Sometimes a Great Notion

Dearest Blog Followers, (note: this is a post I wrote a week and a half ago, and am only now just publishing it, I think it was penned the last Sunday in March).

It is with regret and dissapointment that I write to all of you today to say that my trip has come to an early and unforseen conclusion.

I am sitting in my friend Ellie's house, overlooking a quiet street in Bellingham, WA, enjoying the changing clouds, the wind, and the keyboard on her computer, which clicks satisfyingly with each letter. Read the next paragraphs for a travelogue of the first (and last) 200 miles of my trip, or skip to the end and read why my trip has come to an untimely end. Better yet, do both!

The Travelogue:

I began my trip on Thursday, in the midst of a rain squall in Vancouver, British Columbia. The plan was to make a large loop around British Columbia, beginning in Vancouver, heading north along the east side of the Strait of Georgia, then across to the east side of Vancouver Island, then south towards Victoria, then south and east, angling for Bellingham, WA.

No doubt Vancouver has many charms, though none of them were evident as I wove the alien streets, riding through Stanely Park, over the Lion's Gate Bridge, and then past mossy houses and creeks in foggy West Vancouver. I missed a five thirty ferry, and took the seven thirty ferry instead, arriving in Langdale, and certain I'd find my campsite, which was a mere five miles from the ferry terminal. However, the darkness, the rain, and the strange, hilly roads conspired against me, and I rode ten miles before giving up and pitching my tent alongside the ocean, half beneath a pine tree, half on a sidewalk just outside of the town of Sechelt. I awoke to find the sun shining, and also to find that my bike rack was so poorly adjusted that it had been rubbing on my tire for miles, and in fact, my tire had acutally worn halfway through the aluminum tube. It's a wonder that my tire didn't explode. After some frustrating minutes with a wrench, I was able to adjust everything properly, drank some coffee in town, and got on my way. The day's goal: forty five miles, and one ferry ride, destination: Saltery Bay.

Thankfully the sun shone as I rode, and I began to discover that pedaling up steep grades with an extra thirty pounds of stuff on your bike was going to be harder than expected. I wouldn't dream of doing this ride without a small chain ring, since I shifted into the lowest gears possible on the steep hills, and barely managed five mph. A quick grocery store lunch (with a .49 cent Orangina!) and I arrived at the ferry terminal, only to wait for two hours, which was fine by me. Unlike the previous day, my campsite was only a three minute ride once I'd gotten off the ferry. I set up my tent beneath trees right out of Tolkien's Mirkwood, and then took refuge from the large, hungry mosquitoes clinging to the tent. Sadly, the water wasn't turned on in this particular provincial park, so I had to do with the approximatley seven ounces I had left in my water bottle. Dinner was an appetizer of honey straight from the plastic squeeze bottle, followed up by an entree of watery noodles (which tasted like canned salmon from the previous night, since I was hoping to wash out my pan, though this wasn't to be, as I couldn't waste what water I had on such frivolties). I capped off this delicious meal with an apple, accompanied by a half of a jar of peanut butter. It rained during the night, and I broke my fast with a granola bar, peanut butter and honey sandwich.

Saturday's goal: nineteen miles to Powell River, where I'd take a ferry across the Strait of Georgia, then an additional sixty odd miles south on Vancouver Island. I had an hour wait in Powell River, so I treated myself to a real breakfast, and devoured scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, potatoes, fruit, coffee and french toast. The guy at the restraunt asked if "all of the food was for me." Indeed it was, guy at the restraunt counter, indeed it was. The ferry was a nice, scenic ride, then it deposited me onto Vancouver Island, where I battled headwinds and hills for the next four hours. The scenery was generally great, green, with views of the ocean, and the mountains looking blue and wet in the distance. I snacked on candy bars and enjoyed the brief interludes of sun.

I was, as they say, knackered when I arrived at the day's campground, which was large, shady, and next to the ocean. I was excited to hear seals barking, until I realized it was a neighboring camper's dog. Fortunately, the Canadian Government saw fit to turn the water on this time, so I feasted on canned chili with pasta, A snickers bar, apples with peanut butter, and potato chips. I even washed my pots and pans.

Sunday was to be my final day on the road. I hoping to ride what I'd though would be a mere fourteen miles to catch a ferry back to Vancouver, where my lovely friend Ellie, whose hospitality I am currently taking advantage of, offered to pick me up and drive me back to Bellingham. However, the ferry terminal was, in reality, thirty miles away, which I didn't discover until I'd convinced myself that the ferry was just around the corner. Not wanting to miss the boat, I obtained directions from some fellow cyclists, who told me to "ride along the parkway (canadian code for a four lane expressway), since it was the fastest and most direct way, and, better yet, it was downhill the whole way!" These two cyclists caught up to me at a traffic light just as I was about to turn, and mentioned with a smile, that there were actually a few hills. It's never downhill the whole way.

I made the ferry with mere minutes to spare, and then spent the two hours en route warming up, changing out of my spandex, and spending my small change on chips and candy bars from the vending machines. I found Ellie, and then showed her that the back seat of her car would actually fold forward, so that tidbit of knowledge was worth the drive up to Vancouver. After a brief wait at the border, my purported journey of one thousand, nine hundred and eighty seven point three miles had come to an end, with one thousand, seven hundred and eighty seven point three odd miles left uncompleted.

To all of you who had bets wagered for and against me, I apoligize to those who lost money, and congratulate those of you who won.

The Explanation:

Why, then, you ask, has this journey come to an early and unexpected end? I think that this whole trip was something that, in theory, seemed like the greatest thing in the world, and I sure had a great time planning it and thinking and dreaming of it. However, the reality of the situation was not at all what I had been anticipating. It was cold, rainy, and windy. The clouds covered the sun, the woods dripped with moss and mist and felt damp and unpleasant. The roads were covered in sand that got into all of my stuff. My tent was perpetually wet. My clothes didn't dry. I ate too many nature valley granola bars. I couldn't carry cold beer in my panniers. The campsites were deserted. My butt hurt. Pedaling up hills was not terribly difficult, just boring, as I could only manage about five miles per hour.

I think I underestimated how the impact of these little annoyances was magnified by the fact that I was living off of the back of my bike. Again, this probably sounds slightly romantic and adventurous, but it just sort of sucked. I wasn't having fun, and it was depressing to think that I'd be dealing with these issues for the next four weeks.

I originally decided to do this trip because I was ready for an adventure, and ready for a physical challenge. In the end, I think each day of my bike tour would have ended up being a mental challenge, rather than the physical challenge I was hoping for. I was, simply put, lonely. Five weeks would be a long, long time to spend alone. Breaking camp in the morning, eating breakfast, riding all day, setting up camp, making dinner, and going to sleep alone sounds like a recipe for disaster in my books. This, combined with the crappy weather, really didn't put me in the mood to press on with my tour.

Some wise people have told me that it is often harder to admit defeat and to admit the things we cannot do than it is to press on stubbornly, doing something we hate just to prove that we did it. If I wanted that, I would have been a math major in college. I've made peace with myself over this failed venture, and am quite happy that I threw the towel in early. One day, I'd love to do this trip, but with a whole posse of people, and in the summer. If you'd like to be part of my future summer-time-bike-touring-posse, just let me know.

Until that day, thanks for all of your support. Sometimes a great notion, right? Right.