Despite not having it well planned, renting the bike for a random number of days, making an arbitrary guess about where to start, and “losing” the first day by starting on the wrong Camino. Despite leaving quite late on the second day after taking a train to Pamplona and ending up in Burgos, things worked out one way or another.

I was lucky to meet Argos in the first few days, as he saved my skin on multiple occasions: from teaching me how to fix a flat tire to showing me alternative routes specifically for bikes. Jon Ander, who cheered me on from the mountains during the endless climb to the Iron Cross. The owner of the hostel in Frómista, who lent me a blanket because I hadn’t brought a sleeping bag. Gary, who not only joined me on the journey to Sarria but also lent me his walking stick and gave me the support I needed that day. The ladies I shared a room with in Portomarín, who saved me from ending up in the hospital by stopping me from tearing off the blister patch. The Canadians, who walked with me on the day I was in the most pain, engaging me in such captivating conversation that I completely forgot about the blister on my foot.

And of course, Lora, who walked with me in the final kilometers of the longest day and guided me countless times along the Camino so I wouldn’t get lost.

I trusted people a lot, but most of all, I trusted myself and my body, which showed strength at all times and adapted to the rhythm of my spirit’s ambitions, completely shifting its routine from one day to the next.

In the end, I arrived in exactly 15 days, as I had planned — without having planned it.