We have to stop cycling

It's time to face the truth

After weeks of denial, it’s time to face the truth: we’re off the bike.

Bernardo has neuropathy: damaged nerves in his wrists.

Recovery could take months.

Shit.

We know there are far greater concerns in the world, but still. It’s hard to accept. And we’re okay with you knowing that.

With 3,000 kilometers in our legs, we now know for certain: cycling is what we want to do with our lives right now. But reality caught up with us and showed that we’re not always in control. Maybe there's a reason for that. Maybe this is what protected us from something far worse. The burnt toast theory. Look it up.

The neuropathy, in fact, wasn’t the only sign that something was telling us to stop.

While Bernardo’s symptoms worsened, my grandmother was growing weaker by the day. For weeks, the same question kept circling in my mind: Will I still make it home in time to see her alive?

Then, in Bangkok, the hammer came down: a neurologist told Bernardo he was absolutely not allowed to cycle anymore.

That gave me my answer.

We booked a flight back to the Netherlands, planning to get back on the road after Bernardo’s recovery.

The night before our flight, I called my grandmother to tell her the news. Tears streamed down her face when she heard we’d be able to hug the very next day. She was overjoyed.

The following day, we took off. But during our layover in Abu Dhabi, I got the call.

She had passed away.

No final hug. I was too late.

Even after the long lead-up to her death, the moment still came as a shock. But she left this world believing we would see each other again, and I choose to believe that brought her peace.

It’s been a month now. We’ve had a beautiful goodbye with my grandmother, and Bernardo is slowly making progress, taking baby steps forward.

We try to stay positive and remind ourselves how lucky we are. Time is on our side. The journey isn’t over, only paused. And whenever the moment comes, we’ll be back.

But honestly? These baby steps feel painfully small. Especially for Bernardo, who’s the one facing this injury every single day.

While he knows we’ll return, it’s not always easy to feel that way. Every morning he wakes up with numb hands. That makes it hard to keep things in perspective. Hard to feel hopeful, when each day starts with the same reminder that he's not there yet. It’s like being stuck in a waiting room with no clock, knowing the door will open eventually, but not knowing when. And that unknowing takes its toll.

And while he’s stuck in the waiting room, I’m quietly struggling too…

I’m writing this from the Netherlands, while Bernardo is in Portugal, trying to pick up the pieces. For both of us, it feels like we’re not supposed to be here. But life goes on, and bills don’t pay themselves.

Apart from a few amazing paid subscribers on Substack (thank you!!), I don’t have a remote income yet. I’ve moved back in with my parents, which helps keep expenses low. But even then: groceries, a coffee on a terrace, a birthday gift for a friend, life’s gotten so expensive that my savings won’t last for months.

So yes, I’ll need to work.
But that’s where I’m stuck.

I usually land on my feet quickly after a trip. I find a job, settle in and so I keep moving. But this time, I’m struggling. It’s not that I can’t work. I just can’t bring myself to fully commit.

The idea of a steady job, with fixed hours, asks for a kind of rootedness I simply don’t feel right now. As said before, it feels like I’m not meant to be here. And instead of pushing that feeling away, I’ve decided to be okay with it.

So for now, I get by with freelance jobs. Think of: washing dishes, stocking shelves, babysitting. But also one that secretly brings me a lot of joy: a job as a barista in a tiny, pale blue caravan. It has exactly the kind of charm I imagine for my future coffee truck (hmm maybe that’s part of why I’m here haha).

These are all jobs without fixed hours. They let me earn just enough without asking me to settle, keeping the door open. If, suddenly, we get to go again, I can.

And until then, we hold on to hope. Hope that this will pass. Hope that followers will stick around. Followers like you, dear reader. We hope you’ll stay.

I’ll keep writing here on Substack, looking back and wandering forward. And when we’re ready to go again, I hope you’ll be there with us. We’ve got something to finish.

“Hope keeps us going,” my grandmother used to say. And as always, she was right.

Thank you for being here!

Jule Noah