Sounding Retreat: Why Seasoned Travelers Aren’t Afraid To Call It Quits
It was eerily similar to swimming.
Water gushed through my helmet, down my hood, and into my face. My gloves and shorts were saturated, weighted sponges clutching my skin. Peeking out from worn sandals, my toes lapped up street water with each pedal stroke.
Faces plastered against the windows of passing cars to gawk at the cyclist, his bike laden with panniers, pushing through the downpour into downtown Moncton, New Brunswick.