Friends, I’d gone AWOL for a couple of months.
I’m sorry.
I had Various Reasons; most of them valid, some less so, and some just a mirror of an internal chaos that only now seems to be settling and taking a bit of a more workable form.
I’m also tired. Really, really tired. But while, in my darkest moments, I thought this was a retreat, it’s merely a regroup.
I’ll keep it short (okay, yeah, that’s an empty promise).
The last time I shared a story with you, it was about Lucy the Bike, its new mission in Ukraine, my new mission to come, and missions with Kelio Knyga to continue.
Then, all those missions actually took place, and they left me ground to fine powder questioning, well, pretty much everything.
(Except coffee. I never question coffee. Or my dogs. Or the power of two wheels).
But let me walk the whole thing back.
Not even a year ago, I was happily life-ing along in a small, sun-drenched villa perched atop a dreamy little valley in the mountains of Andalusia.
I had plans! And visions!
Most involved motorcycles and faraway places, writing novels while gazing somewhat dramatically into the horizon, Starting A New Project, saintly vegan diet and quitting alcohol (completely), hiking aforementioned mountains with my two and a half dogs; you know, a perfectly acceptable, lets-figure-shit-out plan for 2025 as I faced my fortieth birthday, my industry changing overnight (thanks, ChatFarkenGPT), my bike’s seat being lovingly chewed up by Nala the Hound, and the unbearable lightness of being, so to speak.
Then, as one monsieur Trump was inaugurated as America’s next president in January, it began to dawn on me that it was high time for me to scratch all that and… head home.
After 15+ years living abroad or on the road, with precisely zero intentions to ever visit Lithuania for longer than a week or two, here I was, realizing that, in the words of a friend of mine, it was time to go big and go home. Do my part. Stand up and be counted – because I sensed that from that point on, Europe would have to go it alone, old alliances would crumble, and Lithuania would once again face a threat my generation believed was a shadow firmly in the past.
Then February rolled in with that infamous Trump/Vance vs Zelensky meeting in the Oval office, where courage wore modest military fatigues while suits and ties exploded in a reality TV show style bullying, confirming my sense that, well, folks, time’s up, and we better locate our collective spine in Europe now before it’s too late.
But you see, I couldn’t just sit in Andalusia writing hard-hitting posts and pontificating about the West failing to locate its spine if I hadn’t located mine first. I had already made up my mind that I’d join the Lithuanian Armed Forces Volunteer Corps; I didn’t know whether I’d make the cut, but I decided I’d try.
Now the obvious question (that has not escaped me, either), is this: in the face of a very real threat of the russian aggression spilling over into the Baltics and perhaps Poland or Finland, exactly what use would I be as a newly-minted infantry minion with just basic combat training?
What, pray tell, could a forty-year-old freelance writer with questionable motorcycle skills and a little bit of flair for crossing borders and a mountain range or two do when in, oh I don’t know, actual combat, if I came to that?
Trust me, I had no delusions of grandeur. I did not envision myself mysteriously discovering a dormant talent for sniper excellence, hardcore scout capability, or sudden transformation into a tough special ops something or other in the span of a few months.
It wasn’t about that.
It was about a very simple idea that I just cannot sit on the sidelines and yap about allies needing to step up if I haven’t stepped up myself - as a Lithuanian. Oh yes, I very much feel like a cosmopolitan, nay, a Global Citizen; I believe in peace and a borderless world where humans finally learn to truly collaborate and collectively dedicate their time and efforts toward solving climate change and inequality and maybe talk to each other more, scroll TikTok less, and make better choices when it comes to kindness and vulnerability. I still firmly believe that’s what the 21st century should – could – be about.
But instead, we likely find ourselves on a brink of yet another horrific large-scale war, engaged in political buffoonery, division, and shouty Facebook comments directed not at those responsible for the mess but each other because we disagree on the benefits of dairy products, vaccines, or Taylor Swift.
And so I decided to join the Lithuanian Armed Forces as my own way of saying several things.
First: 2025 is a trip – but if my grandparents survived Stalin while my parents were born into Orwellian conditions under the Soviet occupation yet won Lithuania’s independence back with songs and resilience, and if it now fell on my generation to preserve it, then the choice was very obvious.
Second, many of us here in the Baltics have learned from Ukraine that in order to have allies and the broader West on our side should the worst happen, we would first have to prove that we were real people… and that we were quite serious about this whole freedom thing, you know?
As much as I’d love to believe most Westerners know that the Baltics States are located in the Northeastern Europe between Finland and Poland and have been members of the EU and NATO for decades, the reality is that, to this day, most couldn’t tell whether Vilnius and Vladivostok weren’t the same place, or whether we weren’t Kinda Russian Anyway, let alone whether we had democracy and WiFi and Starbucks (we do not have Starbucks. We have Vero Café. Got you there, didn’t I?).
And, much like Ukrainians, we would also have to prove that we would fight. Tooth and nail. Nothing says “hmm, guess this nation is really into freedom and independence” than poets, lawyers, university professors, young moms, pop stars, athletes, and teachers taking up arms to defend it – which is what has happened, and is still happening, in Ukraine.
If the worst happened, if Lithuania’s sovereignty came under threat, then we, too, would have to show the aggressor – and our allies – that we’re dead-serious about out right to exist (grim pun intended, yes).
That forty-year-old female digital nomads on bikes would absolutely trade adventure motorcycle gear for combat boots if it came to it.
That we wouldn’t just skedaddle; we’d stand our damned ground.
Well, the decision was made; I packed up my belongings and my dogs into my VW Shitmobile, drove from Spain to Lithuania, and began the process of going from candidate to Private with the Lithuanian Armed Forces Volunteer Corps.
A lot has happened in parallel, like surviving an Arctic spring in rural Lithuania with no heating, a house fire, and fear (I made the decision consciously – but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t scared shitless). Like completing the 6 in 16 Ride to raise funds for frontline combat medic vehicles in Ukraine, delivering said vehicles to said frontlines in Donbas, gifting Lucy the Bike to Ukraine’s National Guard, leading a few moto tours locally, rediscovering what Lithuaning is all about, and spending the entire month of August psyching self for what was to come – I did, in fact, pass all the background checks, medical and psych evaluations, and was found “fit for service” – while joining Ukraine-bound convoys with Kelio Knyga on a more permanent basis and designing new moto tours in all sorts of exotic places.
Fast forward to now, when the news headlines highlight drone attacks on the Baltics and Poland, russian fighter jets violate NATO airspace without consequence, and little green men show up on Estonia’s borders signaling Europe still isn’t quite sure where its spine is located, exactly, or the latest circus of America’s president schooling Zelensky on ceding Ukrainian territory while the US’s Secretary of Def…um, War, excuse me! wears a tricolor tie, well…
I’m heading out to my very first round of exercises with the LAF Volunteer Corps Company 2026 this weekend, and frankly, I’ve never felt so sure of just about anything in my life.
See, while going through three weeks of basic combat training at the LAF base somewhere in the middle of Lithuania was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, it was also the most rewarding.
Because as a professional skeddadler – I have escaped three universities, three marriage proposals, having an actual address for more than a couple of years, and a 9-to-5 lifestyle for the last fifteen odd years – I’m used to, you know, skedaddling. Moving, a lot. Crossing borders. Shedding identities like worn out tires. Answering to no one but myself and an empty tank, free to chose Chile over Argentina or morning coffee over a 4am cold start, finding my place under the sun as I saw fit and respecting no authority except that of the open road.
I’m somewhat set in my skedaddly ways, despite my adamant claims about ever-evolving; while I do believe in my own grand declarations of perpetual change (because #growth, if we’re going to be Instagrammy about it), let’s face it: I haven’t changed THAT much. I’d gotten used to all this freedom, all this I’m-Doing-My-Own-Thing, Bite Me lifestyle; I decide where I go and when, with whom, and what sort of beverages we’ll be consuming along the way.
So take all this hot mess and stick it in a military uniform, drop it off at a LAF base among a hundred other candidates, give it a tiny bed in a 10-person tent, and take away every single thing it’s used to – privacy, solitude, caffeine, whim, hatred for early mornings, baggy pants, opinions, reading well past 2am, comfort of any kind – while expecting it to learn basic combat skills in a tightly formed unit, run two miles before breakfast, hike ten in full mil kit, do pushups in the rain while wearing an armored vest, handle a G36, speak only when spoken to and reply with a YES, SIR, march in perfect lockstep with the rest of the unit, absorb endless theory lectures on statutes, topography, military tactics and ethics, weapon safety, and ranks, dig trenches, crawl across mud while being yelled and dodging smoke grenades, accept the notion that a 22-year-old instructor is the law, listen to experts in black berets explain how to detect mines, learn to put a tourniquet on the leg of “the wounded”, then drag said “wounded” to safety crouching low to dodge enemy fire, throw grenades, move and cover, and do the Macarena in the rain so as to not lose the plot entirely… What are you going to get, exactly?
A Private, that’s what.
Because I did it, friends. I went from candidate to Private in those three weeks, and it turns out that I’m not entirely useless.
And that the Lithuanian Armed Forces are kind of cool as hell.
I guess I had this vague idea that the military was all about erasing individuality, lots of shouting, and marching, and shooting, and more shouting. That it’s this brutal, faceless structure that makes armed minions out of people. That it’s all about force, conformity, rank, superiority, I don’t know.
It’s none of those things (though yes, some instructors and officers do yell a lot, but for good reason).
My take? The military is the ultimate practice in Zen Buddhism.
Yes, they do strip away all the comforts, privileges, privacy. Yes, they throw challenges at you. Yes, it’s relentless. Yes, you do feel like you’re losing it at times, and question what in the name that is holy possessed you to voluntarily go through this in the first place. Yes, they deprive you of sleep and solitude and midday snacks, force a rabble of wildly different people to discover teamwork under extremely unpleasant circumstances, test you repeatedly, push you to your limits, and tell you all you need to know about your formation skills with one SMIRK; and just about when you start entertaining a notion you haven’t fucked up that day, you find yourself running laps around the tents with your weapon above your head chanting RIFLE ABOVE MY HEAD, I’LL NEVER LEAVE IT ON MY BED feeling like an absolute moron and acutely aware that that in fact is the point because you were a moron.
They do all of this to illustrate several very simple facts: all those things – comfort, coffee, creature habits, exhaustion, bruises, shock, sleep deprivation, night hikes, officer smirks, smoke grenades – are just distractions. Background noise. It’s not personal - it’s designed to train you to see past them and perform the task you’re given when it matters. That’s it.
The teamwork that feels forced becomes real teamwork by Week 2. All the marching that seems silly at first suddenly makes sense once your unit starts moving together like one living organism. The handicap you feel you have – in my case, deep discomfort with being around people 24/7, scatterbrain tendencies, and impulsivity – is not special, because everyone has a handicap of their own (age, fitness level, temper, lack of focus, short fuses). The 22-year-old instructor is the law not merely because of rank, but because he has vast knowledge and experience in things you know nothing about, as well as the ability and talent to transfer said knowledge to you in a very short amount of time with truly enviable patience.
And so, by the time the graduation ceremony morning dawns and lowly training hats are replaced by the red berets, this massively confused 40-year-old moto nomad finds herself… proud, actually. To have made the cut. To have discovered genuine interest in combat medicine. To have earned that one stripe on her uniform. To have sworn to defend this little corner of the Baltics, even if lots and lots more training is still in store and she’s kind of a crap shot.
With gratitude and respect. With calm and readiness. Because, at the end of the day, that’s what we are: ready, come what may. Small in territory and numbers, yes; but ready, relentless, and resolved.
And trust me, we all hope we won’t ever have to put those G36’s to use.
But until that hope becomes absolute certainty, I’m trading my riding weekends for military exercises.
That’s not to say there won’t be any riding weekends; on the contrary, there will be plenty. It looks like I’ll be keeping that loaner CF Moto 800 MTX bike – it’s grown on me, I confess.
I’ll be leading a women’s motorcycle tour in Mexico just next week; I’ll keep writing stories, renovating the Heisenberg Residence, and hiking the woods with my two and a half dogs.
I’ll keep fundraising and delivering cars and motorcycles to combat medics and defenders in Ukraine with Kelio Knyga, because our support is now more crucial than ever.
I’ll feel massively confused and way out of my depth at times, I’ll question my choices, I’ll probably get slightly depressed when Lithuanian winter sets in with its darkness and be disproportionately stoked about this new tour idea I have for Peru.
I’ll keep butchering paint jobs, missing Patagonia, and writing that damned book.
I’ll still be me, whatever that means – but there’ll be less skedaddling and more standing up for what matters, in my own small ways, in this tiny little corner of the Baltics, as the storm clouds gather over Europe, as the morning dew turns to frost, as we hurtle towards a very strange 2026, all clinging to this ridiculous blue rock bobbing across the infinite galaxy preoccupied with our pumpkin spice lattes, taxes, inexplicable toothaches, Netflix, mild anxiety, occasional hangovers, unexpected love affairs, ice baths, and a sense that, actually, if we really think about it, we could probably do better, only our knees hurt, and it’s already almost Thursday.
Thank you for sticking around with me, you magnificent specks of stardust.
With love,
Egle
Skeddaddler Extraordinaire,
Private.
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