My long shadow in the waning twilight suddenly reminds me that I'm lugging 50lbs of cargo on my back wheel. I can't tell if I'm going uphill or down, I only know what gear I'm in. Propelled only by my focused breath and the fantasy of destination, I'd finished the last of my energy bars at Bowser (unicorporated), and quaffed the last of my liquids overlooking Fanny Bay. Night is falling, I'm running on fumes, and I'm so low on electrolytes that I can barely move my fingers About 5km outside of Courtenay, I can start to smell the wood fires of what folks up here consider civilzation. And then, like an aromatic quasar, the most pungent barbecue fills my lungs and opens my eyes. As my breath deepens, hoping to find some energy in the airborne chicken molecules, my focus and determination are renewed, the light at the end of this long tunnel is brightened, and an old man pulls up along side me on his bike. Apparently I'm just crawling down the highway.
From what I can tell in the twilight, he's wearing jeans and a mackinaw, has no helmet but a handlebar mustache. He's friendly, though. “Hey feller! How's the pushing?” I struggle to make sense of his words as I pull my consciousness back into the realm of language, until I realise that he's on an electric bike. And I'm pretty sure he's drunk. “Where ya headed?” He reasserts himself.
“The next pub, brother. Where can I get a beer?” I knew he'd have an answer near at hand for questions regarding beer, and didn't have the energy to articulate my overwhelming need for fish & chips. As it turns out, he was headed to the Whistlestop Pub, about a kilometer away just inside the Courtenay city limits. We ride together, united in our urgent quests – mine to re-feul, and his to re-up. We make pleasant, folksy small-talk for the last few blocks along the seawalk before reaching the pub. His name is Gary Smith, and in the fluorescent glow of the liquor store parking lot, he is every bit the redneck I'd expected. But on an electric bicycle. Only on the Island.
Hobbling inside the pub in my cycling tights and race jersey, I only get a few funny looks before I collapse into the padded leather booth in the corner. It doesn't take me long to order a french onion soup and oysters & fries. Nor does it take me long to realize that I'm borderline hypothermic, my right knee doesn't want to bear my weight anymore, and my cramped ass isn't interested in helping. I turn on my cell phone just in time to answer a call from my mom and dad. They'd started to worry about me as night fell, so they'd left Campbell River to scan the road for me and were presently about a block away from the very pub I was sitting in.
I can't accurately express to you my overwhelming sense of relief at this synchronous situation. My wonderful parents bought my meal and drove me, and my bike, and my cargo, the remaining 40km of cold, dark highway up to Campbell River. And now I am drinking a beer and watching CBC in a La-Z-Boy before bed, ready to prepare for salmon fishing tomorrow. What a great way to start my vacation.
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