Riding the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route (GDMBR) seemed like an impossible idea—until the moment my feet touched the ground in Canada. That was when two of the most free months of my life began. It was an incredible break from the stresses of everyday life, but also the beginning of deeper mental changes and the moment I started to notice problems I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying with me.

I remember the moment of departure with remarkable clarity. The morning was cold, the air crisp, and the mountains around me felt immense and calm at the same time. In moments like that, it feels as if anything is possible—even though just a short while earlier, your mind had been full of doubts. Can I really do this? Will my equipment hold up? Isn’t this too big an undertaking?

But those questions disappear surprisingly quickly once you simply start riding. The first kilometers always carry something symbolic. They feel like crossing an invisible line between planning and reality. At the same time, they are also very practical: the moment when all the gear finally proves whether it works. Bags need to sit correctly on the bike, clothes have to be easy to access, and every unnecessary item becomes noticeable almost immediately.

In the days that followed, life began to settle into a simple, almost primal rhythm. Wake up, pack everything, have a coffee—if we still had some left—and start riding. Then come hours of pedaling, changing landscapes, short stops by streams, small shops, or road intersections. In the evening, the search for a place to sleep and the moment when the body slowly begins to calm down after an entire day of effort.

Most days started early. Sometimes the cold was enough to push us out of our tents before sunrise, but the early hours had one big advantage: the wind was usually much calmer. Packing the bike eventually became routine, though in our group, it could still take an hour, or even longer, before we were finally ready to leave. Sleeping bag, mat, stoves, spare tubes, food for the day—each item had its place. When something was missing or packed poorly, it became obvious very quickly during the ride.

Food was another important part of the daily routine. In small towns along the route, grocery stores often became key points of the day. Sometimes it was possible to sit outside with a cold drink and a simple meal. Other times, it was just a quick stop to refill water bottles and buy enough food to reach the next town, which could easily be more than 100 kilometers away.

Water management also became a practical skill. On some days, streams and rivers were frequent, but in other sections—especially later in the route—you had to plan carefully. Carrying several liters of water was normal, even if it meant riding with a heavier bike.

That rhythm quickly became something natural. All the matters of everyday life began to drift away, as if they were being left somewhere far behind the next mountain pass. With each passing day, I felt more and more certain that this was exactly where I was meant to be.

Almost two years have passed since then, and I still experience that trip as if it had ended only yesterday. At first, there was rest and the reliving of memories that were still fresh and vivid. Returning to normal life after such a long journey always feels a little strange. Suddenly, there is a calendar again—obligations, messages, meetings, and all the small things that once seemed important.

For the first few weeks, I had the feeling that a part of me was still riding somewhere along a gravel road through the mountains. Then came the time to edit and select photographs and to develop the rolls of film from my film camera. That process became another way of reliving the journey. Each photo brought back a specific moment—the temperature of the air, the smell of the forest, the fatigue in my legs, or the relief of reaching a mountain pass.

Working with an analog camera added another layer to the experience. Unlike digital photography, where you see the result straight away, film requires patience. When the rolls were finally developed, some images looked exactly as I remembered the moment. Others surprised me completely.

Together with entries from my journal, I arranged the photographs into a small series that can be seen on my website. Over time, I realized that they were beginning to form a story—not only about places, but also about the state of mind I was in during that journey.

I also had the pleasure of sharing these photographs and experiences during an exhibition at Concordia Design in Poznań. Conversations with people who looked at the images and asked about the trip were incredibly valuable to me. Many of them were curious about practical aspects of the journey: how far we rode each day, how we carried our gear, or whether we ever felt unsafe.

In reality, the days were not always spectacular. Many hours were spent simply pedaling along gravel roads through forests, valleys, or open plains. Sometimes, the weather changed quickly. Rain could turn a good road into thick mud that stuck to the tires, making riding almost impossible. On other days, strong headwinds slowed progress to a frustrating pace. But those challenges were also part of the experience. They forced us to slow down, to adjust plans, and sometimes to accept that the day would end earlier than expected.

Only after all that time did I finally feel confident enough to start assembling the video material I had gathered into a longer film. At first, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to return to it. Video is a completely different language for me than photography. A photograph captures a single moment, while film requires rhythm, narrative, and continuity. Many small fragments have to come together into something that begins to live a life of its own.

Looking through the footage also reminded me of many small, practical moments: fixing a puncture on the side of the road, adjusting a loose rack, or checking the route on a GPS while sitting in the shade. I’m still amazed by how long an experience like this can stay alive within a person, and how deeply it can shape you. Sometimes, I wonder how other travelers manage to undertake such journeys one after another. Recently, a couple of bikepackers I follow—who often share stories from their incredible travels—announced that they were giving up on their year-long plan due to exhaustion and burnout.

Perhaps they didn’t give themselves enough time to truly process the memories of their previous journeys. I feel that every major journey needs time to settle within you. Just like after a deep sleep, the body needs a moment to wake up and understand where it actually is.

When I think about the Great Divide, it’s not only specific memories that return, but also waves of sensations—colors, emotions, and smells. These are the small things that are difficult to capture in a journal but remain in memory the longest.

Each state we passed through had its own distinct character, climate, and even taste. In Montana, we ate huckleberries, in Colorado ripe peaches, and in New Mexico spicy food that could warm you up even after a long day of riding in cold wind. The landscapes also changed gradually along the route. Forested mountain regions gave way to wide valleys, then to dry plains and desert areas. After many days of riding, these transitions became very noticeable.

I must also admit that the people we met everywhere shared a similar spirit. They were curious about us, kind, and welcoming. Even though their perspective on the world often differed from ours—shaped in a developing post-communist European country—we were always able to find common ground. Often, the conversation began with a simple question, “Where are you coming from, and where are you going?” And from there, the conversation would simply unfold on its own.

Interestingly, part of the reason I decided to ride this route was a film showing Lachlan Morton completing it at record speed. The landscapes in that film struck a sensitive chord in me—I knew I had to see them with my own eyes. But over time, I realized that this route can be experienced in many different ways.

You can race it, of course—but perhaps only after you have first experienced it at a slower pace. There is something deeply valuable in slow travel. It gives you time to stop, to look around, and to truly see the place you are in. Montana does not feel as endlessly vast if you rush through it in four days. Wyoming does not feel quite as empty. Colorado does not feel as high. And New Mexico does not feel as dry. These places need time to reveal their character.

The idea that always guides me is to create something that becomes an image I would like to keep in my memory forever. There is no shortage of films about the Great Divide on the internet—many of them explaining the journey in detail, describing preparations or the challenges their authors faced. But I wanted to create something different. A film that feels like a postcard. A collage of images that might wrap the viewer like a warm blanket and perhaps pass along a small fragment of what I experienced—if they find a quiet moment to sit down and watch it.

Video is a completely new medium for me, and, from a photographer’s perspective, it is incredibly fascinating to explore. I feel that I am only beginning to understand its possibilities. Perhaps that is exactly why working on this video has taken so long. I needed time to find the right way to tell this story.

Because maybe that is the most beautiful thing about journeys like this: they do not end when you return home. They continue in memory, in photographs, in conversations, and in images that slowly arrange themselves into a story. Sometimes, I feel the road continues in a way—only now it runs not through mountains and wilderness, but through memory.

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