This article is part of the series Postcards to Dad, a five-week motorcycle journey from Savannah to Maine highlighting the Appalachian Trail, with postcards home to Dad from each state on the trail.

The house was empty when I pulled in. Everyone was out, so I had about an hour to myself. I took a shower and did nothing at all. After an afternoon of “No routes available” and proverbial circles, doing nothing was exactly right.

Then my aunt came home and made white chicken chili, the kind that warms your bones. About halfway through that bowl, the rest of me settled in. On a trip this long, I’ve come to appreciate an oasis. It’s a place where I can stay a few days and not think about riding, or routes, or weather, or where I’m sleeping next. This one came with family and chili.

Sunday, we were headed to my cousin’s house, and my aunt was excited about me riding the motorcycle over. She knew her grandkids far better than I did. If I’m honest, it was the last thing I wanted to do. Every bit of me was craving a little creature comfort: a car, a passenger seat, a day off from the bike. My brain and body put up a protest, and it was clearly going to be overruled by my better judgment.

I rode the bike over.

I didn’t hesitate starting up the driveway, but once I started the climb, I thought this was a whole lot more than I’d bargained for. It was steeper than the steep driveway in New Jersey, and the tiles were bumpier. The GS needed real horsepower to climb it, and there’s barely a flat spot at the top. Very little room for error, and the last thing I wanted was to drop the bike a second time in North Carolina, in front of my family.

The kids took to it instantly.

The five-year-old was in love with sitting on it. He wanted to sit on it by himself, then with his brother, then with his sister.

The seven-year-old took it a step further. He and his dad have been taking apart a Harbor Freight motor in the garage, and he started matching what he’d learned to the GS. The valve cover first. Then the spark plug. Then a few more parts I’ve already forgotten, because he was moving faster than I was.

The three-year-old wanted her own moment on the bike as well. Then she wanted to play games in her room.

I didn’t do anything special for them. I didn’t have to. They brought me into their world just as fast as they gravitated into mine.

That afternoon, the three-year-old and my aunt had a girls’ afternoon, and the rest of us went to Lookout Mountain Trail. It’s about three miles and 1,000 feet of climbing, and it was more work than I’d expected. I was in motorcycle boots, but walking all over Providence had given me new confidence in them. The day was cold. The overnight low had been in the high 20s, and in the shade, my long-sleeve shirt and hoodie were just barely enough. I had the heated vest with me but left it off so I wouldn’t sweat through it before the next day’s ride. So I powered through the shady stretches.

About halfway up, the seven- and five-year-olds climbed onto a fallen log and declared it a motorcycle. Apparently the GS had made an impression. My aunt had been more than right. She knew her grandchildren far better than I did.

There were a couple of moments when I felt out of shape. I wasn’t as limber as I wanted to be climbing over the rocks. Meanwhile, the two kids were jumping from rock to rock and running down the trail without a care in the world. Still, the hike gave me the push I needed: I can do this, even in motorcycle boots.

For weeks, every overlook I’d stopped at, I’d ridden to. This one, I climbed to. This one felt different. It was sweeter.

Back at the house, my aunt and I got to talking about being tired. She pointed out that riding is its own kind of tired: hours in the same position, fighting the wind. A hike is a different kind, real exertion and real exhaustion. I told her there was a third kind of tired: the logistics. Routes, weather, where I’m sleeping, all of it shifting every day. It’s managing all the interrelated details of long-distance motorcycle travel.

That night, I slept. I really, really slept. All three kinds of tired connected, and I was out.

On my way out the next morning, I checked the software that manages my insulin pump. It keeps a rolling 24-hour total, and that number was 40% lower than most days on this trip. When I’m moving, insulin gets way more efficient. It was a not-so-subtle reminder that movement matters, and it’s something I’m struggling with out here.

Leaving felt a lot like my cousin’s driveway. Once the front wheel tipped over, there was no changing my mind. The next adventure was somewhere past where the oasis touches the pavement.