I’m actually one of those people who likes to know where I’m going.
At least, that’s what I like to tell myself.
The truth sometimes looks a little different. Especially when I’m out on my bike. There’s the road I originally planned to take. Then suddenly, there’s a turn. A small dirt path. Maybe it leads somewhere. Maybe it doesn’t. And suddenly I think:
Oh, come on. Just go that way.
And that is usually the exact moment when the real adventure begins.
I have no idea how many times I’ve stood somewhere wondering where the hell I actually am. Of course, I could simply take out my phone. Turn on navigation. Check my location. All very sensible.
But sometimes, common sense is a little overrated.
So I keep going.
Past fields, through vineyards, along paths where, after about 500 metres, I become fairly certain they were never intended for bicycles in the first place. And that’s usually the moment when I look at my bike as if all of this were somehow its fault.
Of course, it isn’t.
But someone has to take responsibility.
Sometimes Liza comes with me. And I’m pretty sure that in situations like these, she knows exactly that I have absolutely no idea where we are. Dogs have a sense for these things. She gives me that very special look.
A look that says something like:
“You’re the human. You’re supposed to have the plan.”
Well.
Bad news, Liza.
But these little detours are exactly what I love.
Because if I always took the familiar road, I would always see only what I already know. The same streets. The same turns. The same views.
But when you simply take the wrong turn once in a while, something happens.
Suddenly, there’s an old tree standing alone in the middle of a field.
A narrow path winds its way through the vineyards.
The light falls across the landscape in exactly the right way, and I have no choice but to stop.
And then, of course, the camera comes into play.
Although “I’ll just take a quick photo” is about as believable when I say it as “I’ll just quickly check something online.”
One photo becomes five.
Five become twenty.
Then I change the perspective.
Take a few steps to the left.
Then back again.
And at some point, I’m half sitting in the grass, hoping nobody comes along and asks whether I’m okay.
Yes.
Everything is fine.
I’m just taking photos.
But maybe taking the wrong turn isn’t only about cycling.
Maybe, in life, we make the mistake far too often of always trying to find the perfect path.
Everything has to be planned.
Everything has to make sense.
Ideally, we want to know today exactly where we will arrive tomorrow.
But life doesn’t work that way.
At least mine doesn’t.
Some of the most beautiful things in my life were never planned. Some people appeared unexpectedly. Some ideas simply came out of nowhere. And some paths only revealed themselves after I had already become convinced that I had taken a wrong turn.
Maybe a detour isn’t always really a detour.
Maybe it’s simply a road we didn’t know before.
I think we should allow ourselves to be curious more often.
Not always asking:
“Where does this lead?”
But sometimes simply:
“Why not?”
Of course, it can happen that you end up standing in front of a locked gate.
Or on a path that suddenly leads nowhere.
Or somewhere between two vineyards, realising that now you have to cycle all the way back up that damn hill.
That’s part of it too.
And yes, in that particular moment, I usually find philosophical thoughts about the beauty of detours slightly less convincing.
Especially uphill.
But later, I can usually laugh about it.
And maybe that’s exactly the point.
Not every wrong road has to be a disaster.
Sometimes, it’s simply a story.
A story you tell later.
A memory.
A photograph.
A moment.
So I will probably continue to take the wrong turn from time to time.
With my bike.
With my camera.
Maybe with Liza.
And definitely with far too little idea of where I’ll eventually end up.
But somehow, that’s exactly what I like about it.
Because those who always take the right road may reach their destination faster.
But those who sometimes take the wrong turn may end up with the better stories to tell.