Or, why the feeling of impending doom should be welcomed with open arms on our travels?

On the return leg of a 9,000 km journey from Calgary to the Arctic Circle via the Dempster Highway, I stopped at my new favorite place, The Yukon Motel and Restaurant in Teslin, Yukon. After warming my belly with a bowl of their homemade soup, and cramming in as many of their excellent baked goods as I could manage, I set about checking over the bike before tackling the remainder of my 550 km day from Whitehorse to Boya Lake.

While I struggled to tame the tank bag’s Medusa-like bundle of accessory charging cables, I almost failed to notice an inquisitive onlooker moving in for a closer look at my heavily laden bike.

“You look like you’re on quite the adventure,” he said.

I turned to see a slender, elderly man with neatly combed gray hair towering over my six-foot self. “Well yes sir, I suppose I am… I’m on the return leg of a journey from Calgary to Inuvik, in the Arctic Circle.” I proudly proclaimed.

As he uttered his next words, “Tell me a story from your trip,” I was instantly transported back to a mountain pass on the Dempster Highway. Ascending the pass in bitter 4°C temps, I was pummeled by heavy rain to the point that my frozen hands felt like they were being shot at with BBs. The rain mercifully gave way, only to land me in a thick fog with visibility down to a mere two or three meters. Riding along at an average speed of 30 kph, trying to keep the bike upright on the almost unimaginably slick mud, I’d never felt more physically or mentally challenged.

“That sounds utterly terrible,” the old man said.

My response was, “It was one of the best moments of my life.” The thing is, I never wanted the trip to lack challenge, and man oh man at that moment… I was challenged!

I expected the inquisitive fellow to give me a look of disgust as if to say, “Great, I’ve spent the last 10 minutes listening to a whack job going on about a silly motorcycle trip!” But his face softened with an expression of understanding as he remarked in a way only a man of great life experience could: “Ah, misery is memorable.” I’d anticipated shocking him with the revelation that such suffering could amount to one of the greatest moments of a man’s life—instead, he’d shocked me with a truth that would, in turn, endear to me the toughest times of my trip.

Since then, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about my adventure and that particular encounter. I’ve concluded that he was absolutely correct. If in fact misery can be a gift, we have to allow ourselves to look beyond its face value and appreciate what it brings to our journeys.

When my bike developed a heavy fork seal leak, I was aggravated by the inconvenience—especially so early in the trip. I stomped around camp that night with grumbling thoughts about how the situation was ruining my trip. But I awoke the next morning with a more focused and accepting attitude. Then, I remembered an old trick—camera film could be used to clean a fork seal. Finding camera film was a challenge in Smithers, B.C., but interactions with the amazing locals, whom I otherwise wouldn’t have met, led me to it. Film in hand, I moved the bike out of the rain and under the shelter of a supermarket awning to work on the fork, attracting more interesting folks. Those conversations led to directions—which I later followed—to a section of the river where local fishermen caught and smoked salmon in a traditional Indian way. It was an outstanding spectacle that I’ll always hold dear.

On another occasion, I paid the price for a bad judgment call when I’d decided that my riding suit’s inner liners weren’t necessary for a trip. Instead, I’d assumed it would be better taking an older pair of waterproofs. It seems that in six years of living in the Canadian prairies, far from my rearing grounds along the West Coast of Ireland, I’d forgotten that it rains ALL THE TIME near the coast—15 of the 18 days of my journey to be exact. And soon I realized my waterproofs were in fact no longer waterproof.

At the same time, I began to notice that the rain raised my concentration levels. I was cold, wet and miserable, but some of the long, monotonous stretches passed with relative ease. Finally arriving at what would have been a camping spot for the night, I found great happiness and, well, entertainment, in a decision that seemed to jump out of my subconscious. Being already soaked to the bone, what would be the harm in pushing on to a town 60 km in the wrong direction? The town of Stewart, B.C., had come highly recommended in another chance meeting at a supermarket earlier that day; it was reportedly a stunningly beautiful place. After having such a great experience with the fishermen I was willing to once again trust the recommendations of another.

As a result, I found myself whooping and cheering in my helmet as I rode past waterfall after waterfall, glacier after glacier, breathtaking view after breathtaking view on a wonderfully twisty road on the way to the astonishingly beautiful little town of Stewart. My acceptance of misery had rewarded me tenfold. I’d landed in a place of idyllic beauty, occupied by some of the most wholesome characters I could ever hope to meet.

As I write this, the Canadian winter is closing in, stifling any plans of lengthy travel for another season, and with fondness I ponder the difficulties I’ve endured. They are the most vivid memories of any trip, and the ability to endure those difficulties is one of the things that sets us apart as adventure riders.

Alan Connor was raised in Ireland by motorcycle riding, world traveling parents. He plans to see the world via motorcycle piece by piece to allow for cultural emersion along the way. Alan is the head coach at the Too Cool Motorcycle School Off Road Academy in Calgary, Alberta, and founder of Adventure Without Limits a charity based around adventure riding that raises funds for cerebral palsy.