After shaking off the jetlag from the long haul through Abu Dhabi and to the other side of the globe, I figured I finally had the energy to do something more. So naturally, I hopped on a 150cc motorbike and headed directly into the chaos of Bali’s “free-for-all” roads — weaving through scooters, trucks, and the occasional dog who very clearly owns the road more than anyone else. But there is absolutely a method to the madness, and I firmly believe the only way to learn it is to raw-dog straight into it. You either adapt, or you shouldn’t be on the road at all. Once you understand the flow, it’s actually pretty amazing — almost like a dance. I highly recommend trying it, as it’s a Bali experience in its own right. My first legitimate stop was the Ceking Rice Terraces in Tegallalang. It wasn’t at the top of my rice terrace list, but it was close enough. One thing you quickly learn in Ubud is that even if something looks close on Google Maps, you’re still in for a decently long ride. The drive took me up winding mountain roads that would never pass a safety inspection — steep, slick from the recent rain, and completely guardrail-free. And by steep, I mean hundreds of feet straight down to your death — at least if you’re an unaware driver or unsure of your skills while navigating a motorbike in a foreign country. Once I got to the entrance, I hiked around the terraces themselves — which, by the way, are still very much functioning rice paddies. Locals were out there barefoot, knee-deep in water, working under the sun. The “stairs” winding through the terraces were more like carved, uneven ledges — steep, muddy from the rain, and absolutely not made for tourism. I passed plenty of vacationers in flowing dresses swinging over the fields for their perfect Instagram profile pic, or ziplining across the valley on lines strung through the trees — but I couldn’t bring myself to join in. That kind of stuff always feels a little too gimmicky for me. What did catch my eye, though, was this ancient-looking statue head, half-embedded in a cliff wall and becoming overtaken by time and moss. It looked like something straight out of an Indiana Jones movie — weathered, stoic, and so naturally blended into the surrounding area that you’d miss it entirely if you weren’t really looking. There was no sign, no tourist marker, no plaque saying “hey, look at this thing” — just a quiet, mysterious presence staring out from the rock face. That kind of thing sticks with me way more than any of the curated tourist attractions. Just beneath the statue, there was a small indent carved into the wall, where people had left rupiah offerings. Maybe for good luck. Maybe just out of reverence for whatever spirit or story the statue represents. I’m not really sure. But if it is handing out good fortune, I probably should’ve left more. I might need to go back with something better next time After the hike, I cooled down with a cold Bintang and a glass of pineapple juice at this little bar built right into the edge of the cliff. Just a handful of wooden stools, a shaded counter, and an amazing view stretching out over the terraces and beyond. The sun was starting to dip, casting a golden glow over everything, and for a moment, it was just me, the breeze, and the sound of distant roosters echoing through the valley. It felt like one of those simple but perfect moments you don’t plan for — the kind that just happens when you let the day unfold. The beer was cold, the juice was sweet, and the view made it all taste better. It was the ideal way to reset before hopping back on the bike and heading toward my stay at Villa Neyang — which, honestly, deserves an entire post of its own. That place is something special, and I’ll get into why soon enough. More to come.

This is me Hey there. I’m Riley—if you’ve made it here, you probably already figured that out. I’m 36 years old (37 is coming fast), and I’m here because I’ve decided to start over. Completely. You could call it a rebirth, a reinvention, or maybe just a long-overdue escape. Either way, this is my new beginning. I’ve spent most of my life in a tiny town in Wisconsin—so small, I jokingly call it the Bermuda Triangle of the Midwest. To many, it’s a beautiful place to live. And I get it. There are people who are genuinely happy there, and I respect that. But I’ve always wanted something more. Something bigger. Something that place could never give me. Door County, Wisconsin, where I grew up, is steeped in history, tradition, and deep-rooted families who love keeping things just the way they’ve always been. Ephraim, one of the towns there, was known for being the last “dry town” in the United States. You couldn’t even get a beer there until recently. People celebrated that fact—still do, actually. It’s the kind of place that got the iPhone ten years late and didn’t get fast, reliable internet until Starlink came around and embarrassed the local providers into modernizing. That’s the pace of change in Door County—glacial, and often met with resistance. The mindset there? Outdated. Comfortably stuck in the past. Businesses running on point-of-sale systems from the early 2000s, refusing to upgrade because it would mean spending time and energy—something they had plenty of in the off-season, but couldn’t be bothered to use. It was a strange, backwards place to work and live in. And the people? Predictable. Uninspired. I could probably tell you where almost anyone in town is sitting at this exact moment, what beer they’re drinking, and what they’re complaining about. Spoiler: it’s probably tourists. You know, the very people who make it possible for them to live there in the first place. But that irony seems lost on most of them. I was already creating art at my job, but not the kind I was interested in. I needed more. More color, more energy, more life. Door County is grey and brown for 75% of the year. Some folks are okay with that. I’m not. I need fire, not ash. So in 2024, as the world started to move past COVID but still reeled from burnout, I reached my breaking point. I had a well-paying job—part owner of a retail business with five storefronts and a sixth framing shop off the beaten path (which, surprise, was the only one I enjoyed). But the toxic environment, the outdated practices, the coworkers stuck in cycles of negativity and mediocrity—it all just… broke me. My body started rejecting it. I was exhausted, mentally and physically, and not from working hard—just from existing in that space. Eventually, someone said, “Just leave. You’re a dread to be around.” That was my cue. No argument. No dramatic exit. I just walked away. And I’ve never looked back. So, what now? What does a 36-year-old, jobless ex-retail guy do? He creates. I want to tell stories. I want to travel, feel alive, chase beauty, and experience culture. I want to meet people who inspire me, eat food that surprises me, and capture moments that remind me what it’s like to be here, now, and awake. And I want to share that with you. “This Life of Riley” is about that leap. It’s about starting over in the middle of your life—not because you failed, but because you refused to settle. But the name isn’t just about me. The real emphasis is on This Life. Because we each get one. And whether you’re 36 or 66, stuck or just starting to feel the itch—there’s still time to make it something beautiful. So, here we go. Let’s see what happens when you stop waiting for the “right time” and finally choose to live this life.