victoria, bc and the bike ride from hell (illustrated)

Elizabeth (of Occidental Idiot fame) requested a blog about an experience with either an umbrella or a bicycle. Alas, I have no stories that incorporate both. But this shall be the bicycle story (you may have gleaned that from the title already, who knows?).

Back when I was a naïve, happy and freshly-minted college graduate (this would be the summer before I started grad school), my college roommate and lovely friend Liz came to visit me in Seattle. Well, she came west for a wedding, and I happened to be on the way, so we made a vacation out of it. I planned for the mini-trip for a month or two in between working 60+ hour weeks as a swim coach, lifeguard and jack-of-all-trades at the local pool, and I decided that we'd see more than just mundane Seattle…we were going to Canada [insert joke about Canada or Canadians here].

What can I say? We were feeling adventurous, and these things are interesting in the Pacific Northwest. Canada is a novelty. They speak differently, they have socialized healthcare and Mounties…and they’re always coming down to Washington State for concerts and Mariners games. It can’t be too bad, right? Heh. I’d been to Victoria, British Columbia as a kid, and I recalled that it was a pretty sweet place. Plus, it’s on an island. In the Pacific Ocean. And it’s got a very British vibe. Whether that’s an act put on for the silly American and Japanese tourists or genuinely how things are, we will never know. But what’s not to love about a place known for its tearooms, bookstores and massive gardens?

Anyway, we decided to go to there, and I had planned it out down to the places we’d stop for lunch and dinner…we were not going to ‘wander’ aimlessly on this vacation!

We also decided not to take the car to the island. To accomplish that, you have to pay a ridiculous fee for the ferry and drive a lot farther to get to a different port. So we decided to park the car and walk onto the ferry. Just ourselves and our backpacks on our way to Canada. The trip was fun (lovely weather for the crossing, which took about 2 hours), and before we knew it we were scoping out Victoria’s harbor, the regional seat of government, and making our way to the hostel. Hostel was hilarious, as many of them are: brightly painted, minimal services, loud, and a closet-sized room for all your needs. The mattress was encased in vinyl. YESSSSSSSSS. We had an itinerary, though, and no time to waste!

Did I mention the biggest attraction in Victoria? Aside from high tea at the Empress Hotel? It’s the Butchart Gardens. National Historic Site for Canada, and 55 acres of natural blooming beauty. Victoria’s got a very mild climate, so things will grow year-round (I know, sweet, huh?). They do multiple re-plantings every season and it’s an absolute smorgasbord for the flower-lover. Thing is, it’s located 17 miles from Victoria proper, on an old family estate. And how were we to get there, you ask? That’s right…bicycle. I’d originally thought to catch a bus, but my mom, who used to be an avid cyclist, convinced me (and by association Liz) that it would be much more fun and scenic to rent bikes for the day and ride there.

I think you can see where this is going. We neither of us are/were avid cyclists. The way to the gardens is uphill. We hadn’t planned a definite route, and were directed to ride along the side of an 8-lane highway (with barriers in the middle). We were wearing our touristing clothes and sandals, and had been up since 6am. Cue that melancholy music they always play in sappy movies when nothing is going the hero/heroine’s way. Pardon me, but seventeen miles is a FREAKING long trek! I don’t think I can properly describe the agony that was that ride. I mean, up hills, cars whizzing past at dangerous speeds, rented mountain bikes which may or may not have had broken shifting mechanisms, Liz's asthma…the sheer torture of it all! I’m not exaggerating, folks. We were drenched in sweat, legs burning, Liz I’m sure was inwardly cursing the fact that we (okay, I) listened to my mother, and we didn’t know how much farther it was or if the hills would ever for the love of God and all that is holy STOP!!

In the end it took us over two hours to arrive. We sat comatose, chugging water for a half hour just trying to get our wits back. And then we saw the lovely garden (more photos found here)…

Check out that hedge, why don't you? Me in the arch.

Liz and bike #1. ARGHHH!!!

Me. Disgusted with bike #2 while waiting for the bus.

The only thing was, we still had to RIDE the bicycles from hell back to Victoria.

Or something. Something turned out to be that the local bus cost $2 (or the Canadian equivalent), and they had (glory of all glories!) bike racks on the front of them. We were saved! But we had to catch a very specific bus to be back in Victoria in time to go to our hostel and change and make our dinner reservation. So of course that exact bus shows up with a bike already in the bike rack! The nerve! We begged and pleaded and wheedled the bus driver until he took pity on us poor, silly American girls, and we stowed one bike in the handicapped section inside. With stern instructions that should someone need that seating, we were on our own! We got back to Victoria safely, however, locked rented bicycles in the hostel basement (sketchy!), and made our way to a lovely, lovely dinner. Where we consumed a bottle of wine between us before weaving our way back to the hostel and much needed sleep. I don’t think it would have been possible to sleep otherwise (it was so loud), except there was no way we weren’t going to crash after that ordeal.

Liz and I returned to US soil the next day, and still reminisce about our biking ordeal whenever we see each other. We also vow never to take my mother’s transportation advice again (because you never know, next time she could have us riding ostriches. Or alpacas!).

twin misfortunes

My bicycle is slowly disappearing.  Or should I say, it’s slowly being stolen.  I may have mentioned before that I live in a tiny studio in Atlanta.  There is no room inside for my bike, so I have it secured (or I did) to the railing on my equally miniscule porch.  I’m not completely naïve (just a little), so I took off the front tire when I left it out there, to discourage theft.  Within a month, the other tire had walked away with a new owner.  I looked out on my porch one day and thought, “Something weird is going on…”  It was like strange déjà vu where you know there’s an item out of place, or the wall got painted, or maybe a new knickknack has entered the space.  But no, I just noticed that the other wheel was missing.  The nuts and screw were scattered all around the rest of the bike, and I was left with one wheel. 

As you can imagine, I haven’t ridden the bike since.  It’s a girly, sea green, beach-type bike that was really useful in Gainesville (former place of residence), where they have nice and prolific bike lanes.  Here in Atlanta, not so much.  I would trust riding a bike about as much as I trust my Chinese scooter, which is why I walk or bus everywhere these days.  But anyway, to get on with the story…Since the theft of the wheel (the one I have left is sitting in my kitchen behind the trash can), my bike has continued to live on the porch.  I had speculated, back when they took the wheel, as to why they hadn’t absconded with the seat as well: it’s the only other easily detachable part.  Well, yesterday they (or whoever this is) did.  I came home from the grocery store, slid a cursory glance over the porch…and did a double take.  It’s just the frame sitting out there now…and I’m not sure if even that is safe.  I mean, I live off the street, in a converted private home.  Is bicycle theft rife in this neighborhood?  Or is it all an extended prank that I’m not privy to?  In any case, space or not, the frame may have to come live indoors. 

The other bit of misfortune from yesterday is the trial of the cat and the key.  My friend Sean adopted a cat from a local shelter back at the start of the semester, and prompted my own pet buying adventure, which I’ve written about previously.  I digress.  He is out of town this week, and recruited two of us to split the week and look over Queen Elizabeth II (that’s the cat’s name, people).  I had the Thursday to Sunday watch.  I didn’t get over to his place to take care of the cat on Thursday (this is an every other day commitment, don’t worry), and went only for a few minutes yesterday, because I had a lot of things to do.  Elizabeth, the other cat-sitter, had left me the key in my box at school.  I, not thinking, returned the key to the box after looking after QEII, thinking that when I came back today, I’d just nab it again, and have the incentive to go to campus and work, etc.  I forgot that the office where the box is is only open M-F, 8am-5pm.  I remembered conveniently at 10pm.  And panicked accordingly.  Freaked out, had a conniption, felt like I would drown in guilt…all those are good descriptors.  So I called the other cat-sitter, explained my tale of woe and mishap, and she promised to help me figure out how to get the key this morning.  Perhaps we will waylay an unsuspecting professor.  Or…

Yeah.  So, two messes today, one completely my fault (I excel at this type), and the other circumstantial and stupid.  Silly mistakes, unlucky events, things you’ll laugh at later…these are what my life is made up of.  So I'll tell myself a platitude: it'll turn out right in the end.