The resurrection of summer.

The expiration of summer on September 1st turned out to be a false alarm. I had Labour Day off like most people, but because I work Sundays, it didn’t translate into four consecutive days off work. To my luck, a planned power outage at my workplace closed the bike shop on Wednesday. That turn of events gave me the four-day break I’d almost been cheated out of.

Last week, I removed the cargo cages from my fork and swapped out the SPD pedals for flats. I reversed my decision on Tuesday afternoon, intending to head out to one of the Gulf Islands for my second ever solo overnighter.

Actually, I first asked Alexa, who’d recently become quasi self-employed, if she was interested in joining me for a last-minute adventure. As it turned out, she and Daniel had also made the last-minute decision to head to one of the Gulf Islands for some two-wheeled adventuring and had no desire for a third wheel. Fair. Only, it meant I had to rule Pender Island out as a possibility because even if I went on my own, our paths would definitely cross. To avoid this awkwardness, I chose Galiano Island.

I’d already done two cycling trips on Galiano Island, including that foggy January overnighter where I ended up pitching my tent in the darkness. The island is a long, skinny strip of land; the first provincial campground, Montague Harbour, is located 1/3rds of the way up the island from the Sturdies Bay ferry terminal. The other campground, Dionisio Point, is at the far tip of the island and is supposedly accessible only by boat.

The ferry ride to Sturdies Bay.

I knew Yann and Burger had managed to get there by bike several times, and a colleague, Rory, was just there last weekend. To get there by bike merely requires some light trespassing. “There is a gate that blocks off the road. Just go around it,” instructed Burger.

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Getting pegged.

In addition to skinning my knee, I set a new personal record on Sunday. Yesterday, I managed just 3,756 steps, which is kind of a lot considering how much my knee swelled up on Sunday night. I’d underestimated how much damage my knee took when I went down and have since been splitting my time between icing my knee and hobbling around. Today was a 6,400-limp kinda day that involved getting buns from the supermarket.

Leave it up to me to blog about buns:

Great for sandwiches and burgers? As opposed to what? Knee protection?

Exponentially–and optimistically–speaking, should I continue to improve at this rate, I’ll be ready for another half-marathon by Wednesday.

Realistically, I’ll take Zoée’s suggestion to plunge into the trove of my arts-and-crafts supplies and inch my way towards the completion of my Slovenia trip recap. I last left off at the end of Day 4: the group’s reunion with Fatema in Bovec.

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Feeling salty.

The disillusionment persists. Last Thursday, I decided I needed some time off the island. I mashed my overnight gear into my panniers and pumped my legs all the way to Swartz Bay. There, I had seven different destinations to choose from that would take me off Vancouver Island. I’d already decided on Salt Spring Island. Ruckle Park is one of my favourite camping spots, and it’d been several years since I last camped there. In fact, I believe the last time I camped there was with Yann and Ed in 2019.

This time, I was all on my lonesome. The last time I camped alone was… never. That was actually my first time. I didn’t realize until recently that I was an outlier among my friends for never having had that solo camping experience and wanted to change that. (Cocaine and changing a diaper are two other things that most of my friends have done that I haven’t, and I plan on keeping it that way.)

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Return to Gabriola.

Welcome to Greg Minnaar’s Tour of Terror. First stop: my shower.

Technically, he’s been making people shit themselves a little since he arrived at the bike shop two years ago. He didn’t have to try very hard either: he’d just stand there motionless, and people would jump. What talent. Apparently, he can also do backflips on a bike.

Last week, a colleague was about to eliminate him for once and all. As I was about to enter the break room, Greg took a nosedive in front of me from behind the doorway, jolting my heart.

“Wait. You’re getting rid of him? May I have him?” I asked as soon as I realized it was just Greg, and he was on his way into the dumpster.

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Spring in the Winter

On January 19, I woke up at 7am to find the campsite enshrouded in fog so thick I couldn’t see Burger’s or Yann’s tents in the distance. It was much too chilly to leave my tent, so after putting on a fleece jacket and activating a fresh pair of hand warmers to put inside my sleeping bag, I tightened the drawstring around the hood, leaving only my nose poking out. I stayed in my warm cocoon for another two hours before emerging from the tent to find that the fog had dissipated. The boys were up and around, boiling water on camp stoves for their coffee.

“Sleeping Beauty,” remarked Burger.

I’m glad he and Yann didn’t end up scraping my frozen corpse off the tent platform at Montague Harbour Provincial Park. I’d survived my first ever winter camping trip.

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