si, claro.” I reply.

Day three is a longer ride, my longest ever at about 130km (80 miles), but thankfully we are rewarded with air conditioning at a decent little hotel and a rest day to follow.

There are only a few air conditioning remotes to go around, and Will (my roommate) and I decide to keep it at its coolest and get in our sleeping bags for the night.

Will is a wonderful roommate, who I met on the road earlier. He has a grandchild my age, despite our age differences we share a common love language:  beer + cycling.

After our rest day in San Marcos, the small town that receives us for our first rest day, we continue into our fourth riding day. Due to some thunderstorms and flooding we ride half our planned route, and boat ourselves and our bikes for our first half.

We divide ourselves among the boats, and cruise across the wetlands in style for a couple of hours before finding our bikes and next campsite.

“You a birder” asks Toni-Anne, the rider in front of me on the boat, as we pass by some stunning birds on the ride, some eagles soaring above and other elegant herons, spoonbills, and storks on the sides of the water. One birder counted 22 different types of birds.

“No.” I reply

“I don’t think you’ll give a shit about birds until you’re about 50” she says.

I befriend our boat captain on the almost three-hour ride, as I have the seat closest to him. And he slows down slightly for me to discreetly relieve myself to the side of the boat without my fellow passengers taking notice.

We dock, have a quick lunch and start our ride at midday— unusual from our past few days, which is when we usually end.

We start our cruise and soon find ourselves in the middle of some traffic:

I find there is a resemblance of some physical and cultural features between some Colombians and some people back home in Egypt. And as we go deeper into the countryside, I am touched with the warmth and generosity we encounter.

Our boat driver, once we docked asked if he could give me a hug and wished me good luck on the journey.

“How would you describe the culture in Colombia in one word?”

I ask our Uber driver in Cartagena on our drive back to the hotel on the eve of our departure.

“Hermosa.” (beautiful) he replies.

Next stop: Medellin

The first, often look at me with some concern in their eyes — often titling their head slightly to the side and pause, before asking why…

The second, like my Cartagenero taxi driver, often reply with wide smiles, a “estas muy loco” and a lot more questions to follow.

Whoever you are — welcome.

I am currently in Cartagena, Colombia.

In 24 hours or so, will embark south for 6 months adventuring on my bicycle, and am looking forward to have lots of fun writing about it here.

More to come soon…