Home. What does it mean when you’re more than 5000 miles from where you started?

We all start somewhere, don’t we? A place that shapes us, molds us, sometimes suffocates us.

I was born in a Balkan village. No roads. No highways. Just dirt and dreams.

5000 miles from that village. New England. Dirt paths still call, but different. New England. My chosen ground. 

It’s the crunch of leaves under my tires. The bite of autumn air that fills my lungs as I ride.

I love the way history bleeds into the present here. Every winding road tells a story.

My bike and I, we’re seekers of the unpaved. Tires crunching gravel, kicking up dust. Asphalt is for others. We chase the roads that remember what it means to be earth.

What else do I love? The covered bridges that stand defiant against time. Crossing them feels like slipping between worlds.

I love the stone walls snaking through forests. Older than my first home’s oldest memories. They ground me.

The people. Tough as granite, warm as maple syrup. They don’t ask where I’m from. They ask where I’m going.

I love how this place has seeped into my bones. How it’s rewritten my definition of belonging.

This is home now. The road confirms it with every mile.

What do I love about where I live? Everything. The known, the unknown, and the space between where magic happens.

I whisper to the engine. Another day, another ride. Another chance to fall in love with home all over again.

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To you, fellow traveler on life’s unpaved paths: Happy trails, happy tales, happy weekend.