Today I ran out of continent.

I arrived at Florence, Oregon, completing a 3500 mile bicycle trip, accompanied by my friend Noel, completing his own pretty amazing 500+ mile journey.

I will post more, but the words of The Waters of March (June – July in my case) by Antonio Jobim sum it up pretty well.  Almost every line seems to resonate with part of my trip.  I love Susannah McCorkle’s version.

The Waters of March (Portuguese “Águas de Março“)

A stick, a stone,
It’s the end of the road,
It’s feeling alone
It’s the weight of your load

It’s a sliver of glass,
It’s life, it’s the sun,
It’s night, it’s death,
It’s a knife, it’s a gun

A flower that blooms,
A fox in the brush,
A knot in the wood,
The song of a thrush

The mystery of life
The steps in the hall
The sound of the wind
And the waterfall

It’s the moon floating free,
It’s the curve of the slope,
It’s an ant, it’s a bee,
It’s a reason for hope

And the river bank sings
Of the waters of March,
It’s the promise of spring,
It’s the joy in your heart

Thank you all for following and supporting.  GB