Where the Coast Meets the Horizon: A Journey for MS

The asphalt blurs beneath the wheels of my Africa Twin, each engine vibration resonating like a promise in the morning silence. For me, this journey to Nova Scotia is not just a scenic wander. It is a deeply human challenge, a quest for purpose. “Every single kilometre must count,” I repeat to myself inside my helmet. Every turn of the wheel along the wild coastlines and rugged capes is a symbolic victory dedicated to everyone fighting multiple sclerosis day after day.

My journey opens with a burst of pure adrenaline: a marathon ride of over 700 kilometres. The legendary Matapédia Valley stretches as far as the eye can see, bathed in a low light that casts long shadows from the trees, leading me right to the gates of New Brunswick. The woody scent of the boreal forest seeps through my helmet vents, and the crisp northern wind whipping against my jacket reminds me of the sheer scale of the task ahead.

The very next morning, the raw reality of the road catches up with me at sunrise. Facing a stubborn hotel tap that swings unpredictably between scalding hot and freezing cold, I smile: adventure means accepting the unexpected with grace. Moments later, the reassuring mechanical rumble of my motorcycle breaks the early dawn quiet as I set off on the mythical "contraband routes." The tyres bite into the worn, bumpy tarmac, and the air suddenly turns saltier and heavier. The gates of Nova Scotia finally swing open, swept by the ocean spray.

This is where the ocean imposes its majestic rhythm. The asphalt constantly flirts with the edge of the cliffs, and I begin a true hunt for coastal lighthouses under the sharp, salty chill of the open sea. My nights in the tent prove tough at times, scored by the annoying, endless dance of mosquitoes and a sleeping mat that slides around with every movement. “Why do I put myself through this?” I sometimes think in the dead of night, shivering slightly. Then I remember the faces of the people I am riding for, the importance of the cause, and the fatigue vanishes instantly.

Every morning offers its own visual poetry. One day, a mystical, thick fog completely wraps around my campsite. Everything is grey and hushed; the world seems to have stopped around me. The tent fly is icy and soaked through by the coastal moisture. But the comforting aroma of a hot coffee brewed on the go reignites the spark to head out. A few hours later, the warm smiles and legendary hospitality of the people of Shelburne warm my heart before I dive back into sharp coastal twists.

Another morning, the sound of footsteps from an early-rising neighbour in an inn cuts my sleep short at 4:30 am. No matter. I take the opportunity to savour the present moment, a steaming cup of coffee in hand, and then later admire the reflections of the dawn on the spectacular rocks of Cape Forchu, my eyes locked on the endless horizon.

But the road also knows how to be ruthless, testing the resilience of rider and machine to the absolute limit. After a freezing night in a big chain hotel—where, ironically, the expected comfort turned into a non-stop chill that forced me to wrap myself in my own camping sleeping bag just to sleep—I wake up with a stiff body. Outside, the sky has collapsed over the region. The trip instantly turns into a literal "rolling shower."

Under a torrential downpour violently hammering my helmet, my riding sensations change completely. “Stay focused, look far ahead, keep the rhythm,” I dictate to myself mentally while my Gore-Tex gloves, thankfully, shield me beautifully from the elements, keeping my hands perfectly dry. The road surface is now covered with a heavy amount of water, creating a thin film ripe for aquaplaning. In the heart of these drenched corners, I become one with the Africa Twin. I feel every micro-loss of traction from the rear tyre on this liquid film, managing the throttle with surgical precision to stabilise the heavy bike on the gleaming wet asphalt, and working the clutch to navigate the curves smoothly despite violent gusts of wind. The opaque spray from passing trucks blinds my visor with every overtake, but the deep, determined growl of the twin-cylinder engine reassures me. It is an intense, punishing, and relentless return leg back towards Quebec.

The seventh day finally brings the final sprint home. Waking up is gentler, cradled by the morning song of birds, even if the neighbours' dog at the campsite tries its best to break the magic. To my great surprise, the inside and outside of the tent have stayed perfectly dry despite the proximity of the river. I finally rejoin the mythical Route 132 for the final miles.

The fatigue accumulated over the 3,500 kilometres weighs on my shoulders, and technology decides to give me a hard time too: my computer system stubbornly refuses to upload the photos from the trip. Standing in front of my bike, I inspect the mechanics and handle these last technical glitches under a blue sky where the sun rules supreme. “We’re almost there, my friend, just one last push,” I quietly mutter, tapping my Africa Twin's fuel tank. I click into first gear with a sharp snap. The bike surges forward onto the final kilometres of Quebec asphalt, swallowing the straight lines with majestic stability. Home is drawing near, wrapping up this magnificent journey where every corner turned, every mosquito braved, and every drop of rain faced brought the search for a cure one step closer to hope.

This 3,500-kilometre journey would have been nothing more than a long stretch of asphalt without the unwavering support of an entire community. Behind every turn of my Africa Twin's wheels were your donations, your words of encouragement, and your energy driving the research against multiple sclerosis forward. Thanks to you, every single kilometre became a tangible symbol of hope.

I want to extend my warmest thanks to all of you, early donors and supporters crossed along the road: your generosity is the real engine behind this adventure. Together, we keep riding for a future without MS.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart!