It was a long winter. After all the bike fun last summer, I settled into a job downtown, reducing my time for leisure rides and shortening my commute by more than half of that for my previous job. Sure, that meant I had more time but time has a funny way of getting full. So although I would still say I love my bike, my bike and cycling in general was definitely not getting the love it deserves.
Then this past weekend rolled along and convinced me to ride with it and now my heart is back.
It started Saturday with the Velopalooza bike wash fundraiser in front of the Union Food Market in Strathcona. With 5 stands, 2 buckets, 2 hoses, rags, degreaser, a mechanic, and a handful of volunteers we beckoned cyclists passing by to get the winter grime cleaned from their bikes. Or in some people’s case, several years of gunk.
Washing other people’s bikes and chatting with them whilst doing so fed my general people-curiosity as I learned why they ride and how they feel about their bike. It made me remember the wonderful diversity of relationships people have with their bikes.
I also enjoyed a reason to hang out in a neighbourhood I never find reasons to hang out in. The Union Food Market is not just a grocery store but a place to grab a coffee and a yummy pastry to eat on their patio while you meet neighbours and watch cyclists cruise by. I noticed a few people walk out with this cake so had to try it myself:
As she passed it to me, the woman behind the counter said “get ready for your new addiction“. And yes, that cake will eventually bring me back.
The day ended with an evening on the balcony watching the sky darken, three men cooking while I watched (he he I don’t know how I managed that) and a curry coma.
Sunday morning I woke up finally motivated to deal with the panic of an approaching bike tour by getting my bike life in order. Wait! Bike tour?! Yes! A few months ago I finally booked a flight to Scotland to visit the lovely Jemma in Edinburgh and Anna in Glasgow. It so happens that Anna had already planned a Northern Ireland tour and when she asked if I’d be able to join for part, I couldn’t say no.
But honestly I’m a little scared – of not being able to get my gear in order and over to the UK and of not being in the physical condition to manage hilly Ireland. Neither are reason for not trying though. So in the three and a half weeks before the tour *gulp*, I will try my best to maintain, clean, love, feed, sing to, dream of, compliment, and admire my bike. I started Sunday by getting it a new Brooks saddle.
(Vincent: if you read this, I’m showing you mine.)
My first spin took me to a garden store in Burnaby, an 18km loop that felt suitably modest for the breaking-in process I had heard about. But throughout the ride and home again, it felt like I was floating on a pat of butter. What breaking-in?
Then…I had just started work in the garden when Eric called outside “seaball!” Aside: a seaball is a ride around the downtown and Stanley Park seawall accompanied by music provided by friends kind enough to tote PA speakers on their bikes. It’s the perfect way to watch a sunny afternoon slip into evening.
Halfway through the seaball I finally realized that I was indeed breaking my saddle in and it was indeed breaking me. The next day, still sore, I wondered if the secret to Brooks comfort was that my body would eventually become trained to hover over my seat while cycling. Thankfully, the few days after were much better and I’m now confident that I’ll have a pretty sweet spot to rest my bum in Ireland.
In great succession to weekend excitement about saddles, bikes, bike rides and upcoming trips, Tuesday evening was the first class in an informal bike mechanics course being held in our garage by the same woman who taught me how to true my wheel a year and some ago. She’s a great teacher who can explain things in a way that leaves you thinking, “of course, that’s so simple.”
We started by learning the names of bike parts. Okay, it did feel a little too simple at first but once we went through an exercise of attaching post-it notes marked with parts to the parts themselves, I realized how useful it was for really really learning all the parts I had been hesitant understanding: seat and chain stays and the difference between the headset and head tube being a few.
Next week we’ll look at brakes and (this is big one for me) cables.
Until then, my bike is spending the weekend at a shop for some professional love while I run off to the coast. As excited as I am to surf, I’m already missing my bike and am looking forward to early morning rides in the following weeks…possibly for donuts : )
There is a list of things I’ve been meaning to write about but right now, writing feels a bit like meeting a friend you haven’t seen in a long time. There are umpteen things to catch up on but it’s been so long that you’re not sure where to start. Hopefully it’s a good friend, the kind you could talk to till sunrise, and everything will flow from the first ‘happy to see you again’.
On the list was surfing: the almost monthly trips, learnings, breakthroughs, sunshine, flying as well as tears, fears and injuries. Every time I go to the coast sentences pile up. I want to describe the natural beauty, the friends to spend warm evenings with after a day in cold water and everything I learn and unlearn about life when I mingle with waves. But save for intermittent notes in a personal journal, the sentences don’t come out. Maybe because I’m fixated on the notion that all my writing should be accompanied by pictures. Pictures that don’t get taken because I can’t be bothered with a camera when wearing a wetsuit.
But it’s funny, here I am deciding to finally just write – without the help of pictures and their 1000s of words, 3 weeks after my last surf and 2 weeks before the next trip planned and…in Saskatchewan. Far, far away from swell and sexwax smell. Though at the same time, perhaps a fitting place to be writing about where surfing currently stands in my life. A distraction from blue green fantasies.
Other than a lesson in Japan now foggy in my memory, I started surfing two and a half years ago. It was the passion of my boyfriend at the time and what seemed to be key to his lifestyle and demeanour that so attracted me. Falling in love with him I felt like I was also falling in love with salt, sand and neoprene. But just like love, learning to surf ain’t easy. Especially when you lack the confidence to stand tall and trust that you belong on a wave. The first year was a challenge, more emotionally than physically. I made the mistake of believing the relationship was dependent on me being able to surf. Trip after trip as I didn’t get up on that board, I feared that I was failing as a surfer and that the relationship would soon crumble around this deficiency.
When the relationship did end, for reasons other than my poor surfing skills (I think), I panicked. Would that be it? A year of attempts and then a future being a person who says, “oh yeah, I tried surfing a while back. It’s sure hard isn’t it?” and who enjoys the ocean as something to hear and see but not feel?
I promised myself that I would continue to try. I bought a wetsuit and a 9’6” bus from my ex. It was dinged-up and heavy with water and emotional baggage too I’m sure, but it felt special and right for me at the time. I went out alone which was absolutely stupid but luckily I learned that without injury. Then I went for a weekend with friends and finally, after a year of trying, I caught a wave and planted two feet on my board. It may have been because of the lesson we took (yes, lessons = good) but I like to think it’s because I finally detached myself from surfing as something exclusive and with emotional importance. I just had fun.
In the year and a half since, I’ve been fortunate to have good friends who are rare to consider going anywhere other than Tofino for a long weekend. My progress is still slow. I need to be less cautious and to accept wave poundings or the occasional wash cycle. But I’ve made enough progress to be encouraged to keep going and have noted that the breakthroughs only happen when I stop caring about how well I surf and just. have. fun.
Sunshine and what friends amiably refer to as “Meghan waves” (inversely proportional to my height and the coffee I brew) help too. Oh, and so does my lovely new board: pepsi-coola.
There are still discouragements. There are sessions where it feels impossible to understand the waves and even ones where they feel adversary enough for me to call it quits (let any future children be thankful for 5mm of neoprene!). I guess these are to be expected. But a more constant discouragement is the reality that Vancouver is far from breaks and while it’s possible to have a surfing holiday lifestyle, it’s very difficult to live and breathe surfing. This discouragement is amplified by the thought that maybe I’m kidding myself; that there’s some element of surfing I’ll never experience being a girl from the prairies with a first trip to the ocean at the age of 21 and still a 5 to 6 hour journey from the closest break.
The subtext here is that this discouragement extends to other things I want to be, have or create. At times I wonder if they are too much of a departure from the experiences I’ve had and who I’m able to be.
Jump back to Saskatchewan. It is the first time that this place feels really truly foreign. The air extra dry, people holding themselves and speaking in different manners, a different mix of groceries in shopping carts and more dyed hair. It isn’t foreign in a bad way, just different and well, in a way where I don’t feel like I belong here anymore.
I guess anyone who has moved away from a place for a substantial amount of time could tell me, ‘that’s what happens’. But it’s an important milestone to me because when I found myself walking through Extra Foods feeling alien and wondering “where do I belong?” I finally realized – I fully belong in Vancouver, in BC, by the mountains, close (enough for now) to the ocean. It is who I am.
How does this relate to the surfing? Well first, feeling like I belong in Vancouver and in BC is one step closer to feeling connected to the ocean. Some would argue it’s still a pretty far step but it’s much closer than the prairies. But then secondly, this realization of where I belong has demonstrated to me the impermanence of identity, or the ability to adapt at least, and it’s wonderfully exciting to think of who I might be 10 years from now. So different from myself now just like myself now is different from my 20-year old self. And I feel great comfort and happiness knowing the very high possibility that when I’m 40, I’ll still be out there, playing in the water.
Phew. Now my good friend remembers why we live in different cities. She wishes I would just bake more pies. But perhaps a long self-reflection post was needed to put some space between the past (breakfast poetry…really?) and future tales of more summer bike rides, chasing men in kilts and maybe even some notes from my old-new consulting gig.
Soon to come home and dreaming about Easter surf evening sunsets guitars by the fire and chilly morning bacon.