One day ago, I arrived in San Francisco after 61 days of cycling. 3785 miles. From the Atlantic coast to the Pacific coast. With a group of people, strangers when we met in Yorktown, who are now my friends.
Walking off the ferry that took us from Vallejo to the San Francisco port, the people waiting to board smiled and congratulated us. Because Hubby had arrived the evening before and spent the night in my tent with me at our last campground stop, I was searching for him amongst the crowd. Instead, I saw my brother and his family waiting. Them being in San Francisco to greet me was a complete surprise, a wonderful gift I will treasure for the rest of my life.
The afternoon and evening was a whirlwind of activity, with a reception, the tire dip in the Pacific ocean, and saying goodbye. I felt like I was on a merry-go-round, sort of seeing what was going on and getting bits and pieces, but at the same time, some of it was a blur. It wasn't until this morning, after some sleep, after breakfast, and after we were on the road heading towards Nevada that I let the tears slip.
I already miss being on my bike, with my friends, on the open road.