He’s been riding for two days now, he’s stopped and rested a few times, his phone keeps ringing, undoubtedly friends and family wondering what’s happened to him and where he's gone as he tells himself that he’s going to answer the phone as soon as he can figure out a good way to tell everyone why he decided to leave in the first place. He struggles to come up with a way to articulate it in a manner that everyone else would understand and the only explanation that keeps coming to his mind is, “It feels right and I just know that I’m supposed to do it.” That sounds great to him but he knows that to anyone else he would sound absolutely crazy and family would probably have him committed to a mental institution as soon as they got their hands on him.
For the most part, the only thing that pains him is the fact that he left without explaining anything to his grandmother, his shame comes from the fact that he knows he owes her more than anyone else as she’s the woman that raised him. She deserves more than anyone else as she's sacrificed so much over the years for everyone including him. But deep down he knows that this was something that he had to do regardless of who would approve or hurt from it. He lifts himself up, and begins to pedal with no hands and he grabs his phone to check it, five percent battery left. He’s pedaled for days, ate all the fruit that he’s packed, and had the worst sleep simply because he's not used to sleeping off the side of roads and having to watch vigilantly over his bike.
He hasn't spent a dime of his money yet or charged his phone because he’s been to focused on the task at hand which happened to be riding, reading, writing, and exploring the depths of his consciousness. At this very moment he thinks to himself, what the heck, why not? And he decides to use up the last of his phone battery playing Fela Kuti over his headphones, not knowing when he will be able to charge his phone next. He figures he's bound to get to a small town or city pretty soon today and he’ll just stop at a gas station and charge up for a bit and buy more snacks. Yeah that’s it, that's exactly what he’ll do, and maybe by that time he'll also have figured out a way to tell everyone why he's left. Other than the obligation he feels to explain to people what he’s done, he notices and relishes in the fact of how free he feels. For one of the first times in his life or at least since he can remember, he feels completely free with no worries, no nothing. He feels like a sailor at sea with no compass and no timetable. He wonders if this is what his ancestors, who he discovered were pirates, used to feel like at times.
Traveling, worrying about nothing and letting the day take them where it may. He thinks to himself, one day if I make it back from this and nothing bad happens to me, this will make one hell of a story to tell. It’ll be a book that he writes, with not one care about whether or not anyone purchases or reads it. It's just enough for him that he’s made the commitment, had the experiences and decided to put pen to paper. He rides on for a few more miles, Fela Kuti fades out as his phone has just died, but he sees a gas station in the distance. Not once has he paid any attention to the many passers by who have stared at him wondering why he’s been on the freeway riding his bike. Stage one has been a good ride and some good alone time so far. He says to himself, "We've only Just begun."