When I was a grad student, I recieved amazing advice I received was to book a vacation for after my thesis defense. If I passed, I could celebrate on vacation. And if I didn’t, I still was going on a vacation. As a student of industrial design, I took it a step further and booked a vacation at a surf camp in Costa Rica. Money spent, I trained in my art school’s flimsy gym, a lifesaver for my mental and emotional health. There is nothing like a good sweat clear the brain for new creative ideas and lessen life’s problems. The commitment to show up strong for surfing was what helped me thrive during the most challenging year of school.

Almost a decade later, without realizing it, I set up the same lifesaving construct. In a fit of wanderlust, last September I committed to photograph African Spokes; a pan African cycling expedition. I was ignoring my lifelong fear of cycling, and romanced by the thought of traveling the continent at a human pace and level.

But the reality of what I had signed up for hit when my client asked for photographs of the group cycling with the elephants. This committed me to the Botswana Leg of the expedition, the toughest of the 68 day, 7 country expedition. On this section each days averaged 90km to 214km. Meanwhile, I needed to get a bicycle and face my deep fear of cycling, stemming from being hit by a car as a teenager. I spent the following months thrilled by the huge challenge I had taken on and then appalled by the certain failure ahead of me. I felt alive with excitement and terror.

But the months of focus on my two weeks on the expedition was an extraordinary gift. Three years before, my mother had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. My role in the world had shifted overnight from adventurous, independent, creative to co-caretaker, and grieving daughter. While preparing for African Spokes, I committed myself to a professional task, a selfish and healing one which forced me to hold space for myself. I could not abandon my commitments to my future self. I had to train, to plan, to rest my body and become well in my mind for the task ahead over the many months. My daily focus moved away from my family and loss, and towards healthier things which my actions could improve, mostly within myself. And the blossoming gifts only grew as the trip came closer.

Not since competing as a Divisions 1 athlete in college had I centered my life so intensely around a physical event. My workouts, diet, sleep, even my reading, all prepped me for what was a massive leap, physically and professionally. And as an adult it was powerful to see how much more disciplined and mentally tough I had become. I prepared and in doing so expanded as a human in a way I had missed in recent years as a caretaker. Managing my complex emotions long term, pacing myself in training, and pushing fears out of my mind became my daily task.

And when all else fails, there is nothing more galvanizing than a little fear. When New England winter's darkness dulled my motivation, I imagined being dropped in Zambia, or passing the mega fauna of the African bush. How angry my future self would be for not preparing. The vision of a charging elephant or rhino always got me to the gym. Excuses would not get me through the arid deserts of Africa, only preparing my body with hard work over many months would. (It seems I manifested this training motivation, when my chain fell off a few days into the trip, as we climbed a hill past a displeased bull elephant. It was the only time it ever fell off.)

I utilized a network of trainers, cyclist friends, physical therapists and even African cycling experts to teach me and train me. I crowd sourced what I couldn’t learn first hand and sought out those expert in a sport which was new to me. Friends helped me frame my goals and keep things in perspective. They also reminded me that while slacking or giving in to fear were not options, compassion was imperative.

And the day finally came when I found myself unboxing my now beloved Specialized Diverge beside the Zambezi River as vervet monkeys made off with my sunscreen. I felt nervous excitement, but also a calm knowledge that I had done all I could. I would not be the best cyclist or the fastest, but I would get the job done. And I would be kind to myself because I had held space for this project and now it was time to enjoy it, whatever that meant. It was surreal to finally see the places I had stared at on my living room map for months.

I rode out of camp the first morning in the cool of the African dawn, a grin on my face, Mosi Ao Tunya’s smoke in the air (Victoria Falls) at our backs. We traveled the still empty streets of Livingstone, the quiet start of the 1000 mile leg of the journey. Although for many of the cyclists this was leg 4. Our goal that day was the ferry at the border crossing between Zambia and Botswana near the Chobe.

Nothing else existed outside of the journey. Days were spent looking for wildlife, cycling past families of elephants-trunk lifted like periscopes to smell us as we rode by. Nights falling asleep, worn but satisfied in a way I have never felt, camped under the brilliant southern starry skies. Day 1 was the first time I rode 60 miles, Day 2 the first time I rode 94 miles. And I rode my first Century across the Makgadikgadi Salt Pans of Botswana. The afternoon heat turned distant cyclists to floating mirages hovering above the road.

We gave way to warthogs, impala, wild horses, and other wildlife we couldn't always name, along the way. Birds in particular were a mystery with beautiful rainbows of kingfishers and dark, eerie vultures.

Conversations with new best friends passed painful hours under the blazing afternoon sun. This was when saddle blisters became unbearable, so we told stories to distract each other. Counted wildlife seen, anything to distract from the torn flesh. Sunsets in the Kalahari Desert were an intense wash of color and darkness set in almost instantly as if a switch had been turned off. One night when we wild camped under a Baobab a local group of singers driving though came and sang to the spirit of the ancient tree. And we stood with them in the harsh beautiful Botswanan bush, absorbing the magic of it all. And each morning we began it all again, sometimes limping, sometimes sick, generally filthy, but more often than not smiling.

There are so many moments I never would have experienced if I hadn’t had the audacity to take on something well beyond my comfort zone. An adventure with the potential for huge failure has so many gifts, beyond the all to short trip itself. Your audacious adventure will be different than mine. Go find yours, and let me know what it is. I’m looking for my next one! And the one after that. I left the crew in Windhoek with great sadness, but I know there are many more adventures to come.