YOU can’t live your life in fear.” That’s what I said as I packed my wool suits, my Cheltenham overcoat, my camera, my stashed British pounds, my press pass and left for England.

I repeated that mantra until it weakened, until it lost its levity. It began to sound trite, flippant, ridiculously out of touch.

A week ago, I left for Cheltenham, the coronavirus, at the time, was a concern, a hassle, a nuisance. Or so we thought…or so I thought. I left without fear. Trepidation, sure, but not fear.

In what has felt like a very short and very long week, the heat has been turned up, a virus on the rise, the world is a strange place.

The Masters, the Carolina Cup, my son’s Little League season, the London Marathon, horse sales, horse races, gatherings of any size are being postponed or cancelled or run behind closed doors. Italy is in lockdown, the stock market has plummeted, schools are closing, businesses pressured and stretched.

Cheltenham felt like the last dance as the lights went down. Surreal. The mind volleyed back and forth. Are we being stupid or smart? Reckless or resistant? Brazen or bold? Deadly or defiant?

I write from an empty row on a half-empty flight from Heathrow to Dulles. Maybe, it’s just the plane ride. Or Springsteen weaving words and telling tales in his documentary, Western Stars, which plays on the pullout screen in front of me.

Some of us break down in hotel rooms, weep on long car rides, fall apart when we see an old friend or hear a favorite song. I get wistful and introspective on plane rides. It’s partly saying goodbye to my son, my wife, my life when I leave, thinking about what could happen while I’m gone, if the trip is worth it, if days when I’m away override days when I stay.

And on the journey home, it’s saying goodbye to friends who I won’t see for another year, if we’re lucky.

I guess this is the simple nature of travelling. When I leave, I wonder if I should go. I come home, glad I did. Usually. This time, it’s different, we are living in a strange, dystopian time. Heathrow was eerie, the fear palpable as passengers trudged to destinations unknown. Sneezes like lightning bolts. Coughs, claps of thunder.

My wife, Annie, says I’m going into self isolation in the guest room when I get home, away from her, away from my son. I want to scoff, tell her she’s overreacting, but can’t.

Should I have gone to Cheltenham last week? Was this a barbaric move? An act of selfishness? Have I put myself, and more importantly, them and others at risk? I’ll be content with the memories, the moments, content with the decision to go to Cheltenham, only when I know we are clear from an invisible virus that has the world reeling, wondering, questioning. Actually, content is too strong. Relieved is more like it.

Springsteen just finished with a three-word goodbye. “Travel safe, pilgrim.”