I’m Not Sure What I’m Doing Here

Published on May 23, 2024 for Long Reads

At some point, I realize, shivering, that I am in exile. Self-imposed exile. I know the weather report, but I don’t believe it until I’m in it. Trans-Canada Highway rain is miserable and stinging. Opaque. Treacherous. But merely rain, I understand, stopped for a moment on the mainland side of Confederation Bridge, with Prince Edward Island nothing but a dark wink on the horizon. I am a thousand miles from home, on day two of a weeklong solo motorcycle trip. The bridge pilings are dominoes against a horizon made black by storm, a mirror of the storm in my head, the one I brought with me. I don’t know, yet, that the storms will get worse. Or that they will get better. I only know to push forward, to keep moving.

“Well, this isn’t gonna go as planned,” I say inside my helmet. I stomp into gear, lean on the tank, and roll the throttle, veering headlong onto the eight-mile bridge crossing—just as the sky unzips in a thunderclap.

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