The Trip Becomes Real

The weekend leading up to the trip felt like a strange mix of stress and calm.

There was still a lot to do, or at least it felt that way, but there wasn’t the frantic last-minute rushing around I had expected. No emergency errands. No forgotten race items. No mad dash to pick up something I suddenly realized I needed. I had dropped the dogs off at the kennel a day early, and that made a bigger difference than I expected. It gave us a little more breathing room. One less thing to manage. One less responsibility pulling at my attention before we left.

But packing brought its own kind of weight.

I laid everything out that I needed for race day. All the gear. All the small details I had been thinking about for months. The things I had checked, rechecked, packed, unpacked, and packed again in my mind long before they ever made it into a bag.

Then I looked at my race kit.

And the wave of grief came washing over me.

It hit me in a way I probably should have expected, but still wasn’t fully prepared for. This wasn’t just clothing laid out for a race. It wasn’t just another piece of gear. It was the reason I signed up. It was the promise I made. It was Alex’s name, his memory, and everything I have been carrying through months of training.

For a moment, the trip stopped being about logistics.

It became real.

I was up early again the morning of our flight, partly because I was trying to help my body adjust to the time difference, and partly because my mind was already moving. It still felt like there was so much to do to get ready. Even though most of the work was done, my nerves got to me, and I started to feel sick.

I spent the morning finishing up my packing. It felt like I had been packing for hours, but by around 8:30 or 9:00, I was done. After that, there was nothing left to do but wait for the driver to come pick us up for the airport.

That waiting felt strange.

For months, Mallorca had been something out in front of me. A date on the calendar. A race plan. A training block. A reason to get up and do the work, even on the days when I didn’t feel like doing anything at all.

Then suddenly, we were sitting in the car on the way to the airport.

I remember looking out the window and thinking, this is real.

We are really doing this.

I still remember the night I mentioned this event to Kat. I remember signing up for it. At the time, it felt like something far away, something almost abstract. Something I would have months to prepare for. Something that belonged to some future version of me.

Now that future version of me was sitting in the car, bags packed, bike loaded, heading to the airport.

It feels like so long ago.

It also feels like yesterday.

The airport itself was easier than I expected. Checking our bags was simple enough. The line at the counter wasn’t long, and getting the bike checked through wasn’t a problem. That alone felt like a small victory. TSA was short, too, and before long we were through security with time to spare before boarding the first leg of our flight to Frankfurt.

The flight was good. I can’t complain. I managed to get some rest, which felt like a win.

Now we have arrived in Frankfurt. I’m doing my best to stay awake and adjust to the local time. We have about six hours before our flight to Mallorca leaves, so for now we are in that strange in-between space of international travel. No longer home, not yet there.

But the trip has started.

The promise is moving now.