Once upon a bright and sunny day in 2018, Yann and I found ourselves before the door of a residential building in Arles-sur-Tech, France. I had the key — previously hidden behind the green shutters of the window to the right —in my hand. I had yet to meet the person to whom this lodging belonged. This stranger had hung the black Reynaud-Bray tote I’d abandoned at the Toulouse-Blagnac airport a few days earlier off the doorknob to make it easy for Yann and me to know which place to rob.
As if Yann and I could have stolen anything: between us, we’d brought four panniers which were already filled to the brim. That Reynaud-Bray tote was only good enough for a couple of baguettes. We couldn’t help but feel like intruders as we entered the building. We gingerly took a tour of all four floors, acclimating ourselves to the vacation home of the English family in the framed photographs throughout the place.
A few hours later, Ed entered, instantly flooding the place with his considerable energy. This was a guy I’d only started chatting with online a month or two prior. Yann had found him online years earlier, via a forum for bike mechanics/hardcore bike nerds, but had glossed over the “Ed is deaf” part for so long.
Another deaf bike mechanic? I was intrigued. I DM’d Ed immediately, introducing myself as a fellow deaf bike mechanic. Within the next few weeks, I’d secured an invitation to meet up with Ed and his friend Chris, who also happened to have plans to cycle in the south of France, where Yann and I were headed.
That’s the story of how Ed entered my life. Since then, he’s visited me and Yann here in 2019, and when I headed to London, UK, in 2022, Hannah entered my life. Those first few days of us becoming acquainted were dismal, not because our personalities clashed, but because all three of us had fallen ill with COVID within two days of my arrival. My first few days in London were spent almost entirely in the darkness of their extra bedroom. All the while, my bicycle leaned unused against an alcove in their hallway.
Although that trip ended up being light on the legs, the three of us managed to overcome our shared malady, and I finished my trip in good spirits. I’d gone there to visit a friend and made another.
Last Friday, I weaved the lanes of Fort Victoria RV Park looking for plot 113, mystified by the fact that I couldn’t find a number that ran lower than 600. A few minutes later, Hannah rescued this clueless blonde, who hadn’t thought to check the other side of the E&N trail that cut through the RV park. Seconds later, Hannah and I were hugging, and I thought, “Wow, this lady knows how to give a good hug!”
A few minutes later, Ed also gave me a solid hug. Squeezes of authentic friendship; absent any fear of exchanging COVID again. Even though Ed and Hannah use BSL rather than ASL, communicating with them is still far more accessible than trying to interact with a non-signer. When I couldn’t read their hands, this was usually registered on my face in time to offer clarification before I spiralled into total confusion.
My first misinterpretation had me thinking Hannah’s fear of bears was actually a fear of bats. “Hmm! Oddly specific!” Only when Ed mentioned bear sprays did I realize my gaffe and abandon my fixation on vampires (in my defense, I am deep into ‘Salem’s Lot right now).
“You’ve seen bears in the wild?!” Hannah confirmed after I told her they were the least of my concerns.
“Yes. Several times.”
Then Ed chimed in, apparently telling Hannah for the first time that even he had seen a bear on his previous visit.
“I’d be more scared of a cougar. But, to be honest, we’re much more likely to get fucked up by a dumb deer that gets in the way while we’re on our bikes.”
Later on, my blonde self had an easier time in a discussion about types of neurodivergence, such as autism and dyslexia, neither of which I have. My sometimes questionable social skills can be attributed to years of social exclusion rather than to an innate trait, and I butcher the order of my words at what I presume to be a regular rate. When the question, “Do deaf people have an inner voice?” is posed, my answer as a deaf individual is, “Yes, in the form of anxiety.”
Here are some creatures of concern within my tome of Things to Worry About:
- Old people with a death grip on their driver’s license
- Drivers of any age
- Ticks (you see, nobody’s ever had a positive encounter with a tick)
- Squirrels (hitting one while cycling)
- Rabbits (see: Squirrels)
- Peacocks (yeah, Victoria is fancy)
- Deer (worth mentioning twice now that I’ve made a formal bullet point)
- Cyclists who make sudden turns without signalling
- Pedestrians who boldly step into the cycling lane while staring at their phone
- …and many more!
I led the two into the tamed wilderness that is the Galloping Goose Trail. Once a route for trains, it has since been stripped of its rail. What remains is a well-groomed gravel/dirt trail (with paved sections near downtown Victoria) suitable for cyclists and pedestrians. While there is no vehicular traffic, there are still plenty of things to hit along the trail, including actual galloping geese. It was along the Goose, where it first intersects with Happy Valley Road, that I split my right forearm open. The hazard? A pile of loose gravel.
Along with my list of creatures of concern in the tome are minerals of concern.
- gravel
I took my pedalling pals on a slight detour along the Esquimalt Lagoon, a migratory bird sanctuary, so that they could see the herons, vultures, seagulls, and–in Ed’s opinion–a massive flock of plump, juicy pigeons. I was unaware that English pigeons were the representative of the breed standard.
The above picture shows how excited I am to show my out-of-town guests the dizzying diversity of Victoria’s migratory birds.
The slight detour grew into a proper detour when we continued along Metchosin Road, where we were dealt some uncomfortably close passes by vehicles for take-out, which we ate at one of the restaurant’s patio tables. All because the outdoor dining area wasn’t officially open. I can’t say I was disappointed when I opened up my take-out box to see a veggie burger rivalling the juiciness of the pigeons mentioned above, sitting on a pile of hot, salty fries.
The following photos were taken post-fuelling up as we rode towards Sooke Potholes without ever actually getting there:
Ed took all three photos. Even the picture where my upper half has been cut off turned out cool. In contrast, the photo below shows how, even if I had an “eye for photography”, I’d need prescription lenses. You can tell I was going for interestingness, and how, like Ed, I was more drawn to the lower half of the human anatomy.
The chaos captured aligns with my general aesthetic, which could be described as “there’s a lot going on.”
A lot was going on the night of October 3rd. We were all celebrating 4 decades of Ed. 4 people. 4 pizzas. Friends 4 Ever.
The restaurant’s name is Virtuous Pie, as no creatures were harmed in the creation of anything on their menu. Missed opportunity to call themselves Pious Pie. The fight over who would pay the bill got physical with an arm wrestling match.
Ed put his bet on Hannah without a second thought. Yann kept his mouth shut/hands tied. Hannah and I parked our right elbows on the table, and on the count of three, my forehead bulge came out. My infrequently photographed upper half is notably stringy, but that throbbing forehead vein of mine was enough to rattle Hannah’s nerves, and after about a minute of our clasped hands wavering from the starting point, the back of her right hand touched the table. THE BILL WAS MINE.
Even if she had won, I would have clawed my way across the table like a Lyme disease-ridden grizzly for the card reader. Hannah and Ed had already treated me to lunch.
Our arm wrestling championship soon evolved into a non-profit event with a few friendly match-ups. Here’s Hannah being a good sport about losing before their match began:
A dark horse story where I announce that Hannah had actually won would have been legendary. My occupation, which involves lifting weights in the form of bicycles all day, likely contributed to my victory over Hannah. In addition to being larger than me, Ed does the same thing for work.
We returned to my place for a virtuous sticky toffee pudding. I’d made the cake portion of the dessert the previous morning.
In the Tome of Things to Worry About:
-This cake looks sad. I am going to make the birthday boy sad.
My three visitors stood around in the kitchen while I stood before the stove preparing the sticky part of the toffee pudding. Hot, cruelty-free goo to pour over sad-looking pieces of cake.
Somehow, it was divine. Truly. It was like a fast pass to heaven. Since you couldn’t join us, here’s the recipe.
Post-toffee topics included Thatcher, Trudeau, and Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, the last of which only Hannah could pronounce. Although with enough confidence, a nimble tongue and the ability to whistle through the sides of your jaw, anyone could claim to have the correct pronunciation of this Welsh village.
“Remember the miners’ strike of 1984?” Hannah inquired.
With furrowed brows, Yann responded, “Yes. I ‘memeber.”
Around 11:30pm (an especially late night for the three quadragenarians), we had all become heavy-lidded and called it a night.
Hannah and Ed returned the next morning to find me still in my pyjamas. They weren’t too early: I just hadn’t seen a reason to leave the house yet. While Hannah soaked in the Victorian café vibes at Discovery Coffee–and after I’d changed out of my pyjamas–Ed and I took a short out-and-back ride along Dallas Road/Beach Drive, also known as “The Waterfront.”
Victoria is a beautiful city, even under grey skies. I’m glad my British buddies got to experience it by boat, bus, on foot, by cycle, and in an RV.
A special shoutout to my plump pigeon friends for being so fly.
For more high caliber photos, visit Ed’s Instagram.
squaremeat.com 