am i supposed to be on this road?

Peter and I left the house at 5 AM.  He told me he’d drop me off near his workplace, which is close to Highway 1.  I asked him if it was OK to cycle to Vancouver the entire way on the highway, and he said, “Yeah, I don’t see why not.  I see people do it all the time.  I used to.”

He bought me McDonald’s for breakfast and sent me on my way.  I wanted to give him a big slobbery kiss goodbye, but I was scared that he’d pound me into the ground.  I settled for a big man hug.

My route would take me on 40 miles of freeway into Vancouver…during rush hour.  I was getting a lot of draft due to the amount of traffic flying by me.  When the cars started getting packed in, I started questioning whether I was permitted to cycle on this highway.  I kept going anyways.  I had no other option.  It was this highway or the US/Canada border.

saved by the DOT

I pulled up to Port Mann Bridge and looked on with horror.  How the hell was this going to happen?  There was no shoulder.  The side view mirrors of passing cars were nearly scraping the cement walls.  Plus there was a bumper to bumper traffic.  Certain death.

I walked backwards over my bike as cars continued to fly by.  I had no room to turn around and walk forwards.  I caught a glimpse of the sidewalk.  It was 12 inches wide, used only as an emergency bridge crossing.  Nope.  Not happening.  I stood over my bike once more and stared at the bridge in horror.  This was the only option I had.  I was about to pedal forward towards the bridge when I heard a honk.

A big Department of Transportation truck drove up from the access ramp to the bridge and blared its horn.  A bearded, burly driver hopped out of the truck.  I walked up to him with fear in my eyes.

“Do you want to die today?” he forcibly asked.  Does this man want to kill me, or is he saying this because crossing the bridge is suicide?  It was the latter I assumed.

“No,” I stuttered with a quivering voice.   “A f-f-few cyclists told me it was OK.”  It was true.  I heard it from a few other cyclists along the way.

“Well, it’s not.  You can get a $150 fine from the RCMP [Royal Canadian Mounted Police] for riding on this freeway,” he said.  “Plus, you would probably end up in a body bag crossing that bridge.  Throw your stuff in the back of the truck and I’ll take you over to Lougheed.  You can ride that into the city.”

He drove me across the bridge to Lougheed Highway and dropped me off at an interesting spot.  Some stupid looking white guy was getting arrested by four police officers.  I pictured myself in this poor guy’s predicament…getting arrested for crossing the Port Mann Bridge.

vancouver

I cycled Lougheed Highway about 10 miles into the city.  I soon found out drivers gave you no room here.  I also learned that other cyclists don’t take the time to talk to one another.  I actually felt stupid trying to talk to a fellow cyclist…

I pulled up to a stoplight alongside another cyclist.  I removed my iPod earbuds, turned my head, and started to speak.  I was mid-sentence when the light turned green.  He took off.  I looked stupid.  I had gotten used to stopping on the road and talking to other cyclists.  I was a country mouse in the big city.  A stupid country mouse.  Evidently cyclists were a normal sight.

My bike board might have scared the cyclist off.  I replaced ‘Carmen San Diego’ with ‘Waldo’.  I got zero reactions from people.  Did no one remember trying to find Waldo and screaming out loud in frustration as your eyes stared for two hours at a ridiculous scenario with knights battling little green aliens?

I met up with Dave Cutts’ cousin Ryan who lived in Vancouver.  I’d be staying with him for a few nights while exploring the city.

t-rex in a kayak

Ryan and his girlfriend Beth were planning on going out to Granville Island and kayaking around the strait.  He said I should come along…his treat.  What hospitality.  Kayaking was expensive, but without hesitation he offered to pay.

After renting the kayaks, I clumsily climbed into the kayak.  Beth and Ryan took off no problem.  They kayaked regularly.  I bumped into the dock a few times and nearly planted the nose of the kayak into an expensive, docked boat.  I forgot I had foot pedals to control the rudder.  I was a dunderhead.

We got out into open water, and Ryan and Beth darted forward.  My arms have gotten little exercise since this bike trip.  With my scrawny, useless arms, I felt like a T-rex in a kayak.  I was struggling to stay within 50 yards of them.  Ryan and Beth would often stretch out and rest far ahead of me.  Damnit.  I was never able to do that.

My arms were burning.  There was no way in hell I could continue at this pace, but I didn’t want to complain.  Ryan was a tattoo artist, and he had just given himself a tattoo on his leg a few days ago.  He was tough.  Beth was tough too.  I was tired.  I had been cycling since 5 AM, but I didn’t want to cry in front of Ryan and Beth.

After two hours of kayaking, I burrowed my head into my life jacket and cried.  Cried and cried and cried.  And cried.  Ryan and Beth laughed and enjoyed the views.  They had their love to keep them strong.  Meanwhile, I had no arm strength.

biking, beaches, and babes

Ryan and I cycled in Stanley Park and formed an emo band on the beach.

I worked on my tan at the beach.  A group of girls were near us on the beach.  They were looking at me.  I momentarily thought I was attractive…until they started laughing.  I looked down.  Right.  My terrible tan line.  I stupidly smiled at them.  It happened a lot after that.  I think these girls were alerting all other girls on the beach.

I was suffering from a bruised ego, but Ryan and Beth convinced me to go to The Cambie, a dive bar in the downtown area.  At least I would have a shirt on.

Beth told me that she got really angry when she drank booz.  After a few beers, I agreed with her assessment.  She didn’t like a hipster girl in the patio section.  “I just don’t like her face,” she kept saying.

Ryan and I egged her on, stengthening her disdain for this poor, lonely hipster.  The girl was texting on her phone for what seemed like hours.  I didn’t mind her, but I dared not say that to Beth.  Poor, lonely girl.

wyoming in canada

I wanted to make it to Vancouver in three days, so I decided to change my route to cut off 50 miles.  This still meant three big days of riding.  I said goodbye to Lenard and Deanna, who loaded me up with fiber-rich cookies and trail mix.

The ride out of Kamloops was a pain in the ass.  I think I was standing up for a good four miles just to get out of the city.  It probably didn’t help that I chose to ride out of the city on a road called Summit Drive.  I was praying that I’d have the wind at my back for the rest of the day.  The last thing I’d want would be a head wind coming at me through the Nicola Valley.

There was a two mile stretch where I thought I had a tail wind.  Wrong.  I descended into the valley and got hit hard by the wind.  Everything changed on that descent.  The wind.  The fauna.  The landscape.  I thought I was back in Wyoming.  The rolling hills were covered with high, yellow grasses and sage brush.  The wind was also incredibly strong.  So strong, in fact, that I struggled to keep my bike going above 8 mph.

There was no shoulder at all, and when there was one, it was covered in sand and rocks. Useless.  The traffic on this road was mostly big trucks.  I was not having fun, and I would be riding in this hellish valley all day long.  I was haunted by flashbacks of Wyoming.

“oh, you definitely won’t make it…there’s no way”

I turned past a sharp corner in the valley and over the horizon I saw a slow-moving, bumbling object coming at me.  It was a fellow touring cyclist.  I envied his situation.  He had a great tail wind.  I didn’t.

I have tried my best to remember this guy’s name.  Cliff.  Peter.  Mike.  David.  It could be any of these name.  This guy owned his own business, which he insisted on telling me twice, and took off three weeks to do this huge cycling trip.  He was wearing combat boots, camo pants, and a big denim overcoat.  He looked ridiculous, as if he was dressed for World War 3…Bugle Boy vs. Levi.  He was pulling a big bike trailer with this orange flag sticking out of the back, like something off of Chunk’s bike from The Goonies. He was all man in the front…all boy in the back.

The cyclist was from Boston Bar, a two day’s ride from Nicola Valley.  He expected a huge “wow” from me, but I didn’t give it to him.  I just said ‘cool’ and asked him where he camped.  He told me I should camp 6 miles up the road.  I told him I was shooting for at least Merritt that day, and he quickly interrupting me saying, “No, no.  You’ll never make it to Merritt.  That’s not possible.  You’re going to have to camp up the road.”  Merritt was only 40 miles away, and it was just 2 PM.  Of course I could make it, but this guy insisted I could not.  In fact, he said it a few times during our conversation.  He asked me about the upcoming hill behind me that climbs out of the valley.  He said he’d just walk it.  And this guy was telling me I couldn’t make it somewhere…

I pedaled off inspired by this guy.  I wanted to prove him wrong, even though he’d never find out how far I would go that day.  He didn’t believe in me, but I wanted him to believe.

The rest of the day was spent cycling into a strong wind along the lakes in the valley.  The above picture was taken next to the largest lake in the valley, Nicola Lake.  Thanks to Marlboro for sponsoring my ride that day.

more climbing into a god awful wind

It was 6 PM as I rolled into Merritt.  I went into the Walmart and bought cookies, chocolate milk, and a huge container of Nutella.  I sat in front of the store by all the patio furniture and sadly ate my meal.  I had another 20 miles to go, and it was getting late.

I finished my pathetic meal and got back on the bicycle.  The rest of the ride to Vancouver would put me on the Coquihalla Highway, a road dominated by constant ups and downs.  I was not looking forward to it, especially in this wind.  The ride out of Merritt put me on a huge 5 mile climb.  The wind hadn’t let up.  The incline was so long and harsh that trucks crawled by me at a pace of 15 mph.  The shoulder at times was only 3 feet wide, and the traffic was that of a busy interstate in Atlanta.

I was trying to cycle to this spot Lenard had camped at on one of his Vancouver tours.  It was a ‘stealth camping’ spot at the side of the Kingsvale bridge, which went across Coldwater Creek.  All I knew was that it was south of Merritt within a range of 20-30 miles.  I had only gone 12 miles out of the city, and it was close to 9:30 PM.  I told myself that if I don’t hit the bridge within another 3 miles, I was going to start scouting for other spots.

Needless to say, I went 3 miles and didn’t come across the bridge.  However, I found a great spot on the side of the highway beside a barbed wire fence.  There was a big mound of asphalt to the side, hiding my tent and bike from all would-be sexually frustrated truckers.  Good enough for me.