By Esme Mills, Pender Island, BC
Nothing compares to the simple pleasure of a bike ride.
~John F. Kennedy
I was born in Ottawa, and have lived there off and on throughout my life. In addition to being the capital of Canada, it's a vibrant, active city. In my early twenties, I spent a lot of time skating along the Rideau Canal, boating along the Ottawa River, or just inline skating across town.
Nothing compares to the simple pleasure of a bike ride.
~John F. Kennedy
I was born in Ottawa, and have lived there off and on throughout my life. In addition to being the capital of Canada, it's a vibrant, active city. In my early twenties, I spent a lot of time skating along the Rideau Canal, boating along the Ottawa River, or just inline skating across town.
But my favourite outdoor activity was -- and still is -- cycling. I love the hard work of getting to the top of a big hill -- not so much because I like to push myself; no, I love the payoff of speeding down the other side, so much speed that my eyes tear up and I can hardly breathe. If anything, I am childlike in my enjoyment of cycling.
One day, through friends of friends, I was invited to go cycling in the Gatineau Hills, which are just across the river from Ottawa, in Quebec. I had gone cycling there a number of times on my own, but never in a group. And never with these cyclists. And they were cyclists: hardcore gearheads who wore Lycra from head to toe, had those handlebars that you can practically lie down on, and had the newest, flashiest everything. Intimidating to say the least.
I wasn't a beginner: I had clips instead of regular pedals and did wear Lycra shorts (because they came with padding for added comfort!) and my bike was nothing to be ashamed of. Despite this, I was still intimidated -- but I accepted the invitation anyway.
We met mid-morning, on a sunny Sunday in late September. We all gathered downtown in the ByWard Market, a minute's bike ride away from the bridge connecting Ontario to Quebec, Ottawa to Hull. The others knew each other much better and were chatting comfortably, but I felt self-conscious, just waiting for us to get going.
We biked single file out of the Market, past the stands filled with fresh, local produce, the aroma of the bakery on the corner tempting us -- or at least me -- to linger longer. The others pushed ahead, and I brought up the rear as we passed the Champlain statue overlooking the Ottawa River and the city of Hull.
There is nowhere prettier in autumn than the Ottawa area. The weather is usually mild and sunny, and the colours of the trees are spectacular: the greens are still so vivid, as the reds and yellows burst forth, competing for attention, not just from tree to tree, but you can see colours mingling chaotically on the same leaf.
As we moved from the city into the Gatineau Park and got into a rhythm, I started to relax, enjoying the fresh air and view and starting even to feel a small sense of camaraderie. Whether everyone was still warming up and keeping the pace slow, I wasn't sure, but I was surprised to be keeping up without too much effort.
In fact, everything was going along perfectly until I blew a tire on glass that I had been too busy looking skywards to notice. I felt like too much of an idiot to even call to the others and so I watched them cycle away as I dismounted.
Not being a hardcore cyclist, I had never bought a spare tire to carry around with me. Even if I had, I had never learned how to change a tire. It didn't take me long to realize that the only thing to do was to start walking home.
It wasn't that simple, of course. Because I had the fancy shoes that clip into my pedals, it was hard to walk, and walking would have damaged the shoes anyway. So I took off my shoes and was debating which would be better -- walking barefoot or in socks -- when I heard a noise behind me.
Mike, one of the keenest of the bunch, had cycled back.
"What's up?"
"I shredded my back tire pretty badly."
"That sucks."
I agreed.
"It's a long walk back."
I didn't need to agree to that one; it was pretty obvious. At that point, I expected him to either lecture me on my obvious lack of spares and tools or to turn around and join the group again. Instead, he dismounted from his bike and took his shoes off.
"I know it isn't much help, but I prefer to keep my socks on when I have to walk. It pretty much ruins them, but it makes me feel like the rocks that I step on won't hurt as much."
Without further explanation, he started walking back the way we came. I arranged my shoes in one hand and grabbed my handlebar with the other, and quickly followed him.
I wasn't sure why he had chosen to join me, so I awkwardly started to talk about the beautiful weather at first and then what I was studying at school, nothing personal, and then another safe subject: cycling.
"I can't tell you how many times I have walked home like this. And I've always wished that someone would walk with me. It gets pretty boring," Mike said, answering the question I hadn't dared to ask.
"Yeah," I said and then paused. "Thanks."
"Cycling is a solo kind of activity; everyone just gets into their own space. But, at the same time, we ride in a pack, so it becomes a team sport too."
I had never thought about it that way. "I just like to ride because it makes me feel like a kid again," I admitted.
"Me too. It's all about the hills, the rush of going down."
"That's what I love too!" I exclaimed. We smiled, and continued our sock-footed walk, stepping on the fiery autumn leaves, feeling the sun's warmth, and pushing our bikes along together as if it was something that we had been doing every Sunday for years.
One day, through friends of friends, I was invited to go cycling in the Gatineau Hills, which are just across the river from Ottawa, in Quebec. I had gone cycling there a number of times on my own, but never in a group. And never with these cyclists. And they were cyclists: hardcore gearheads who wore Lycra from head to toe, had those handlebars that you can practically lie down on, and had the newest, flashiest everything. Intimidating to say the least.
I wasn't a beginner: I had clips instead of regular pedals and did wear Lycra shorts (because they came with padding for added comfort!) and my bike was nothing to be ashamed of. Despite this, I was still intimidated -- but I accepted the invitation anyway.
We met mid-morning, on a sunny Sunday in late September. We all gathered downtown in the ByWard Market, a minute's bike ride away from the bridge connecting Ontario to Quebec, Ottawa to Hull. The others knew each other much better and were chatting comfortably, but I felt self-conscious, just waiting for us to get going.
We biked single file out of the Market, past the stands filled with fresh, local produce, the aroma of the bakery on the corner tempting us -- or at least me -- to linger longer. The others pushed ahead, and I brought up the rear as we passed the Champlain statue overlooking the Ottawa River and the city of Hull.
There is nowhere prettier in autumn than the Ottawa area. The weather is usually mild and sunny, and the colours of the trees are spectacular: the greens are still so vivid, as the reds and yellows burst forth, competing for attention, not just from tree to tree, but you can see colours mingling chaotically on the same leaf.
As we moved from the city into the Gatineau Park and got into a rhythm, I started to relax, enjoying the fresh air and view and starting even to feel a small sense of camaraderie. Whether everyone was still warming up and keeping the pace slow, I wasn't sure, but I was surprised to be keeping up without too much effort.
In fact, everything was going along perfectly until I blew a tire on glass that I had been too busy looking skywards to notice. I felt like too much of an idiot to even call to the others and so I watched them cycle away as I dismounted.
Not being a hardcore cyclist, I had never bought a spare tire to carry around with me. Even if I had, I had never learned how to change a tire. It didn't take me long to realize that the only thing to do was to start walking home.
It wasn't that simple, of course. Because I had the fancy shoes that clip into my pedals, it was hard to walk, and walking would have damaged the shoes anyway. So I took off my shoes and was debating which would be better -- walking barefoot or in socks -- when I heard a noise behind me.
Mike, one of the keenest of the bunch, had cycled back.
"What's up?"
"I shredded my back tire pretty badly."
"That sucks."
I agreed.
"It's a long walk back."
I didn't need to agree to that one; it was pretty obvious. At that point, I expected him to either lecture me on my obvious lack of spares and tools or to turn around and join the group again. Instead, he dismounted from his bike and took his shoes off.
"I know it isn't much help, but I prefer to keep my socks on when I have to walk. It pretty much ruins them, but it makes me feel like the rocks that I step on won't hurt as much."
Without further explanation, he started walking back the way we came. I arranged my shoes in one hand and grabbed my handlebar with the other, and quickly followed him.
I wasn't sure why he had chosen to join me, so I awkwardly started to talk about the beautiful weather at first and then what I was studying at school, nothing personal, and then another safe subject: cycling.
"I can't tell you how many times I have walked home like this. And I've always wished that someone would walk with me. It gets pretty boring," Mike said, answering the question I hadn't dared to ask.
"Yeah," I said and then paused. "Thanks."
"Cycling is a solo kind of activity; everyone just gets into their own space. But, at the same time, we ride in a pack, so it becomes a team sport too."
I had never thought about it that way. "I just like to ride because it makes me feel like a kid again," I admitted.
"Me too. It's all about the hills, the rush of going down."
"That's what I love too!" I exclaimed. We smiled, and continued our sock-footed walk, stepping on the fiery autumn leaves, feeling the sun's warmth, and pushing our bikes along together as if it was something that we had been doing every Sunday for years.
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