Opening your eyes to the drop of “Avicii’s Epic Hangover” booming from speakers in the 4 AM darkness.

Eating anything and everything.

Eating more.

Tan lines the color of Neapolitan ice cream.

Screams of “I’m not a climber!” to the click of downshifting chains.

Scenic road trips in the 15-passenger beast that is The Cancer Van.

Water stop EDM raves.

The universally applicable justification of 4K-OK.

Foraging for buried treasure in a 60-lb trash bag of stale, molding bagels.

Open discussions of bowel movements.

Feeling so much like your bike is an extension of your body that a flat tire is worse than a stubbed toe.

Pigpile napping.

Campfire ukelele and utensil orchestras.

The chamois butter dance.

Orange Gatorade powder… not.

Chalk messages from the water van that make you laugh so hard you lose your breath.

Abe’s sad face, cat noises with Lindsay, Alex’s spunky ginger powers, Kevin’s piercing lagoon blue eyes, Chelsea’s giggle, Johnny’s smile, Spencer and his horcruxes, Wild West Emily, Casey’s patience, Cali’s radness, Ella’s sweetness, crossing the plane with Steven, Eric’s voice of dissent, Ishpreet YOLO, Marc’s segues, Megan’s determination, Luke’s proverbs, the way Ray gets excited when he tells a story, alternative life plans with Melanie, Sam’s digestive system, tour guide Liz, Doug’s laugh, Jose’s purple toenails, crazy-legging with Caiti, time-space musings with Rose, and James’s sass bombs. My family.

Turning the corner to a view that makes you whisper, “Oh my god,” so quietly, only you and your bike can hear.

Minneapolis was a wonderful stay in the home of my college buddy and 4K Portland ride director Kevin’s parents. Over the past few days, I had grown more and more antsy about getting back in the saddle — every water and lunch stop, I started borrowing teammate’s bikes and wheeling slowly around the parking lot. After a rest day, I felt ready to try a real ride. I rode the two miles to the nearby church that was to host us the next night, surrounded by my friends, and was so overcome with feelings of joy and freedom that I started screaming in the streets. I was addicted… again. The following day was an 85 mile ride; though I had told everyone that I would try to make it to the first water stop at mile 20 and see how it felt, something inside me said I was going all the way. Go I did, and go I have every day since.

It has not been an easy return. My arm is feeling a lot better these days, but the strain of putting weight on my elbow was an obstacle in the beginning. After a few days, I visited another orthopedic specialist who prescribed me a wrist splint to ride with (I have some pretty phenomenal tan lines by now) and said that my radial head seemed to be repairing the way it should, although it would hurt and also take longer to heal. Searing pain in my left knee in the first week prompted me to borrow a friend’s knee brace. The immobilization helps a lot, and my splint tan is now matched by an even sweeter one on my leg. We have had blistering temperatures the past two weeks — upwards of 95 degrees some days –which makes our 90-100 miles days that much longer and strenuous on our bodies. The tendinitis I’ve had in my shoulder blades since high school recently acted up, and I’ve lost a good deal of strength and sensation in my right hand due to pressure from handlebar positioning. My biggest problem, though, has been fitness. No matter how much I throw my heart into my riding, the unavoidable truth is that I missed three weeks of training and astounding overall improvement from the rest of the riders. They are harder, faster, and stronger than they were when I fell. I can only try to be patient with myself and remember that it’s going to be a long process of re-immersion until I am at the level I would like to be. As for my team, their immense compassion and support continue to astound me. I know they are proud of how far I have come, and there’s no better feeling in the world.

All these “limitations” (this is the 4K, we don’t use that word) aside, I can honestly say that I’m proud of myself too. I’ve accomplished some things the past two weeks that I never would have thought I could. I completed my first century, a 110 mile day through rolling hills. I climbed out of the Badlands, where we had a fantastic night of camping in the heart of the rock formations, through 25 mile headwinds — a 90 mile day, for parts of which we were knocked off our bikes from the sheer force of the gusts. I survived the Black Hills, and yesterday’s climb through Bighorn National Forest: a one-mile gain in elevation to Powder River Pass (9666 feet), reached via a crawling 40 mile climb that required the dreaded “granny gear” from even the strongest riders and didn’t even get us halfway through our 90 mile day. But the jaw-dropping beauty of the terrain we have seen since our departure from Minneapolis cannot be expressed. Leaving Minnesota, we passed through rolling green hills more idyllic than a Windows desktop background. Scattered across the perfectly blue sky were hundreds upon hundreds of stark, white windmills, spinning lazily in a glorious tailwind that vaulted us into South Dakota. Our route through the Black Hills wound through densely wooded peaks, rising up dark and silent all around us. The rock formations in the Badlands were breathtakingly gorgeous, despite our endless Mordor references. And Bighorn had the most amazing descent of the trip so far, a steep and winding drop that carved through a canyon with thousand-foot rock faces, speckled with pines. We have seen everything from snakes to buffalo to bighorn sheep; been carted through mountain construction zones in the bed of a pickup truck; climbed a barbed wire fence to jump on I-90, bikes and all; crossed open ranges so vast that you can see for 10 miles without squinting an eye; and been fed elk burgers on a new friend’s middle-of-nowhere cattle ranch, blanketed by more stars than I have ever seen in my life.

I know that the hardest part of the trip still lies ahead as we approach the Rockies. But sitting here in the hallway of this tiny church, heart still pumping from the rodeo we just saw and psyched for tomorrow’s trek into Yellowstone, I couldn’t possibly be anxious. There’s no space in my brain for anything but bliss.

What’s kept my spirits afloat during the past two weeks is the beautiful region of the country we’ve traversed, as well as the indomitable positivity and support of my teammates. I can’t thank them enough for understanding my frustration and constantly looking out for me. We’ve had some amazing nights together that more than compensate for the monotony of van duty.

One of my teammates and I had a conversation the other day about surviving life by drawing strength from ordinary moments: ordinary in their objective insignificance, but extraordinary in terms of what they contain. Moments when you feel full and whole. The past two weeks have brought more of these than could be numbered. Sunset over Lake Erie with the sands of a deserted beach under my feet; riding passenger side on a perfect Michigan day with my bare feet out the window, rolling green hills surrounding us on all sides; splitting a bag of salt water taffy on the pier as wafting waves of live music meet lapping waves of water in South Haven, Indiana; stopping off to buy a water gun and sneak-attacking the riders on a humid day; getting to see my friend Ixtla, with whom I went to Peru junior year, and having dessert with her family at their home in Oak Park after touring the Frank Lloyd Wright houses; when I scream words of encouragement out the window at a group of riders and see a solitary fist raised in the air. These are not moments that are commemorated in the way that other 4K milestones will be, such as crossing state lines or celebrating our first 1000 miles. But they are the moments I want to hold onto.

Today we crossed the Mississippi into Minnesota. After a long and winding ascent from the bridge, we turned to see the whole river curving below us, the splendor of the mountains and forests rising up in its wake. It seems overly dramatic, but I feel like I’m rounding the last turn of my own climb. The 4K is difficult for everyone for different reasons. Over the last two weeks, my battle has been one of patience… Here’s hoping that I am soon back on my dear bicycle (his name is Ferdinand), the wind at my back, quads and heart ablaze.

On our ride along beautiful Lake Erie from Buffalo to Lake City, PA, I stopped paying attention for a fraction of a second while drafting off my teammate and ended up rubbing my front wheel along her back wheel. I lost control and crashed onto my left side. I’m not sure how I fell… All the sudden I was sitting on the ground, breathing deeply, clutching my arm. I couldn’t move it at all. Thank God no one else was hurt. Somebody called for help, and I hated to stop riding but my group put my bike on the van and I accompanied the chalkers for the rest of the day.

The pain got worse as the day wore on. I could wiggle my fingers but my hand was numb and I could barely move my arm enough to get it into a sling borrowed from our ride director. Bending it was excruciating. The next day at the ER, I learned that I had a non-displaced fracture to my humerus at the elbow.

I am not in significant pain when my arm is immobilized in the sling. I know it will mend and that I will eventually regain full mobility. But what hurts far more than that is the realization that I will not be able to ride my bike for some time. I’m trying so hard not to be furious with myself for letting this happen; what’s done is done and I can’t change it. Regret is a waste of energy. I’ll just have to try to be as much of a support to my team as possible while I ride in the vans. There are still jobs to do. But even though I’m blasting EDM and screaming words of encouragement out the window, my heart sinks every time I pass our riders on the road. I should be out there with them.

Today we have a rest day in Sandusky, Ohio. It’s nice to have everyone around, just hanging out, and not feel as if I am losing time that could be spent with my team. Last night we explored Sandusky Bike Week — a convention of hundreds of motorcyclists who have taken over the town. What a crazy night! Injured or not, I’m still living my dream and I’m not going to let it detract from the magic of the summer. All wounds heal with time.

Four days ago, Team Seattle rode 75 miles from Rochester to Buffalo. The morning began with our ritual circle-up. We hold hands — left one up, receiving strength from your adjacent teammate, and right one down, imparting strength to your other neighbor. Next we make our dedications for the day. People acknowledge loved ones who have been touched by cancer, friends and family that support them, or teammates whose efforts have inspired them.

I chose to dedicate my ride to Zach and Keeley, friends of three of my fellow riders, who were both diagnosed with brain cancer in middle school. Both of their cancers also recently reemerged. Keeley passed away two months ago, and Zach continues to fight for his life. I have been floored by the immeasurable love that Kevin, Raymond, and Ella have shown for these two incredible individuals over the past week and a half. Keeley’s memory and Zach’s strength push them forward every day. Humbled and awed by their stories, I asked if it would be okay to honor Zach and Keeley and write their names of my calves in customary 4K style. Ray snapped this picture before we rode out.

It turned out that I could not have chosen a better day to dedicate to such inspirational people. We departed into pouring rain, and my clothes were soaked through almost immediately (my “water-resistant” jacket proved useless). The wind was bone-chilling. Our team had about 20 flats over the course of the day, and every time we stopped to patch tires, the cold worsened — people were shuddering, their lips turning purple. One rider elected to ride in the van, sensing that he was developing signs of hypothermia. I got a headache and started to feel slightly dizzy, struggling to focus and keep up with my group.

At our second water stop, I finally admitted to myself that I was having a rough time. I had stopped feeling the cold at all, and almost fell asleep while waiting for two friends to fix a flat… Both pretty bad signs. Every layer of clothing I wore was drenched. I kept on repeating in my head my self-imposed mantra “Hospital Before Van.” This is probably a foolish ultimatum, but I didn’t want to give in and be picked up by our support vehicle. I couldn’t. I just kept thinking of Zach and Keeley, the toll that chemo must have taken on their bodies and how bravely they faced their own pain.

We pulled into a tire store to warm up, and my teammates shut me up and took over — one of them lent me a fleece, and another fashioned me a rain jacket from a trash bag. They took care of me the way only a family can. Both of these adjustments made a huge difference, and the day only improved. The clouds parted to sunshine and mild temperatures soon afterward.

I am proud of myself for not surrendering that day, and endlessly thankful to Zach and Keeley as well as my teammates for getting me through the pain when I was on the brink of losing my grip. I feel I now have a better understanding of what the 4K represents. What becomes more evident each day is that a sense of adventure or a quest for personal enrichment is simply not enough. This journey demands so much more of us.You must fixate on the people for whom you ride. You must draw power from the individuals around you, refresh your tired mind and body with the laughter and goofy insanity that makes Team Seattle who we are, and keep perspective on the wonderful experience before us.

As for what strength actually means, I continue to learn and to perfect my definitions. I did not give up that day. But I also allowed myself to feel pain, to feel exhaustion, and to ask for help. None of these things constitute weakness or failure. And I am 100% sure now that this is not a battle which I fight alone.

Little did I realize that I would soon encounter a much greater obstacle than wind and rain…

This Sunday, I dipped the back wheel of my Felt Z100 in the murky quagmire of the Inner Harbor, and set off from my beloved four-year home of Baltimore on a 4000-mile trek to Seattle, Washington. The weekend was a whirlwind. Not only was I extremely anxious about our departure, but the disorientation of graduation and hurriedly bidding farewell to the people who made my college years worthwhile also threw me for a crazed loop. Then all the anticipation, stress, and nervousness crystallized down to a single moment: clipping into my pedals and propelling myself forward to the cheers of my family and friends.

I am writing now from the second floor of a YMCA in Ithaca, New York. I still can’t really fathom how I reached this place on a bicycle, how I pushed myself here with the strength of my own two legs. It doesn’t seem real. Of course, getting here was not easy. My new life consists only of biking, eating, sleeping, or some combination thereof… We have averaged a distance of 75 miles per day, no small feat when my longest ride in preparation for this trip was a mere 30. The asphalt reflects the brutal heat of the day, and we must eat and drink constantly to nourish ourselves adequately (as we burn upwards of 3000 calories per day). There have been climbs when I whimpered in pain. Sore hands, sore shoulders, sore legs, sore butt, sore feet. Doused in so much sweat that my jersey was soaked. Waking up as early as 3:45 so we can make it to then next city before dark, combining the fatigue of riding with sheer exhaustion from lack of rest. A shower and food are precious commodities, neither one a guarantee on any given day. Yet this is already the most rewarding undertaking of my life.

Six days ago, I was accompanied by a group of nice strangers whom I had just met at training the previous day. These people are now my family. The most striking revelation of this journey so far is how rapidly the mental and physical exhaustion of our trek has cemented a bond of trust and reliance among the members of Team Seattle. We may not have learned the names of each others’ siblings, remember where everyone went to school, or know each other in the traditional sense of social graces and polite chitchat. But I have 28 new brothers and sisters. I have seen members of my team give up their last drops of water to someone else in the 90 degree heat when they themselves are on the brink of collapse. I have watched someone finish a quad-blasting climb, lactic acid searing through their veins, only to double back and ascend again just so they can cheer a struggling teammate along. Commiseration and mutual understanding have brought us closer than a million ice breaker exercises ever could. We push ourselves forward each minute of our 8 to 14 hour days because we know that others are counting on us, and we know that we would be nowhere without our ability to depend upon one another when we want to surrender.

Though we have not even completed the first week of the ride, I have already seen so much beauty. Yes — beauty in terms of rolling farmlands and forests, the sheltered quiet of Amish country interrupted only by the clip-clop of hooves drawing a buggy past a cornfield, the gorgeous serenity of the Appalachian mountains. But also beauty in the boundless depth of the human heart. These are the pearls I know will stay with me long after the 4K has ended and I am back in Maine, sorting out the next chapter of my life. I will remember the man who led us to his solitary cabin so we could fill our water jugs on a 100-mile day. I will remember the woman at the roadside farm stand who gave us fresh strawberries after learning who we were and why we were riding. And I will remember my teammate’s story about stopping to use the restroom in the house of a lady of small means, who then selflessly made a donation to the 4K when he explained our mission. Each one of our hosts thus far has struck me speechless with their immense generosity: we have eaten home-cooked feasts, been driven to people’s homes so that we can use their showers, and been shown more love and support than I could have ever imagined.

Donning my 4K Seattle jersey with my companions each morning gives me more pride than I have ever experienced before. I feel so blessed and happy to be here, and I cannot wait to see what the next days and weeks will bring.