Issue link: http://trailridermagazine.uberflip.com/i/1544609
pillow on my knees, head on top of that. He's leaned over, head and shoulders heavily rest- ing on my back. Aside from slight difficulty breathing, I get a li le sleep between taking in the stunning blue waters below the cliffs and clouds of Monaco. Nineteen hours to go… The three of us stagger into a gas sta on around 10 pm, looking strung out as hell. An espresso (Rachel), a cappuccino (Andy), and a Red Bull (Kiwi) later, we climb back into the van, another few hours le to drive un l we arrive at our next hotel. Thirteen hours to go… Kiwi and I are racing up a narrow staircase just outside our hotel, a er a nice morning warm- up run. Despite him ge ng the jump out of the gate, I take the lead three steps before we reach the cobblestone street. Ten hours to go… White plaster walls and terra-co a les stand out against the vibrant green hillsides in Tusca- ny, do ed with olive groves and vineyards. Six hours to go… Zero hours to go. We have arrived at our Airbnb, the cheapest place I could find in Custonaci, Sicily. This is probably because it is the size of a large walk-in closet. But hey, it was cheap, and I can throw a rock from our balcony and land it in the Mediterranean. The ocean is as black and deep as the moonless night, wave caps caught by the single streetlamp as they gently break against the rocks. I fall asleep with the window open, listening to their soothing music. As you read this, you might be wondering if I'm se- cretly a frustrated travel blogger. This is a motorcycle magazine! You think. Why is she s ll talking about the ocean? Does she think this is Condé Nast Traveler?? But no, what I actually am is a horrible procras nator. The race was an emo onal roller coaster, so I find it much easier to write about ocean waves than waves of emo on. Technical Details I had originally flown to Portugal in the hopes of doing some tes ng of the bike and training beforehand. Unfortunately for reasons too long to explain for the