Bombin' Home

Bombin' Home

My stripper’s maiden voyage : Bombin' Home (Part 5)

Chicago, Millenium Park Underground, 11PM.

This is the part of my journey with very little pictures. My memories are scarce, this passage through Michigan and onto Canada was a blurr. 

You can only understand what's impossible if you try. 

Off I went: I picked the 94th - Detroit was my passage. Focused, I barrelled through Michigan at record pace. 

Concrete structures started to elevate all around my field of vision. 

Welcome to Detroit. 

Racing through the underground, I vividly remember seeing the signs for the Motor City. 

It was straight out of a movie. 

Detroit was tarmac and concrete. 

It was a ghost town. I was running low on gas. It was uninviting. 

The roads were empty, the lights were off. It was 2AM.

I didn't stop until I had to. 

The law will make you. This was international law.

Welcome to Canada. 

Remember my Dakota Passage? This was entirely the opposite experience. 

Windsor is the most busy crossing between USA and Canada.

There was no one. 

As I stopped at Customs, the agent greeted me with a massive smile. 

A: "Did you really just drive 5,000km in 4 days?"
M: *smiles* *hands over passport*
A: "I wish my wife would let me do this"
M: "I'm single"
A: *laughs*
A: "Welcome home - drive safe, punch it!”

On the horizon: home

From the the bleak feelings of Detroit, I felt something frankly hard to describe: a new wave of energy tsunami'ed my exhausted mind. 

This was adrenaline. 

I had my sights set on Toronto. It was 4am. 

The Cannonball run truly came to life. Speeds I will simply not discuss. 

Roads were smooth, empty - traffic lines freshly painted. This had all the makings of a Canadian Autobahn. 

As you climbed through the rev range and stabilized your cruising speeds, the M3 came into its own. 

Stable, solid, tactile, limitless top end, confident inspiring firmness yet with sufficient comfort to endure the long drive. 

The mind & the machine has only one limit: its body. 

I didn't make it. 

I failed. 


They say home is where the heart is. 

I wasn't there yet.

I am French Canadian: I will unfortunately never feel truly home until I start seeing French signs, Poutine, slurs used as punctuations ta-bar-nack and madmen doing 100mph over pot holed highways. 

Up next, the final chapter: home.

The realizations, the bills, the failures and the learnings. 

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