Hey,
Twelve days no word from the Will; What's up?

Day One
Left Hornby after lunch at the Hope Kitchen with the local rag-tags who all looked bushed but got fed very well. Nice way to end the time there, big good meal.

Across Hornby it became evident Blu does not appreciate the beach so much as his rider. Crunching sounds from rear axles, yikes!

Riding Denman confidence built, tho' I was slowed considerably by construction paving on the island. Rode in soft tar for many K, not a fun thing. Once on the other side energy was up so I kept riding. Blu and BoB however were not having fun. They seemed to get heavier as the day wore on, but on we pushed, and finally, at sundown, we arrived in Cumberland, pooped from ten days off.

Landed at the Riding Fool hostel, which was a very nice hostel but I received the distinct impression, if I’d been 25 and a downhill rider, I'd have been invited to share the strawberry and cream cheese sponge cake they had in the fridge. Not long after checking in I was talking to the hostel owner about my bike problems, while another fellow stood by, and was told I should see the bike shop owner in the morning.

Had my first shower in two weeks and slept okay, waking early to the streets of Cumberland being buzzed by several harlies.

Day Two
Did laundry and a little biz while waiting for the bike shop to open. When it did, I was surprised to discover the owner was the same guy who stood by and said nothing the night before, while I quizzed the hostel host about my cycle issues.

Right in front of me he gave Blu's back wheel a spin, watched it stop too soon, then said, "everything looks fine here, you'll be okay!" I knew in my gut he was incorrect, but didn't bother to challenge him. Again, if I'd been a 25-year-old downhiller I'd have been treated to the cake.

Rode out of Cumberland past the old Bevan Park Lodge, which stands no more, and down into the edgy town of Courtenay, where a couple years ago my panniers got ripped off.

Town and bike shop owners were just as unhelpful, so I did a tour of the superstore, grabbed some stuff I needed and headed for the ferry, Blu's back wheel dragging and the load feeling heavy. Injured my right calf when Blu tried to fall over at a rest stop, and I put my leg down to stop it. Big bloody gouges!

On the Powell River ferry the First Aid attendant cleaned and bandaged it for me, and quizzed me about grinding. Slept that night in the funky town of Powell River, at a campground right in town, name escapes me.

Day Three
Up early and on my way up a steep hill to Canadian Tire, where I picked up a couple things I needed, and got talked to by some Europeans gents of the generation previous to mine. They wished me well and I felt like maybe I was going to have a good day.

Rode out the long and rolling route towards Saltery Bay, stopping at a yard sale, where the little bent-up old lady, who was running things, charged me 25 cents twice for a little hat I bought then later lost.

Near Saltery Bay Blu's back tire went into Blu's frame, bringing my show to a dead stop. I limped into the campsite and spent many hours trying to right what I thought was a warp in my tire.

Cooked dinner with a mosquito net over my body, being barraged but not bitten by a million of the little buggers.

Slept fitfully, but a little relieved the ride hadn't been bad. Hoped I would meet someone at the Saltery Bay Ferry the next morning, like maybe a cyclist with some knowledge of wheels.

Day Four
Sure enough, after I escaped the mosquitos and managed to get the back wheel to roll, I arrived at the Ferry dock, where the ticket agent joked about charging me for my trailer. Minutes later two Brits, Andy and Becky, rolled up on their hard bodies with loads on. Andy agreed to check my bike on the far side, where he informed me my back axle was almost toast. I would need the bearings replaced, but could potentially make it to Sechelt if I went easy. We all camped together that night in Madeira Bay, at a campground set atop the local septic field. They, like so many before, marvelled at my practice of mixing cream cheese in my tomato sauce.

That ride was hilly but lovely, through second-growth forest on a road barren of traffic. For days I'd been warned how steep, windy and unshouldered it was. Instead I found the shoulder fine, the steepness passable, and the winding fun.

Day Five
It all started out okay, saying so long to Andy and Becky, who decided to highball to Gibsons. At first the road was easy, well not easy, but not terribly hard. Then I decided to follow my instincts and head down Redroofs Road, near Pender Harbour, thinking maybe I'd like to escape traffic. There I met the first hill to kick my butt on this trip. It was steep, narrow, busy with rushing yupppies. Awful.

When I emerged from it I was in rush hour traffic, or late afternoon Saturday traffic, that gave me no room. It was getting ugly.

Then I turned into Sechelt and calmed down, especially when a young fellow by the name of Dustan Sept, working in the local bike shop, told me he could fix my axle, replace my freewheel, which was also shot, and give me a spare tire, all for $30! I felt my luck had changed.

Walking out on the street, while Dustan was doing his thing, I spotted a great wad of red hair bopping along the sidewalk. It was an old pal, Ken McBride, who many years ago used to wake us commune hippies up in our house on Sixth and Alma in Van, by cranking up the volume on his guitar and then dragging the pick all the way down the strings, ala Hendrix. The guy was a guitar monster, and still is one of the best slingers around. Go hear his band Altamira, sometime!

Anyway, we visited. He now not only plays guitar, but builds and fixes them for the likes of Joni Mitchell, who is a resident of the Sechelt area these days. We visited, then, after resuceing Blu from Dustan, I rode out to Porpoise Bay, where I came to a dead stop for about 36 hours.

Day Six
Sat on the beach. Patched tires. Picked daisies. Ate. Napped three times.

Day Seven
Rode out early towards Roberts Creek, where I stopped for about five minutes, then rode onto Gibsons, joined part way by a German guy on a bicycle who quizzed me about cycling. Then I let myself get distracted by Gibsons, where I screwed around just long enough to miss the 12:30 ferry to Horseshoe Bay.

Later, when I finally made the ferry, I got off in time to ride the long highway hill in the rain, then down some grades that were too steep in the rain, then up some more, then down some more, all in the rain, with my hands going numb from constant braking. Finally made Van by about 6 pm, and went to visit my pal Blair over on Commercial Drive. He was just leaving, so I hopped back on Blu and headed for the Jericho Beach Hostel, where I've not stayed in nearly 30 years. Still the same place, even got the same bed I had last time.


Day Eight
Got out of Jericho about 9:30, after providing travel tips to some fellow cyclists who were heading east. Went to visit Blair again. He gave me a new pair of shoes and a couple small gifts for my ride. Stopped by the Continental Cafe and had coffee. Finally escaped the east side about 2 pm.

Life went to hell then!

Following the Trans Canada Trail Guide, which you'd think I'd know better than to do, I found myself staring down the dark side of Burnaby Mountain. It took nearly four hours to lift Blu and BoB up that killer hill in relays.

Then, I almost totally ruined my hands holding onto the brakes as I was forced to walk my beasts down the extreme loosely  gravellled downhill to Burrard inlet.

Once through that, and out into the twilight of Port Coquitlam, I got totally lost when the TCT signs led me in circles through a city park.

Finally, a local guy about my age, was able to direct me out. I did so under cover of night with all my lights on.

Somewhere, after crossing a foot bridge over the Port Coquitlam River, unbeknownst to me, I went off the path again. But it didn't matter. In the darkenss I found a place to stash Blu and BoB and lay my weary body down. I slept by the riverside under a star filled sky.

Day Nine
After about an hour riding in circles, I found my way back onto the path, and eventually emerged on the dykes near Pitt Meadows. It was lightly raining, so I decided to stop at a small TCT pavillion, near a marina, and cook myself some oats and coffee, right there in the weather. Had some nice friendly chats with a few folks who wandered by, including a couple surveyors.

Once fed and Karma Coffeed, I rode off. About an hour later I was rolling along the dyke, the sun emerging, feeling good, when all of a sudden a large white and brown dog came howling out of the grass on the left side ahead of me. The beast cut across my path, forcing me to brake, got over on my right side, barred its teeth, and snarled. Before I could think, my pepper spray was out of its holster, the safety off, and a large plume of yellow-orange spray, cut through the cross wind onto the dog's face. It finally backed off. Then its owner came along pleading; "Ah come on dog, don't do that."

I gave her hell. Dogs are, according to signs posted all along the dyke, supposed to be on leash. She didn't apologize, barely gave me eye contact, and when I was done spilling on her, asked what I'd sprayed on her lovely companion. I told her, "pepper spray" and rode on.

A while later I rolled into the Albion area at Haney, blowing BoB's tire in the Haney bipass, where I'd gone to avoid a suburban hill. It was while fixing BoB's tire I realized his bearings were shot. The wheel would barely turn. No wonder I'd felt like I'd been riding with my brakes on for a week.

Hours later, after fighting a nasty hill near Fort Langley, I cruised down a long horse path, through a lovely disiduous forest, to the Fraser River, and a shoddy little campsite on the south end of the Mission Bridge.

This was May 4, 16 years to the day in 1989 when I last had a drink of alcohol. Pulling into the sketchy campground, I was greeted by an aboriginal couple, about my age, who happened to be walking by. Keith and Sandy introduced themselves and quizzed me about what I was doing. They even offered to run to the local stores and get me anything I needed. I needed a can of butane for my stove.

They went and got it, and I gave them a book of my poetry for their trouble.

While parting, Keith told me about how he'd been sober ten years, and ten years before that, had shot a cop and gone to jail for ten years. Here was a sweet gentle man, with his sweet gentle wife. As a young man he'd got into the booze and a made a mistake that could have cost him his life, in factm it did cost one man his. Now, on the eve of my sober anniversary, and a day after his, we were standing on the Fraser River telling each other; "We were so wrong for so long, but we're all right tonight."

Day Ten
My sober anniversary, 16 years booze-free, was a lovely day. I rode the dykes and roads all the way out near Cultus Lake, a lovely breezy ride in the hot sun that came after a detour into Abbotford, where I was able to get BoB's axle greased, a tire replaced, and a nice Malaysian lunch for $30.

Eventually I found myself on the Chilliwack River, which I rode about 15 K up to a campground called Thurston. There in the cedars, with the river rushing nearby, I had a lovely sleep. It was also appropriate that I was on the Chilliwack River, where, 16 years earlier, part of my last drunk had gone down. It was nice to see the place sober.

Day Eleven
Packed up early and took the long downhill into Chilliwack, where I dallied hours touring the great second-hand shops and finding another wool sweater, to replace one lost on Burnaby Mountain, a water bottle, some new journal books, and a pair of riding pants.

Then I headed further east, where I encounterd a fellow riding a recumbant bike, towing a two-wheeled trailer, a hundred pounds of junk, and a cat in a box. Dennis was his name. He's chainsmoking his way up the valley and apparently going to Newfoundland with all his gear. Lucky for him he has a motor on his front wheel. I doubt he'll make it though, too much bear bait.

About four hours later I rolled into Hope, found the native campground closed, and was left with no choice but to put out $15 for a patch of ground in the Coquihalla Campsite. Not a great site, but a place to have a shower and visit with yet another BoB puller on his way to Ottawa.

Ate some of the great chilli I'd made in the dark on the Chilliwack River the night before. Slept like a baby.

Day Twelve
Today I found out the Othello Tunnels are closed due to rock slides. I cannot go thru them to the Coquihalla. This means, anyway I look at it, no matter which direction I go, I must climb some monster hill. After five days, since Porpoise Bay, my legs and my nerves are not up to any hill climbing. I want a day off but I don't necessarily want to go back to the same campsite where I spent last night.

So, to avoid thinking about all that, I've just taken two hours out and sat in an internet cafe writing to y'all to let you know I'm okay, I'm out of the Fraser Valley, but there's some mountains, figurative and literal, in my way.

Don't know what I'll decide to do. Guess you'll find out when I've already done it.

Hope you're all well
Will