Some stories exist not to be understood.
They are like distant snow mountains — silent, still, but always there.
On the last night before departure, I sat by a window in Toronto, watching the city lights come on one by one. The sky was not fully dark, but I knew frost had already begun forming toward the mountains.
I decided to leave wearing the “Mountain Divine” badge.
It shows a cyclist’s silhouette, alone beneath a huge red moon, entering the forested mountains.
When people see this badge they only say “cool” or “so lonely.”
But for me it is not only a symbol of a journey — it is a faith for living.
The first time I was called “Mountain Divine” was on the twenty-ninth night of Arctic cycling:
That day I set out at seven in the morning and rode a full one hundred eighty kilometers through empty wilderness. All day I pushed across waterless hills in thirty-degree heat; after dark the temperature plunged and hail began. At one in the morning, with my last breath, I forced my way into the only gas station lit in that night — five minutes before my headlight died.
I stood under the light, shaking all over, breathing like a wild horse. No one applauded. No one was waiting for me.
But in that moment I knew: I was still alive. I had finished.
I did not pray. I did not cry.
I only stood there and let the cold pass through my body.
A red notification popped up on Moments.
I received a comment:
“You are Mountain Divine himself.”
In city days, that scene often returned in my dreams. I was riding under a blood moon among the mountains; by the roadside, a little deer that shone. The deer watched me pass through that forest in silence — it saw me.
I searched a long time for that little deer. Like a light-chaser I sang for it; but whenever I drew near, it turned and vanished into the mountains.
Maybe it was a deer I only imagined.
Maybe it was the wind.
Maybe that day I was too tired and hallucinated.
I lay by the roadside, surrounded by wild daisies covering the hills.
And the daisies saw me too.
Now I have decided to leave again.
I will take the road at the end of the world — cross the Bolivian altiplano, descend along the Highway of Death. Watch Andes snow peaks flash through cloud and mist; watch canyon wind lift the brim of my hat. I will measure the land south of the equator with my feet, and let the thin highland air tell me: I am still free.
I do not want to wait until my body weakens and regret never leaving; I do not want to wait for a settled life before remembering old ambition; and least of all do I want scripts that are not mine to quietly finish writing my story.
I will make no wishes, and no promises.
Daisies bloom at the end of the road.
And the little deer will not follow.
No destination, and no explanation.
If along the way you see this badge stuck to a road sign — that is the trace that I was there.