Carless in Calgary

I want to know about your favorite or most memorable bike ride. Let me tell you about one of mine.

A bunch of years ago I was in a life changing car accident. The accident happened in the spring and it wasn't until the year following that life began its journey toward normal. One of the first things I began doing, rehabilitation wise, was riding my bike. I rode a fair bit, five or six days a week, about an hour each day. It helped me align with life objectives and gave me a reason, not for anything in particular, but a reason nonetheless.

After riding for a few months I decided to return to the Okanagan -- where the accident happened -- and ride up Silver Star Mountain, near Vernon. Little did I know.

I mount my bike early one Saturday morning. It is clear blue. Sunny. The ride from my friend's place in town, winds through the quiet streets, past sleepy houses, dewy grass sparkling in the ditches. I pedal softly, gliding where I can. The morning air is cool, but I warm up quickly, except my hands, which are frigid on the bars.

The first part of the climb begins, moving up and around a treeless, semolina coloured hill, the pavement stretching upward, following the nature of the rise. At the top, my body well warmed, droplets of sweat lift on my skin, I joyfully glide down a hill. The wind assaults my face; tears appear in my eyes. My hands are no longer cold.

The forest of evergreens begins here. Near the bottom of the hill, moving quickly, I wheel over a bridge covering a creek. The smell of moss and oxygenated water lingers in the air. At the lowest point of the valley the road curves to the right, and the easy part of the ride is over. For now, the climb truly begins.

I shift the gears downward finally settling at the lowest of low. First gear. I'll stay in a three gear range for the next 20 kilometres or so. The mountain road switches back, with infrequent moments of ease. Occasionally I shift up a gear or two as the hill becomes less steep, but less steep is a relative term; the climb does not relent.

The problems begin about an hour into the ride. The day has been gathering warmth with every passing minute. As the temperature rises, so does my core temperature. Drinking water keeps me hydrated and cool, but I brought only one bottle. I begin to conserve. Sipping, not gulping.

An uphill hour later.

The water is gone. The day is warming towards the high of 28 C. Although I know this road during the winter, having lived in Vernon and skied at “the Star” a year in the past, it is foreign to me now. I do not know where I am. Tired, thirsty, dehydrated, light-headed, I pull over to the side of the road at the base of yet another hill.

Sitting in the ditch, trying to re-orient, my head spinning, throat dry, I squeeze the last drops from the water bottle as though it were a sponge. My tongue is damp, more from saliva than water. I breathe deeply. The sun is high. The wind is negligent. The forest and sky overwhelm me.

I entertain a thought: should I turn back?

I struggle with this question for about 20 minutes. But with rest I feel better. Things are clear. The return is downhill, so it’s not a worry. But I struggle with not accomplishing my goal.

As I mentioned earlier, my accident happened in a nearby town. For me, the return to this place, and the ride up the mountain is a milestone in my recovery. This bike ride becomes a metaphor. If I can make it up this hill, I can make it back to complete health.

After a long while thinking I decide it’s safer to return than continue up. But the top of the hill is so near. Before turning back down, I’ll climb this one last hill. If all I see is road and mountain, I’ll turn back around. Disappointed, but accepting.

At the top. Silver Star townsite. The ski hill. The hotels. The empty parking lot.

I find a water tap at the side of a hotel and fill my bottle and drink deeply. I wander about the town. Look at the hill. Sit on a log and eat a power bar. In a bit I am refreshed. It is time to leave.

I fly down the mountain, moving frighteningly fast, and am more than content. In the end: two-and-a-half hours up, twenty-minutes down. A day to be remembered.