16/09/25
After leaving a long relationship thousands of miles from home, I sought the company of the only friend I had on the continent — a fellow motorcycle traveler my ex and I had shared the road with through Chilean and Argentine Patagonia, back when we were traveling by campervan.
A few weeks later, I bought my bike and set off to travel Latin America on my own. Since my friend was still in the area, we decided to ride together for a stretch (I tell the story of those first days, from Uruguay through Brazil into Paraguay right here).
The plan was to meet in Ciudad del Este (Paraguay) and travel together to FlorianĂłpolis (Brazil). But things took an unexpected turn when I had an accident on my way out of the small town of Concordia.
The sound of the crash echoes in my head. The images of those few seconds where everything changed play in front of my eyes like a film stuck on loop.
That fucking rock right in my path. The feeling of floating in the air. Those few seconds where I don't know if there will be an after. The awful metallic screech of a bike loaded to the brim, thrown to the ground. Landing and feeling nothing.
Today marks 65 days since I broke my bike and ended up in the ER. I'm still in pain, but I'm better, and the surgeon says I can ride. I put on all my gear, and now I have no choice but to grab the bull by the horns.
No way I'm giving up. Besides, it's not even an option anymore. All the decisions have already been made. The money's already spent. The bike is ready, and she and I only have two weeks left to get out of Brazil.
I'm not going to lie to you, I'm terrified. But there's no way fear is winning this battle. Because when you've decided to keep going after an accident, waiting two months to get better in a country where you didn't even speak the language, when you spend your time longing for the road, staring at the 10 sad photos you've taken in your career as a biker… And the bike is finally fixed… Even if you yourself are nowhere near ready to face your beloved machine and her 200 kilos of metal, you brace yourself and do it anyway.
The night before, I already tried to wrestle down this panic that paralyzes my limbs. That melts me from the inside. Just so you know, that's not exactly practical when you've got an adventure bike between your legs. Did I mention her weight already?
What had become so familiar two months ago is just a vague memory the moment I swing my leg over the XT. The motions are still there, but I'm clumsy. I feel tiny. So fragile. I turn the key, and since she's hesitant I give her a little (too much) gas: it works, the engine roars. What a beauty. I shift into first and ease off the clutch slowly. She takes off immediately. Too fast already. I'm so nervous that I stall right as I reach the top of the ramp. I feel panic flooding every inch of my being, but I take a breath and pull onto the road anyway.
The look on Jo's face when he sees me on the ground. Leaning against my wrecked bike, in the dip of the seat. His voice when he asks if I'm okay. Tense but solid, completely calm. In control. As always. The guilt twisting my gut. All my energy channeled into one single thing: staying conscious. The pain hits, and I start hallucinating for the first time in my life. The grass on the other side of the road warps and ripples like a Van Gogh in shades of green and yellow. Everything blurs but I fight to hold on. Jo gets up and starts talking to someone, I need him back, I call him and it feels like throwing him a rope. I hope he'll catch it because I'm going under.
I've only moved about a hundred meters when I have to pull over slowly onto the shoulder. I need to get my shit together. So I talk to myself. You're going to make it. You just need to relax. It'll come back if you take it slow. You know how to do this. I take a breath and let out a long exhale to shake off the awful pins and needles paralyzing my limbs. I adjust my mirrors and get back on the road. I'm in traffic, so I let the idle do the work. The engine eases the bike forward gently while I focus on balance. It's working: the panic starts to fade, and little by little, meter by meter, I feel like I can do this. A few streets, a few minutes, and a stroke of luck later (I didn't have to stop at that awful red light at the top of a hill), I'm relieved: I made it out of the city.
I'm on a mission, and I turn onto the road we took that day, back in July.
My mood shifts immediately. I feel the weight of this moment. Of what I'm doing. Where I'm headed. The curves come quickly. For two months I've been cracking up everyone in Concordia — the city that adopted me during my recovery — by introducing myself in broken Portuguese as "the pilot." I've explained the accident a thousand times, always with the same punchline: you've got to brake before the curve. So today, I brake. Ridiculously. There's no one behind me, I can afford to take my time. To not rush myself. I'm fully aware that I'm summoning every bit of courage I have, and apparently, I've finally learned to be gentle with myself.
One curve. Then two. Then three. Everything's fine. My body remembers. The bike follows my gaze and matches every movement. It's still a little mechanical, but it's coming back. The tension starts to dissolve. I feel a quiet, deep joy, overwhelming me with its softness.
Around me, the landscape is exactly like in my memories. The road winds through the bottom of a valley, hemmed in by hills thick with lush vegetation. Low clouds cover the peaks. It's grey, and that's exactly why it's beautiful. Spring arrived during my recovery. The air is cool and full with the gorgeous scent of trees in bloom. My visor is wide open — I don't want to miss a drop of it. The joy wipes out everything that doesn't belong to this moment, I become one with the bike, and my heart explodes.
God, I'm happy.
The more I ride, the more I expect to see that damn intersection. It can't be much farther. I left the fear behind, but I've still got a score to settle today. I brace myself. When I finally recognize the road, I know the next curve is the one that almost was my last. I slow down even more and take the turn at 40 km/h.
And suddenly, I'm there.
I've thought about this place every day since the accident. Replayed every second. I see the post I dodged. The hill rising behind it. The median I went straight into when I lost control.
I pull over to the side of the road, and my thoughts stop. Silence floods the whole place. All I hear is the crunch of gravel under my tires and the engine running. I turn the key to shut it up and let myself sink into the weight of this moment.
I feel the dampness of my sleeve, its black color shily hiding the fact that it's soaked in blood. My blood. Jo is kneeling next to me. I focus on his face while he carefully rolls up my sleeve. He winces. It's bad, he says. And if he's saying that, it means I definitely should not look. I need to stay brave.
I get off the seat, and cross the road toward the median. The grass has grown back, and you can't see the marks anymore. Good. But a few meters away, I see pieces of plexiglass scattered on the ground. My windshield. There's still a big chunk left in the grass.
I pick it up in my hand and my mind drifts back again.
The fire truck brakes slowly in front of me. Several cars have stopped to help. The bike is lying on the ground like a wounded animal. I'm scared to leave her there, I don't want to lose her and my heart is breaking. I feel the hands holding my neck as they take off my helmet, the brace they put around my neck. I hear the sound of the stretcher. The ambulance door. I feel the pain that makes me cry with every movement. The paramedic noticing and holding me steady so it hurts less. I see myself lying there, completely helpless. I think my trip is over. That I ruined everything, lost everything. That Jo is going to leave without me, and I'll be stuck in the middle of nowhere in Brazil, with no bike, completely alone. The worst part: I don't know yet that the hospital is going to take advantage of the situation and I'll end up without a penny to my name.
I imagined hundreds of times what I'd feel coming back to the site of the accident. Heavy. Solemn. Moved. Proud. Victorious. And that's exactly it. But more than anything, I feel alive.
I see that Emilie on the ground again, heartbroken, lost. So tired of fighting. I know she didn't end up there by chance, that this fall isn't just a motorcycle accident, it's the culmination of a much longer process. For years I'd been wearing myself down, pushing myself. And that day, my body gave out. At the worst possible moment. On the handlebars of a motorcycle.
Today, Jonathan wants us to go far. He wants to reach Urubici, which would be my biggest day yet since getting the bike. I feel awful. I haven't slept, I've got my period, and I just don't feel right. But I'm knocking out the curves at a good pace. What happened the night before is eating at me, looping over and over in my head. Late in the day, my bike refused to start, then I made a mistake, he got angry and threatened to leave me stranded there. I can't get it out of my head as I follow him in the curves. Suddenly, as I exit one curve and the next one comes into view, my blood runs cold. It's tighter than I thought. I'm coming in too fast. Something in me lets go and freezes at the same time. I can't react and I'm going straight ahead. I am going to crash.
Today I understand the extreme danger of riding that day. The accumulated exhaustion, the insomnia, the shock of watching an important friendship turn toxic, the unbearable tension of a separation I'd been dreading... I want to travel back in time to stop myself that morning, and scream: Let him go!
I think a good 5 minutes go by as I'm lost in my thoughts before the sound of a passing car brings me back to the present. There's something else I've been dreaming of doing for weeks.
When I decided I wanted to fix the bike, the first thing I did was to tell Felix (my friend and the bike's previous owner): I don't know where I'm going to find the money, but I'm fixing her. I'm going to print the stickers we made, and the first place I'm going when I get the bike back is that goddamn intersection, to stick one there.
I smile thinking about it as I head toward the bike, the stickers are in a bag on the tank. I grab one, walk back to the light pole and stick it there. I'm done and ready to go. I get back to the bike and climb onto the saddle. Just as I'm about to start the engine, a car pulls up next to me to ask if everything's okay. The same question as the day of the accident. The same spot. Except today I'm healed, and I get to say yes. Under my helmet, I'm grinning ear to ear.
I turn the key, look at the intersection one last time, and ride on, heading to the viewpoint I was on my way to 65 days ago.
I'm not scared anymore.
And tomorrow, I'll be back on the road.