A lot happens in a standard day here. Time is different, slower and more pressing. We reminisce at night while warming blackened fingers over the fire, not about past years, but past hours. From the time the sun rises over stark turquoise to its cyclical demise behind the western hilltops, as our shadows dance circles around us, first taunting with their distance then eventually losing resolve and lagging behind in sinewy length, the hours lay claim to adventure.

            Our alarm clock is physical discomfort. Once the tarp of the tent has irritated the skin enough and surmounting body heat becomes unbearable, we wake with broken grins and consult each other. Who managed to sleep well last night? On a good night, one or two of us.

            Next, the process of cleaning camp begins. Tear down the tent, fold the blankets, re-pack Lucy and find a bin for the previous days’ build-up of trash. While that’s happening someone boils water. This gives us enough liquid for porridge and sometimes coffee.

            If we’re in a town, we check fake world. That’s tour talk for Internet, where connections to family and friends hopefully boost our morale. If we’re far from city limits, we head back to yesterday’s finishing point and get set up for the day. This entails changing into skate shoes, stretching, lathering up with sun block, filling water bottles and most importantly, choosing the first song to get stoked on.           

            After that, it begins. 10 kilometers. What the boys do in the wagon ahead is a mystery to me. What Rob and I do is put push to pavement and get our minds psyched for another day at the office.

            Arriving at the wagon we’ll generally find Geoff tangled high up in a tree trying to obtain a slow-motion shot for the video blog, and James either chilling in the driver’s seat mashing out tunes or exploring the area trying to keep himself entertained. We sit, breathe, snack, chat and head out for the next 10.

            This is the general pattern throughout the day, but it’s in the depths of minutia that big things happen.

Clouds part. They reform. Drops hit bitumen, tickling tar from the crevices and slicking black around our wheels. Rainbows arch across the damp sky, always within reach but never touched. A friendly wave and a gnarly sign get you amped. A horn palmed with so much anger that the tone bends around time does not. Surprising electric fences literally jolt you into regret, but if you’re lucky, a group of galloping horses will show solidarity as they run parallel for a hundred metres.   

            And then, as earphones buzz with the sound of Bon Iver creaking out of his stool after recording “Re: Stacks”, all goes quiet. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. The innumerable dramas of the day are focused out of the pores along with droplets of perspiration. Wheels spin as the right foot pounds rhythmically, bearings sizzle and eyes water. Our Earth turns golden as the Sun sings its daily eulogy, harmonized by a choir of multi-coloured clouds.  

            The road winds, the white stripes pass and the blazing horizon illuminates a million sparkling points on the tips of blinking lashes. This is the slow-motion symphony. This is the last ten K.

Daniel + The S4C Team