Christina Lake feels like a warm embrace and a welcomed reprieve from the road. I hadn’t realized how long I’d been gone until I saw the familiar faces of my tribe members and had a chance to reconnect with shared stories.

Thankfully, it’s still summer here. I’ve been fleeing winter since Dawson, so when I dropped into the Okanagan Valley on Wednesday from the dense and cool Fraser Plateau, I almost melted. Riding through Kamloops, then Vernon, then Kelowna felt like riding through a giant blow dryer on ‘high.’ I was ecstatic to be peeling off one or two of the six layers I was wearing on this, the first full day of riding since leaving almost two months ago without a drop of rain from morning to starlight. Highway 97 from Vernon to Kelowna is curvy, quiet, and warm, and Henk and I relaxed into an effortless flow over the smooth pavement.

Kelowna is abuzz with a booming middle class and development well into the surrounding sage and juniper-brushed hills. I filled up with gas and couldn’t get out fast enough. Eight lanes of bumper-to-bumper shiny SUV’s seemed insane after the tranquility and isolation of the Yukon and the Alaska Highway.

Rick and Jim were just heading to bed by the time I rolled in. I made them stay up for a beer and we chatted until Jim could no longer keep his eyes open.

I recognize the potential trap of seeing old friends in the midst of trying to make big changes in life. Friends and family tend to want to hold us in our comfortable place so as not to make them too uncomfortable. “What will it take to get you back to Toronto?” Jim asked. I could go back today and be happy, I told them. Reminiscing can do that to you. You tend to remember the good times; and we did. We howled as Jim melodramatically reenacted hilarious scenes we’d been in together. “Touring with Ron” was always a huge source of entertainment for all of us, as Ron would lead the three of us on occasional Sunday mini-holiday explorations of the city he’d grown up in. Thanks to Ron, we all fell deeply in love with Toronto; and thanks to me, that fun is over. We all miss those “cookie Sundays” as we called them. (There was often a mild pot cookie consumed at brunch.)

It took Rick and Jim a long time to warm up to Ron. But once they realized his brilliance, they learned to respect him. Now, they are the only two humans, apart from Ron’s brothers, who can get away with calling him “Ronny.” Jim said last night that he was surprised to have a beer with Ron shortly after I left and to hear him speak so highly of me and with such understanding. I asked him why he was so surprised. Ron always—always—takes the high road.

Four years with someone does not wash off in two months and 12,000 kilometres. As ready as I feel to go “home” sometimes—like when I’m riding through a Rocky Mountain hailstorm—I know I can’t. “Home” (at least the one in Toronto) doesn’t exist anymore. I intentionally left “home” for something more uncomfortable—and two months and 12,000 kilometres is enough time to set a steady momentum. I’m uncomfortable as hell right now but I’m here by pure and uninfluenced conscious choice.