Friday October 4 2013

Friday October 4 2013

Delivered the October 4 2013 edition of The Shoreline Weekly just the same as I’ve delivered hundreds of other editions over the years.   I like the familiarity of the routine, and I always like seeing my week’s work come to fruition.  Every week I get to see my words and pictures on the front page of a newspaper.  It never grows old.

So, this week was a little different because the lead story on the front page—what we used to call “above the fold” in the old broadsheet days before we changed The Shoreline to a tabloid format.  This week, the lead story was Evolene’s account of her adventure in getting to Midden Harbour.

Here is her first installment.

I had decided to ride my bike to my new job here at The Shoreline Weekly because I thought it would be a great way to immerse myself in the west coast environment that was about to become my home. 

When I stood in my pedals and pushed off, it was into the bright light of a spectacular early fall morning.  By seven o’clock I was across the bridge and was climbing the road north. I could look back across the bay to see the city, a gem in an azure setting. I can remember getting this big grin on my face.  Things couldn’t be any more perfect.

Two hours later, I was still smiling even though I hadn’t gotten as far as I thought I would.  Friends had warned her about this:  “You know, Clem.  The hills out west aren't like the hills we have around here.  Those are mountains!“  I was sure I could prove them wrong, and the memory motivated me to pedal harder.  I could feel it in my thighs.

Unfortunately, all the extra pushing wasn’t enough to get me back on schedule.  When I rode into the parking lot of Dot’s Diner I was already two hours behind schedule.  I had been thrilled to find Dot’s on Google Earth.  In the Street View, Dot’s looked exactly like the earthy cafe/truck stop where I’d be able to get major body fuel before leaving the pavement to tackle the gravel road portion of my ride. 

But the image I’d had of a leisurely lunch was displaced by an awareness that I was late.  This triggered two, unfortunate impulses-- I gulped down the food, and I was less than polite to my server.  I paid the price for both.  The hurried meal that consisted of gulping down large bites of scarcely chewed food had me struggling with cramps before I’d gone more than a few miles.  My rudeness, apparently, resulted in me missing out on a conversation with the very pleasant woman who took my order and brought my food.  This had much greater consequences.  Instead of having a nice conversation, I got a deserved serving of attitude.  I did not learn, for example, that the gravel road I intended to ride was far too dangerous for bicycles.  I did not learn that the signs I started to see almost as soon as I started—signs like ”CAUTION” and “Mile 1”, “Mile 2” etc.--had critical meaning.  And, most importantly,  I would have learned to listen.