Hello friends near and far—earth lovers, fellow wanderers, and kind souls,
Hello friends near and far—earth lovers, fellow wanderers, and kind souls,
Maybe you caught a glimpse of us on the local radio recently—just a tiny window into our six wild and wonderful years on the road. Listening to ourselves ramble on, it was clear: we had slipped right back into the joy and freedom of that time. Back when James would say, “The possibilities are endless.” And it really felt true.
But just a few days later, we dropped back into the present with a thud.
We’ve been going through old videos and photos from our tours—little moments we captured along the way. At one point, James stared at a clip of himself and said quietly, “I don’t look like that anymore. I’m not that man.”
We both cried. Because so much has changed.
And yet—the man beside me today, quietly courageous, still smiling on the trike, still showing up for life—is someone I love just as much.
So now, we’re dreaming again. Not of cycling across continents, but of small escapes—local adventures close to home. Maybe a weekend away. Maybe even camping (though a tent is probably no longer feasible, with how hard it’s become for James to get in and out of bed).
Still—with the help of a brand-new second battery, the trike can now take us farther than before. It’s twice as powerful as the first one. And here’s the remarkable part:
Another loyal friend recently took it upon himself to make sure we got that battery—just like that. He saw the need and acted.
And we want to say this clearly: the trike itself only exists because of you.
Every donation, every word of encouragement, every act of support made it possible. One extraordinary couple—dear friends—donated half the cost of the trike offline (you know who you are, and we hope you're reading this). That generosity, combined with so many others, brought this dream to life.
And what moves us so deeply is this: many of the people who helped—we’ve never even met.
Strangers. Kind souls from all over. Some donated, quiet, generous gifts from people who simply saw our story and decided to be part of it. These unexpected gestures from people we've never hugged, never ridden with, never shared a meal with... they’ve left a mark on our hearts.
Thanks to all of you—old friends, new friends, anonymous supporters—James can still ride. And that riding is everything.
In the midst of these brighter moments, we continue to navigate the unpredictable landscape of Lewy Body Dementia.
We recently followed up with our brilliant, compassionate neurologist at UCSF, who adjusted James’s medications to help with stiffness and movement. But side effects hit hard—pain, nausea, brain fog, and deep sadness. Lewy, as always, keeps us guessing.
Thankfully, James’s primary geriatric doctor—a rare gem of warmth and clarity—helped us make adjustments. I decided to ease back on the new meds a bit, and we’re watching carefully. It’s always a delicate dance.
But one thing hasn’t changed: when James rides his bike, he still looks right.
We recently cycled to Novato to meet with our support group, and the spirit there carried us like wind in our wheels. One of our friends, living with Alzheimer’s, picked up his guitar and sang like a young god. We laughed, we swayed, and we floated home as if on a magic carpet.
And now?
We’re quietly planning our next adventure—just a little one.
The road ahead looks different than we imagined, but it’s still a road. With a stronger battery, a bit more energy, and the will to keep going, we’re setting our sights on small joys: a day trip, a good sleep, a sunset shared.
If you’ve been part of this journey already—thank you. Truly.
Your support has carried us through some of the hardest moments.
If you feel moved to share, support, or simply send a kind thought our way—we’re grateful for it all. Every gesture, every connection reminds us that we are not alone on this winding path.
With love,
James and Margit
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