East to Begin — A 20,000 km ride toward a second life. EP2.

Start your journey on a sunny day.

That morning, the sky was clear, the air felt light, and for the first time in weeks I didn’t hesitate, I just wanted to ride. No attachment to my couch, my bed, or the routine I’d been clinging to. Just go.

But leaving is never just leaving.

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Being Ready Is a Decision

A few weeks earlier, most days began at 6 a.m., staring at the ceiling while my mind replayed everything: my old job, the route ahead, all the ways this trip could go wrong.

On paper, things looked solid. I had a rough route from France toward Southeast Asia, the bike, visas in progress, tools, luggage. Every day the to‑do list got shorter and another parcel arrived at my door.

Inside, it felt like the opposite. The more I prepared, the less “ready” I felt.

Preparation carries a hidden promise: if you do enough, you’ll feel safe. That feeling never came. There was always one more thing to optimize, one more scenario to anticipate, one more risk I didn’t know how to handle.

Underneath, a quieter fear stayed in the background:
What if something breaks and I can’t fix it? What if I’m stuck and nobody can help? What if I’m simply not capable enough?

Some days that fear turned into excitement. Other days it felt very close to panic — a weight on the chest, like I was walking toward something much bigger than me. I had told my family, my friends and even the Westwind community about this journey. Their encouragement helped, but it also made it feel even more real.

Backing out no longer felt like changing plans; it felt like proving I wasn’t brave enough to do what I had said.

I had to remind myself: nobody is counting your steps as closely as you think. And even if they were, they won’t live with your regrets. There is something worse than stopping. It’s never starting.

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The Garage That Didn’t Reassure Me

One of the key moments in this storm of preparation was the visit to the mechanic.

I had waited weeks for this day. In my mind, this was where everything would finally be “validated” by someone who knew more than me. I arrived early, list in hand, ready to explain that I was planning to ride from France to Thailand on a second‑hand bike and needed it ready for more than 20,000 kilometers.

I expected advice and guidance. Instead, after listening, the mechanic just asked:
“OK. But what do you want to do?”

I froze. I hadn’t come for a catalog of services. I had come for reassurance,  for someone with real mechanical knowledge to point at the bike and say, “This is fine, this needs work.”

Then came the warning: an important suspension part was wearing out and “might fail in 3,000–4,000 kilometers.” Not now, but somewhere out there. Far enough that I could start; close enough that it would travel with me. They re‑installed the same part, gave me the warning and sent me away.

On the ride back, the panic really started. I don’t have a mechanic’s brain. Like many riders, my skills are basic at best, so my head did what most heads do: it went into overdrive.

What if it fails in the middle of nowhere?
What if the geometry is already wrong?
What if I don’t even notice until it’s too late?

I spent hours online reading diagrams, forum posts, and videos. The more I read, the more possible problems I found. Instead of feeling safer, I felt smaller.

In the middle of all this noise, one thing helped more than I expected: support from people who actually believed in the trip. Westwind had been following my preparation ever since I ordered their luggage; every time I had a doubt about setup, loading, or gear, someone from the team took the time to answer, suggest options, or simply say, “This is normal, you’re doing fine.”

They didn’t magically fix the mechanical issue, but they made one thing very clear: I wasn’t completely alone in this process. That matters a lot when you’re sitting behind a screen, convinced you’re the only one who doesn’t know enough.

Still, a decision had to be made.

Wait another week for a second appointment and keep pushing the departure back, or move forward knowing things wouldn’t be perfect.

In the end I found another mechanic. No big shop, no polished communication. Just a phone call: “Sure, come by.” He took one look and said, “This doesn’t make sense.” Twenty minutes later the original spare part was installed properly, aligned and working. No drama, no special story for social media,  just solid, honest work.

Something shifted that day. Not because the bike became perfect, but because I stopped waiting for everything to be perfect.

That’s when I understood, more clearly than ever: being ready is not a state. It’s a decision.

 

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The First Kilometers

And then, finally, I left.

That morning really was beautiful. “Start your journey on a sunny day,” they say,  it helps. Yet the first kilometers didn’t feel like freedom at all. They felt cautious.

Every sound mattered. Every vibration felt suspicious. I kept checking my mirrors — not for cars, but for my luggage. It was my first time riding fully loaded with all my travel gear, strapped down on a rackless setup I trusted on paper but still needed to see working in real life.

The Westwind bags were solid, the straps were tight, the system was built for this… but my mind still needed proof. Nothing moved, nothing was out of place.
Mile after mile thr trust on paper turned into reality. I had bought the right gear!

Then my Cardo started cutting out. Music dropped every few seconds, leaving silence where there should have been rhythm. It sounds like a small thing, but on a long ride it changes the whole feel of the day.

The road was perfect: blue sky, clear light, smooth tarmac. And yet I couldn’t enjoy it.

I pulled over, checked cables, restarted everything. After about thirty minutes I found the problem, too much Bluetooth interference, and fixed it.

When I got back on the bike, engine running, music finally stable, I felt something new: a quiet sense of competence. A first small problem, solved on my own, somewhere between home and the unknown.

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Dropping the Bike and Discovering You’re Not Alone

Later that day I stopped again to check the bike and the luggage. That’s when it happened: I dropped it.

First day. First real mistake.

Loaded for travel, the bike wasn’t the same machine anymore. It went over surprisingly fast, and in that brief second there was nothing I could do.

I tried to lift it. Nothing moved. All the weight of the gear, the fuel, the water, all the “just in case” items, everything was suddenly working against me.

Then, out of nowhere, someone appeared.

No questions. No judgment. Just help.

We lifted the bike together. Before I could properly thank him, he was already gone, back to his car on the other side of the road, door still open.

I stayed there for a moment, a bit shaken, very grateful.

Weeks of preparation had convinced me that everything depended on me, my planning, my skills. That moment reminded me of something much simpler: you’re never as alone as you think.

 

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A Quiet Evening in Gérardmer

The rest of the ride was smooth but long. Seven hours in the saddle on the first day, too much.

I reached Gérardmer around 5 p.m. The town was almost empty; Easter weekend. Access code, key on the door, no one at reception. I dropped my gear in the room and walked down to the lake.

The water was still. The light was soft. For the first time that day nothing needed my attention. No checklist, no logistics, no decisions.

Just a strange, unfamiliar feeling: relief.

Not because everything had gone perfectly — it clearly hadn’t. But because, despite delays, doubts and mistakes, I was there. On the road. Moving.

And for that moment, it was enough.

The Road Starts Before the First Border

Tomorrow I leave France. Tomorrow the “real” journey begins.

But the truth is, it already started weeks ago: in the 6 a.m. doubts, in the endless preparation, in the anxiety about not being ready, in the visits to the wrong mechanic, in the nights spent searching for answers online, in the emails and messages with people like the Westwind team who helped me keep going when the fear got loud.

The hardest part was never the first border. It was everything that came before it.

You will never feel completely ready. You will always wonder if you forgot something, if your skills are enough, if your gear, your bike, your luggage, your plans, will hold when things get rough.

At some point, you take a deep breath.
You tighten the last strap.

You turn the key.

And you go.

Ready or not.

By Bilel M.