#serializedbook

With no other choice, I set my phone on the nightstand to charge and picked up my journal instead, jotting down the events of the day.

For the first time in two days, my tense nerves finally relaxed—only to be immediately replaced by a deep sense of emptiness.

Loneliness crept in.

Here, in this foreign country, I had no one to rely on.

Downstairs, the old woman still wanted me out of this house.

Would it even matter if I simply disappeared?

It felt like no one would notice.

In that moment, I felt like the loneliest person in the world.

Maybe, I realized, what I feared about the night wasn't just the darkness—but the fear of being unseen.

For some reason, a memory from when I was four or five surfaced in my mind.

“Min, do you want to go for a ride?”

My father called out to me from the doorway.

Whenever my dad wanted to sneak out, he would ask if I wanted to come along—giving him an excuse to leave the house.

And every time, I said yes.

Every time, I would happily climb onto his motorbike, thinking it was a rare chance to go out with him.

Every time, he would take me to the same park, tell me to play on my own, and promise to pick me up later.

And every time, I would wait until dusk, then walk home alone, feeling heartbroken.

Sometimes, when I was too tired to walk, I would look for an adult who seemed trustworthy, someone with a motorbike, and pretend to be lost, asking them to take me home.

My father would disappear for two or three days at a time, then return as if nothing had happened.

And every time he asked if I wanted to go for a ride, I would still say yes.

Then I would walk home alone again.

To this day, I still don't know where he went.

But the most vivid memory he left me with was the sensation of riding on the back of his motorbike, the wind rushing past us.

I remember feeling so happy.

People often asked me, “How did your parents let you take this journey alone?”

The truth was, my father never spent much effort trying to control me.

He passed away when I was eighteen.

My mother, on the other hand, had long been exhausted. She had spent years caring for four children and my chronically ill father.

When I tried to convince her, I gave her a reason I knew she would accept.

“Sixteen hundred years ago, the Buddhist monk Xuanzang traveled to India to bring back sacred scriptures. The route he took will be part of my journey when I reach China.”

Upon hearing that Xuanzang had once walked this path, my mother's face lit up. “I don't really understand where that is,” she said, “but as long as you know what you’re doing.”

But the truth was, I didn't know exactly what I was doing.

I just knew I had to do it.

There were a hundred thousand reasons pushing me forward, but I couldn't find a single one that I could clearly explain to my mother.

So, I chose the one she could accept the most.

I framed my journey in a way that made it impossible for her to stop me.

The strongest opposition, however, came from Kamil and his mother, Maria.

Kamil’s family had immigrated from Poland to Germany when he was five.

When I first arrived in Germany, Kamil was working in Beijing, so I had spent three months winter living with Maria.

Kamil’s parents had taken great care of me, but Maria strongly opposed my plan to cycle across Eurasia.

A few weeks before my departure, Maria called me, pleading with me to give up the trip. Her voice grew more and more urgent, until, in the end, she broke down in tears.

She told me she had been so worried she couldn’t sleep.

At first, Kamil didn’t take my journey seriously. “If you can even get visas for Iran and the Central Asian countries, then go ahead,” he had said dismissively.

But when I actually managed to secure those visas, he began to panic.

Every time we talked about my trip, he would say, “This is basically a suicide mission. You really want to go to Iran and get yourself killed?”

Thinking about this, I closed my journal, set it on the nightstand, and glanced at my phone as it charged.

Actually, if I were to disappear, my mother, Maria, Kamil, and the friends who had tried to stop me would notice—because they were waiting for my call or message to make sure I was safe.

That thought lifted the darkness that had settled over me, replacing it with a gentle warmth.

I turned over, amazed at how a simple shift in perspective could change everything. Human connections are truly reciprocal—if I stayed trapped in self-pity, unwilling to open my heart and step beyond the protective wall I had built, I would never be able to let others' care and love in.

---

Closing Remarks

✨ Your Turn: Have you ever found that when you bravely let down your guard, the world outside is much warmer and kinder than you expected? I’d love to hear your experience—please share it with me!

📅 Time Frame: This story chronicles my journey across two continents between November 2013 and October 2014. Published independently in Taiwan in 2021, it is now shared as an English serialized novel through AI translation, connecting with friends worldwide to share this journey of personal growth.

It was only my second full day on the road, yet I already felt completely exhausted. Before my departure, Thomas had warned me about the dangers of encountering heavy snow in the Alps. I had reassured him that if I found myself in an unsafe situation, I would take a train to bypass the snowy regions—I simply couldn't imagine cycling through deep snow while carrying all my gear.

But now, I hadn't even reached the altitude Thomas was concerned about, and I was already struggling. At this sluggish pace, I began to worry that I wouldn't make it to Schwaz before nightfall.

The day before I set out, I had found a Couchsurfing host in Schwaz who was willing to take me in, giving me the chance to sleep indoors, in warmth. Maybe I'd even get to take a hot shower.

A hot shower!

The thought filled my mind, enveloping me in a comforting warmth, as if it could wash away the dirt and cold. At that moment, it felt like an unattainable luxury—one that urged me to keep pushing forward.

By the time I reached Achenkirch, it was already 3:30 in the afternoon. The sky had taken on a cold, grayish hue, casting long shadows over the darkening road ahead, which disappeared into the dense forest.

This was exactly the time of day when I had turned back on my first attempt. That memory clung to me like a curse, filling me with doubt and making my goal for the night feel increasingly out of reach.

Achenkirch was a remote town. I spotted an elderly man about to enter the front yard of a house, built in the traditional Bavarian countryside style. Uneasy, I stopped my bike and, in broken German, asked, “Excuse me, how far is Schwaz? Can I make it before dark?”

It probably sounded ridiculous to ask such a question while standing next to a loaded bicycle, but my rationality was fading as quickly as the sunlight.

The old man looked me and my bike over before saying, “It's about thirty kilometers from here, but the sun is setting fast. It'll be too dangerous to keep going.” Then, after a pause, he added, “You can try to ride faster to get there in time, or… you can stay here for the night and leave in the morning.”

“What? Stay here?”

I was stunned. My broken German had not only allowed me to communicate, but had also earned me an invitation to sleep indoors!

My mind raced—this meant I could escape the impending darkness and freezing night. I might even get that hot shower.

I turned to the Bavarian house, its warm lights glowing through the windows, then glanced back at the old man, assessing his demeanor. He didn't seem like a bad person, nor did he pose any obvious threat. I decided to take the risk—escaping the fear of the night was my priority.

“That would be super. Thank you so much!” I skipped the formalities and accepted his offer immediately, pushing my bike as I followed him toward the house.

The property had two large grassy fields, separated by a paved path that stretched from the house to a garage big enough for two cars. Inside, various farming tools were neatly stored.

As I parked my bike in the garage, I scanned my surroundings. There were six other bicycles, including three small ones for children. The old man already seemed trustworthy, but seeing childen around made me feel even safer.

We continued along the path to the entrance of the Bavarian house. “My wife and I live in the front half of the house,” he explained, “while my son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren live in the back.”

I followed him inside, carrying two heavy saddlebags, a backpack, and my quick-release bag. The old man insisted on carrying my tent, wanting to help with more of my gear, but I refused to let an elderly man do the heavy lifting.

The house was a wooden structure with rustic charm. The entrance opened to a hallway—on the right, a passage led to the kitchen and living room, while a wooden staircase on the left ascended to the upper floors.

“We live here,” he said, gesturing toward the second floor. Then he continued up another flight of stairs.

The third floor was an attic with two rooms—one seemingly abandoned, the other packed with furniture, blankets, and two beds.

“You can stay in this room. Choose either bed,” he offered. Then, pointing to a small bathroom at the top of the stairs, he added, “You can shower here.” With that, he headed downstairs.

I dropped my gear by the bed, overwhelmed with relief, as if flower petals were floating in the air.

A warm indoor space. A hot shower. This felt like paradise.

I scanned the room, eager to shower and dive into bed. But I decided it would be impolite to disappear right away, so I changed clothes and went downstairs to greet the family.

The old man's son came over from the other side of the house and spoke to me in German, assuming I wouldn't understand his father's Austrian dialect. I politely thanked him for their hospitality, though I honestly couldn't tell the difference between their accents. Using a mix of German and guesswork, I managed to keep the conversation going. Whether we were actually understanding each other, I wasn't entirely sure.

The old man led me to the dining table, setting out an assortment of cheese, bread, jams, and fresh vegetables.

For the past two days, I had survived on energy bars and instant noodles. The sight of fresh food was almost overwhelming.

Not wanting to appear rude, I hesitated at first, politely declining while secretly hoping they'd insist. Thankfully, the old man ignored my formalities and simply placed utensils in front of me, telling me to eat.

Just as I picked up a piece of bread, an elderly woman stormed into the room, muttering angrily under her breath. The old man quickly pulled her aside, leading her out of the dining area.

A moment later, he returned—this time with the old woman following behind him. She walked straight to the table, her voice sharp, “We can’t just…”

Before she could finish, the son intervened, guiding her away again.

The air grew heavy with tension.

I thought about the warm bed upstairs and the hot shower that awaited me. Caught between gratitude and discomfort, I stood up and said to the old man, “If this is too much trouble, I can leave. I'm really sorry.”

“Don’t mind her, she has a mental problem!” The old man tapped his head with a finger. “Broken!” Then he gestured toward the food. “Eat. Eat.”

How was I supposed to eat now?

The old woman returned, calmer this time. She sat across from me, studying me closely.

“You're leaving tomorrow?” she asked.

“Yes, first thing in the morning. But if this is a problem, I can go now,” I replied.

“Don't listen to her. Stay. Eat!” the old man insisted.

The old woman said nothing more. Instead, she got up, fetched a pickled cucumber from the fridge, and placed it on the table. She gestured for me to eat.

I looked at her, then at the old man. Slowly, I decided to finish the food on the table while the two elderly people watched me.

Even in such an awkward situation, the food tasted incredible.

It was a simple dinner, yet it felt like pure happiness.

---

Closing Remarks

✨ Your Turn: Kindness can take many forms—sometimes freely given, other times layered with complexities. Have you ever received generosity that left you unsure how to respond? Share your thoughts below—I’d love to hear!

📅 Time Frame: This story chronicles my journey across two continents between November 2013 and October 2014. Published independently in Taiwan in 2021, it is now shared as an English serialized novel through AI translation, connecting with friends worldwide to share this journey of personal growth.

📅 Next Episode: "The Weight of Loneliness"

Then came the choice of transportation: a bicycle. At that time, I didn’t even have a bike to start the journey, let alone worry about what type of bike I needed, what specifications were necessary, or how to handle basic maintenance like fixing a flat tire.

Lastly, there was the ever-present essential of any plan—funding.

During my working holiday in Germany, I revised my priorities after deciding to undertake this journey home. I focused on maximizing my monthly income and cutting every possible expense to save enough money to cover both my travel costs and my family’s financial needs back home.

By the time I was ready to leave, I had saved enough to cover six months of family expenses and €2,000 in travel—barely enough for two months on the road. What would I do after that? I had no idea. I figured I’d figure it out along the way, perhaps by submitting travel stories to magazines or finding sponsors.

I spent most of my six-month preparation period writing sponsorship proposals to companies. Although I was fortunate to secure a bike and some gear, my financial situation remained dire.

My German friend Thomas learned about my plan through my sister and sent me an email:

“Min, your sister shared your plan with me. I couldn’t understand the details because it’s in Chinese, but I’m worried about you. Here’s why:

First, your journey is approximately 13,600 kilometers, and you plan to complete it in eight months—240 days. That means cycling an average of 60 kilometers per day. However, based on your budget, you’ll need to spend less than €30 per day, including visas and travel expenses. While the distance seems manageable, your budget is far too tight. You might camp to save money, but food alone will eat through your budget.

Second, and this is my biggest concern, your route is dangerous. You’ll be exposing yourself to risks in countries we know little about. Have you done enough research, especially regarding visas?”

True to typical German thoroughness, Thomas had meticulously analyzed my route. I replied seriously, attaching all the information I had collected. As for the tight budget, I could only assure him that I was trying my best to save money and find sponsorships.

Within two hours, I received another email from Thomas. He offered to sponsor a pair of shoes from his company and some additional funds. However, he also included a long warning about safety, noting that in many places, men couldn’t fathom a woman cycling the world—especially in regions where women didn’t even have the right to ride bikes.

Standing by Sylvenstein Lake, I glanced at the shoes on my feet and the bike leaning against the railing. These were the tangible results of over half a year of effort, the tools that enabled my departure and would continue to support me on the road ahead.

The water refused to boil no matter how long I waited. Starving and impatient, I tossed the noodles into the pot anyway. After finishing my meal, I sat by the lake, savoring the view and the warmth the soup brought to my body, a defense against the freezing weather. But as the food’s warmth faded, the cold crept back in, leaving me shivering.

I quickly packed up my gear, mounted my bike, and pressed forward.

After a slow, steady climb, I reached a T-junction. A blue sign marked with a ring of stars and the letter “A” in the center stood by the roadside. I had arrived at the border between Germany and Austria.

Stopping to look at the sign, I felt like I had just cleared a level in a video game. It was a marker of success, proof that I had overcome another challenge.

Emotion surged unexpectedly. I couldn’t believe I had come this far. With the strength of my own two legs, I was leaving Germany and heading into Austria!

Closing Remarks:

✨ Your Turn: Every journey is built on the kindness of others and the strength we find within ourselves. Have you ever been deeply moved by someone's unexpected support?

📅 Time Frame: This story chronicles my journey across two continents between November 2013 and October 2014. Published independently in Taiwan in 2021, it is now shared as an English serialized novel through AI translation, connecting with friends worldwide to share this journey of personal growth.

📅 Next Episode: "A Warm Dinner – Austria, DAY 4."

“Are you okay? Where are you?” she replied with concern.

“I’m still in Munich. I’m so scared—I don't think I can do this,” I admitted.

I had no idea what to do next. Every choice seemed to lead to new challenges and endless difficulties.

“I don’t really know how to help you right now,” Kelly said after a pause, “but I recently saw this online: ‘People who accept failure make excuses, but those who succeed find ways to try again.’ I think you should stop overthinking. Pack up your laptop and set off again. The worst-case scenario is that you’ll end up right back where you started today. It won’t be any worse than that.”

I stared blankly at her message, then glanced at the gear scattered around me. Her advice didn't seem too hard to follow. Staying here wasn't going to solve anything. If I ended up crying while cycling back, so be it.

Following her instructions, I packed up my laptop, organized my gear, and hopped back on my bike. I pedaled south along the cycling path without looking back.

By nightfall, I reached the small town of Bad Tölz, south of Munich, without turning back.

The roadsides in Bad Tölz were pitch-black, with only scattered streetlights hinting at the direction of the road. I turned on all my lights, but they barely pierced the darkness. Not knowing where to camp, I ventured into a farm and asked if I could pitch my tent on the open ground by the barn.

A woman and her young son were eating dinner, but her wary eyes told me her answer before she spoke: no.

I moved on and tried asking a bald man with a beer belly. He also refused, not allowing me to camp on the ground behind the building. With little hope left, I knocked on the door of a small house and asked to pitch my tent in the tiny front yard.

A couple answered, followed by three curious children peeking out from behind them. The mother exchanged a few words with her husband in the local dialect, then nodded and said I could sleep on the wooden planks in the yard.

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” I exclaimed in German, overwhelmed with gratitude. I wheeled my bike into the yard and leaned it against the fence, relieved to have found a place for the night.

Setting up my two-second tent, I created a small space to call my own. I had nicknamed this tent “The Big Frisbee.” When a friend promised to lend me a tent during my preparation phase, I hadn’t worried about it. But a week before departure, I found out the tent wasn’t available.

To save money, I quickly searched online and found a lightweight tent on eBay for just 50 euros. It was under one kilogram and promised to set up in two seconds. Without hesitation, I bought it.

When it arrived, however, I realized I had overlooked one crucial detail: the folded tent was the size of a bicycle wheel. It looked like a massive frisbee and didn't fit anywhere on the bike.

After testing several positions, I ended up strapping it to the side of the saddlebags. It looked awkward and ridiculous, like a giant plate wobbling on my bike. Yet, with no better option, I decided function mattered more than appearance.

While cycling, the tent would sometimes flap like a bird’s wings or slide behind the rear wheel, screeching loudly and forcing me to stop and adjust it. It was clunky and destroyed any sense of elegance I had imagined for my journey. But at that moment, as I set it up in just two seconds, I decided the Big Frisbee wasn't so bad. After all, it was my first night camping.

After unloading my gear, including two saddlebags and a quick-release bag from the bike rack, I placed everything inside the tent. The quick-release bag was just the right size for my sleeping bag and inflatable mat. That trio—bag, sleeping bag, and mat—had been my makeshift bed during my time in Munich when I rented an unfurnished room to save money. Now, they were repurposed for life on the road.

Satisfied, I crawled into the tent, inflated the sleeping mat, and spread out my sleeping bag. I had bought the mat on sale at an outdoor gear store in Munich. Who knew sleeping mats had seasonal discounts?

Lying inside, I reflected on how life had already prepared me for this journey. In my unfurnished room, I'd stacked banana boxes from the supermarket to serve as shelves and used another box as a table. In hindsight, I'd already been living like a traveler.

One saddlebag contained spare bike parts, including six inner tubes, tools, and patch kits, topped with clothes that took up more than half the space. The other saddlebag held a small stove I had tested once before departure, a pot just big enough for instant noodles, a book for entertainment, four colorful scented pens for children I'd meet in Central Asia, and toiletries. I had even packed a hairdryer, a hot water bottle, and makeup. I had plenty of reasons to justify their inclusion, though now they felt like luxuries.

I also brought a large black blanket, which I had crammed into the Big Frisbee before leaving. For dinner, I ate an energy bar from the quick-release bag, knowing it wasn't wise to cook instant noodles on someone else's front yard.

As I wrapped myself in the blanket and sleeping bag, I pulled out a notebook to jot down the events of the past two days. My body was exhausted, and the freezing air seeped into the tent. Even with my layers, including a discounted hat with chin straps, I couldn't stop shivering.

“Let's head south quickly. It must be warmer there,” I muttered to myself, teeth chattering.

The night was long and cold, but somehow, I endured it. At dawn, I heard the kids saying goodbye to their dad as he left for work, followed by the mother urging them off to school. I stayed in my sleeping bag, waiting for the house to quiet down before stepping out to pack.

When the mother returned from walking her kids to school, I had just finished packing.

“Thank you for letting me stay here,” I said in my clumsy German, trying to express my gratitude.

“You're welcome. Did you sleep well? We were so worried—it’s so cold outside,” she replied, her tone softening.

“Thank you! I'm fine, just a bit cold. I'm so grateful for your kindness,” I said, though in truth, I hadn't slept much.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” she asked.

“If possible, I’d love some water—hot water, if you have it,” I said. My bottle was almost empty, and the cold was biting.

“Of course. Have you had breakfast? Would you like to come in for some hot tea?”

“Yes, please!” I answered quickly, abandoning all pretense of modesty.

I spent half an hour inside their warm house, savoring a cup of hot tea. The warmth felt like heaven. Though I wanted to stay forever, I knew better than to overstay my welcome. After explaining my journey, I thanked the mother and stepped back into the cold.

Standing on the road, I looked toward my next destination. For the first time, I felt genuinely excited. The road home was long, but as long as I packed my gear, mounted my bike, and pedaled forward each day, I'd keep moving toward my goal.

I took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill my lungs. Although nothing had changed—my challenges remaind—I felt a newfound confidence. Yesterday, I had conquered a fear, and now I was ready for what lay ahead.

I had taken the first step, brimming with renewed energy.

“Let’s head toward the Alps!” I said to myself, smiling.

--

Closing Remarks:

✨ Your Turn: Packing for life’s biggest journeys isn’t just about gear—it’s about priorities. What essentials would you bring to take that first step? Share your thoughts in the comments!

Half the luggage

Departure commemorative photo

Bike path

First camp

📅 Time Frame: This story chronicles my journey across two continents between November 2013 and October 2014. Published independently in Taiwan in 2021, it is now shared as an English serialized novel through AI translation, connecting with friends worldwide to share this journey of personal growth.

“Ah, I installed the hooks backward!” I shouted as I discovered the issue. It felt good to blame the hooks for everything. After fixing the problem, I climbed into the same bed I had said goodbye to earlier, pulled the covers over my head, and lay awake in the dark.

I had come to Germany on a working holiday, hoping to experience a broader life. Six months in, I began planning my way back to Taiwan. Flying felt too conventional, so I considered taking trains, hitchhiking, or even walking. Cycling only became an option much later.

When I first shared the idea with friends, I used tentative words like “maybe” and “possibly.” Over time, those words turned into “I plan” and “I will.” Eventually, I declared, “I'm going to cycle from Germany, across the Silk Road, to Beijing, and then return home to Taiwan.”

Now, after taking the first step, I had already turned back. Lying in the dark, I was filled with frustration and helplessness. I wanted to lash out but didn't know who to blame.

Throughout my life, I had often felt like I had no choice—forced to follow a path dictated by circumstances. Now, wasn't I being forced by my lack of money to rush into this journey unprepared? This wasn't a choice either, I thought.

Staring at the ceiling, I recall my mother's words when I was 15, just after I graduated from middle school: “From now on, you'll attend night school like your two sisters. You'll work during the day and study at night. That's the only way to support yourself.”

Growing up in a financially struggling household, my siblings and I had to contribute to the family after middle school. I gave up my love for art and enrolled in a random technical course at night school while hunting for daytime jobs. Being under 16, I faced legal restrictions that made it difficult to find employers willing to hire me.

A thought had lodged in my heart during those years: “This is the hand I've been dealt. I must accept it without complaint. I'll work hard, earn lots of money, live in a big house, drive a nice car, and give my mom a better life.”

After seven years of night school, I graduated with enough work experience to land a job I liked. I worked hard to improve life for myself and my family. But three years in, long hours and stress took a toll on my health, forcing me to change careers.

My second older sister introduced me to the idea of a working holiday in Australia. With no better options, I flew there to broaden my horizons despite not knowing English. The first six months were tough, but I adapted. The real challenge was internal—learning a different set of values that deeply shook my worldview.

Money, which had once been my sole pursuit, no longer seemed to define life's purpose. But without that goal, what was left? I began searching for new meaning and direction.

Did I find the answer by lying here in my friend's home in Munich? I didn't know. Maybe there wasn't an answer. Perhaps the question itself was flawed, like this cycling plan—a huge mistake from the start. How could a wrong question ever lead to the right result?

I didn't want to chase money anymore, yet it was the lack of money that kept chasing me. I wanted to live a life that felt meaningful and right, but no matter how hard I tried, I always seemed to fall short of that goal.

---

Closing Remarks:

✨ Your Turn: Sometimes, when things fall apart, it's the beginning of something better. Have you ever rebuilt after a failure?

📅 Time Frame: This story chronicles my journey across two continents between November 2013 and October 2014. Published independently in Taiwan in 2021, it is now shared as an English serialized novel through AI translation, connecting with friends worldwide to share this journey of personal growth.

📅 Next Episode: "Three Things "

Tamara, from Spain, was my closest colleague in the kitchen. We had an excellent working relationship, and she often said that our team, including the Mexican head chef, was unbeatable.

I had recently moved out of a small rental in the suburbs and stayed temporarily at a friend's place. Once everything was in place, I'd leave Munich, Germany, and embark on my journey home.

Some might call it a crazy plan: cycling from Germany, across Europe and Asia, all the way to Beijing before flying back to Taiwan. I called it “The 14,000-kilometer Back Home.”

To me, the plan itself wasn't crazy. What was crazy was my lack of funds to execute it. I'd been working tirelessly to save money, but as of now, I only had enough to sustain two months of travel. What about after that? I had no idea.

After exchanging a deep hug with Tamara and saying goodbye to the team, I headed home, my mind racing with thoughts of the next steps—washing clothes, organizing luggage, and sending any excess belongings back to Taiwan. But the exhaustion of the day hit me as soon as I walked in, and after barely managing to clean myself up, I collapsed into bed.

The next morning, I spent hours organizing my gear. By noon, I was still debating over a large shawl that had traveled with me to Australia and then to Germany. I couldn't imagine this cycling trip without it.

“It's too big,” I told myself.

“But it's so useful!” I argued back. I set the shawl aside for later and continued to sort my items. Soon, a pile of “deal with later” things grew on the floor.

No matter how many times I meticulously packed my saddlebags, like playing a game of Tetris, I could only fit half of what I wanted to bring. In the end, I stuffed in the absolute essentials, strapped the rest onto the bike haphazardly, and got ready to go.

I wrote an email to friends and family, telling them about my departure, took a commemorative photo, and set off. By the time I glanced at my phone, it was almost 3 PM. How had I wasted so much time?

I climbed onto the bike, gripping the handlebars tightly as the overloaded bike wobbled beneath me. Sweat beaded on my forehead. From this moment onward, the future was a complete unknown.

I took a turn onto the road I used for work every day and bid farewell to the familiar scenery. Yesterday, I was just a cheerful part-timer. Today, I had transformed into a long-distance cyclist on an epic journey across continents.

Where would I sleep tonight? What would my next meal be? What challenges would I face? What if I encountered danger or lost my gear? What would I do when my money ran out? I had no answers, and I wasn't sure I was prepared to find them.

As the reality of my route replaced the lines on my computer map, I felt like I was stepping from a game into a battlefield. It was clear: I wasn't ready—not in skills, knowledge, or even mindset.

The weight of my luggage caused my rear saddlebag to fall off with a loud clatter. A startled passerby stared at me as I struggled to keep the bike steady and retrieve my belongings.

“Are you okay? Do you need help?” she asked kindly, handing me the bag.

“Thank you! I'm so sorry,” I replied, embarrassed.

I spent the next stretch of road repeatedly stopping to pick up fallen gear and reattaching it. Each stop increased my frustration and anxiety as the day grew darker. At one point, I found myself facing two barking dogs, their fierce growls echoing in the twilight. Overwhelmed, I burst into tears.

“Hey! I can't do this. I'm not capable of doing this! Everyone was right—this plan is too crazy. I don't know what I'm doing, and I'm terrified!” I shouted through my tears as I dialed the number of a friend who had offered me a place to stay in Munich.

“Min, calm down. Where are you?” he asked, alarmed.

“I don't know! I'm lost. Dogs are barking at me. I'm still in Munich, but I don't know where exactly!” I sobbed into the phone.

“Okay, okay. I understand. Come back here for now. We can talk about it when you get here,” he said gently.

Holding the phone in one hand, I stared into the encroaching darkness. Returning meant admitting defeat. I didn't want to give up so soon. But the confidence I had held just hours ago had evaporated. I looked down at the barking dogs, unable to find the words to continue.

“Fine,” I finally whispered into the phone.

And just like that, I failed—completely. My journey ended less than two hours after it began.

---

Closing Remarks: ✨ Your Turn: Starting a journey is often the hardest step. Have you ever experienced setbacks right at the beginning of something important? Share your story below!

📅 Time Frame: This story chronicles my journey across two continents between November 2013 and October 2014. Published independently in Taiwan in 2021, it is now shared as an English serialized novel through AI translation, connecting with friends worldwide to share this journey of personal growth.