Home -> Stories

Ali Becker is a freelance writer, adventure storyteller and full-time nomad. She spends half the year traveling by bicycle with her partner, Mathieu and the other half sleeping in strangers' beds as a professional house sitter. This past summer, Ali and Mat had an amazing adventure, embarking on their longest bike adventure ever: traversing the Great Northern Bikepacking Route. Follow along on their adventure at @trip.longer on IG/ wetriplonger on FB.

Thanks for joining us on Quench'd, Ali!

A few weeks before leaving on my first big bike tour, I attended a women's retreat centered around healing and self-love. Seated in a circle, we were encouraged to share our intentions for the workshop.

I’ll always remember the woman next to me, poised and smiling. “I’m here to get in touch with the feeling of gratitude,” she said calmly, “Everyday, I make a list of things I’m grateful for; I talk about gratitude, I think about gratitude, but the actual feeling of gratitude still eludes me.”  

“That poor woman,” I thought to myself, “never able to feel gratitude – I hope she can connect with the feeling while she’s here.” Surely, I know how to feel grateful. I have a gratitude journal,  and often remind myself of the blessings I have. I think, therefore, I feel grateful. Right?

Two months later, Mat and I found ourselves bike touring down a remote, dirt farm road near the Alberta-Saskatchewan border, in a place that felt like the edge of the world — dry, desolate, and silent, with only the blazing sun and a faint breeze moving the parched earth.

With each sip from my water bottle, I grew more aware of our dwindling supply. Reloading my GPS again and again, I searched for water, but each spot turned out to be a dried-up mirage. My mouth was dry, my thoughts consumed by thirst, and my nerves on edge.

As we carried along down the road, I tried to think of everything but being thirsty. I found myself mentally sifting through the items in our food bags, trying to decipher which ones would replenish moisture instead of deplete it. I was obsessing.

Finally, we spotted a murky puddle straddling a farm fence, green and murky around the edges. “It’ll ruin our filter,” Mat said, but I didn’t care. I held his bike as he ventured toward it, shoes sinking in the soft ground around it. Finally, he turned back.

“We’ll have to keep going,” he said, returning empty handed. We saddled up and carried on.

A few miles down the road, I heard a vehicle in the distance and saw a giant dust cloud moving up the horizon line towards us. “A human!” I shouted, as if we’d been lost for days. We pulled to the side of the road and he joined us for a chat.

“What are you two doing out here?” he asked. We explained our mission to cross Canada primarily off-road, taking farm and grid roads through Saskatchewan to bypass the main highways. “Well, you have my full respect,” he said proudly, and shook our hands.

The moment that first sip of water hit my lips, I felt transported. 

It didn’t matter that it was warm, or that it tasted weird, or that I was standing in a stranger’s farm house surrounded by the faint smell of manure – I was so damn grateful for the gift of hydration that I was literally moved to tears. 

For the first time in my life – I actually felt grateful. There was this whole body sense of appreciation from deep within my heart that washed over me. I felt so blessed to be alive, to be nourished, to be there.

I couldn’t thank the man enough – for stopping, for helping, for welcoming us into his home and sharing his resources. He was like an angel who showed up out of nowhere and looked after us. He was a modern day hero to me – and I’ll never forget him. 

Bike travel has a way of stripping life down to its essentials, intensifying my appreciation for comforts I used to take for granted.

Choosing to forgo modern luxuries in the quest for adventure—exposing myself to the elements, embracing discomfort and uncertainty—shifts my relationship with everyday conveniences in a way I struggle to access otherwise. 

Never has the heat from a camp stove felt so good as it does after hours of trudging through snow. Nor has shelter felt so sacred as in a ramshackle hut during a midnight storm. Never has warm clothing meant so much as on top of a mountain pass, or a hot meal so nourishing as after a day’s hard ride.

This gratitude is—of course—available to all of us at every moment of each day, yet it so often eludes us. We fall into hedonic adaptation, where the newness of something pleasurable quickly fades into familiarity, and the extraordinary becomes ordinary. We lose touch with the miracle of hot water from a tap, the ease of flipping a switch for light, or the luxury of a warm bed.

Bike travel, however, disrupts this pattern. Stripped of our usual comforts, we’re forced to recalibrate our sense of what we truly need versus what we simply want. It teaches us that luxury items, conveniences we once took as necessities, are actually just “extras” that make life easier but aren’t essential. When we’re reduced to carrying only what fits on a bike, we realize how little we need to feel satisfied, fulfilled, even joyful.

Paradoxically, living with less on these journeys often makes me feel richer, more connected to myself, and more appreciative of the world around me. There’s a freedom in knowing that true comfort, true joy, can come from something as simple as a sip of water, the warmth of dry clothes, or the sight of a distant mountain at sunset.

Yet, the real magic of this gratitude isn’t just in those moments on the road. We carry it back with us, a recalibrated sense of what’s enough, a renewed awareness, and a deepened ability to find gratitude in the ordinary. It’s a perspective we can cultivate even when surrounded by modern convenience, allowing us to live with greater presence and appreciation.

Bike travel, then, becomes more than just a physical journey. It’s a practice of returning to gratitude, recalibrating our needs, and discovering the richness in simplicity. Each trip reminds me that gratitude and fulfillment are always within reach, as close as the next breath or the next sip of water.