W.W.S.B.D.

Riding a bike. Most of us have done it at some point in our lives. Some better than others, but we all have accomplished the feat at one point in time.

My bike riding skills fall somewhere between a blind-legless old man and Lance Armstrong.

Just for the sake of accuracy, I am closer to the blind-legless old man than Lance.

So when Dana asked my to go with her and some friends on a bike trip in Canada, I of course said yes with no hesitation. Especially after she told me the trail was almost all flat.

Easy.

Let me first give you some background on my experience. I learned to ride at the age of 9, much older than most. My uncle forced me to do it because he thought I was such a sissy. Which was and is true. He threatened to rub my face in dog poop if I didn't do it. Thus I learned how to ride.

I did not ride much until college when I proceeded to continually fall off my bike, hitting my head twice on a white picket fence.

After college I rode to work along the Burke Gilman for a good stretch of about one month. This ended when I moved out of an old apartment, reanacting a scence from the classic movie, "The Karate Kid" by throwing my bike in a dumpster saying "I hate this stupid bike, I just want to go home". This was allowed by Dana only because I love that movie so much.

Fast forward to last week. Thanks to the generosity of Dana's father, Steve, I received a new bike. It is a Cannondale and it is awesome. Black with highlighter-green speckles on it. The thing shines like a brand new Mercedes. Except it is a bike.

So I buy some new accessories for this little excursion. A water bottle, some biking gloves (rock on!), reflectors for the helmet, and a carrying case for phone and keys to attach on the back. Oh and a new seat as I need a lot of comfort. Dana suggests using this thing that attaches to the back where you can store stuff like a backpack. I scoff at the notion.

I can carry my own backpack for a little ride. I just played in a men's rec league game on Wednesday. Clearly I am in top physical condition.

The car ride to Canada was a piece of cake and I am off to a great beginning. Once we park in the lot to keep cars overnight, we set off on the bikes to the ferry. Riding along a dirt path that I believe was recently inhabited by the homeless or Lewis and Clark (maybe the Canadian version?), it becomes apparent that I may not make it very far. This is not very easy.

We arrive at the ferry after about a 10-12 minute ride and I am pretty tired. But I won't show it much. I play it cool and even eat some Canadian gelato. Which tastes just like regular Gelato, but we ate it in Canada. Still haven't seen Steve Nash, Celine Dion, Shania Twain, or any hockey players.

After an hour and 35 minute ferry excursion through the water of Canada, we arrive somewhere. Apparently it is time to ride bikes. And to ride bikes for a long, long time.

30 minutes into the ride and I am pretty sure I am dying. No, seriously having a heart attack. When we stop as a group, I act like I am fine. But when it is just me and Dana, well...

Dana: "How are you buddy?"

Brian: "I think I am dying."

Dana: "You are doing great."

Brian: "I hate you. This was a horrible idea. Why am I here? I wish I was dead."

Dana: "Oh, I love you. You are awesome."

Brian: "I hate this trip already."

Despite Dana's love and encouragement, I still feel like slaying myself. I peel off a jacket as I have a bit of a sweat going. Two minutes later I put the jacket back on as it is freezing. Mother Nature, I hate you too.

And this backpack is killing me. I want to throw it at someone's head.

I take another break soon after to eat some Tiger's Milk protein bars. I like the Tiger's Milk mostly because a kid I coach always says, "Hey you drinking Tiger Milk again today?"

Then I think of myself playing with a tiger and drinking the milk. It makes me laugh.

I stop again to urinate in the bushes and to pray for some divine intervention.

We ride past a pig and some roosters. I want to eat them.

We ride right next to some deer. I want to shoot them.

We ride past some kids. I wish I could punch them in the face.

We ride and ride and ride. Scenery, schmenery. When will it end?

Thankfully as we enter Victoria, I get my 74th wind. I feel better as we turn left on Pandora Street and find the youth hostel.

The night and next morning is spent doing the following: showering (sweet relief), walking around looking for dinner (way too long), eating Thunder Spaghetti at The Mint (it is thunderous when it comes out the next morning as well), going back and sleeping (great except for the dude from another country next to us trying to get into his room. He knocks and knocks and knocks. Oh and then he calls his friend who is passed out in the room next to us. I can hear the guy's cell phone vibrate through the wall, but he won't get up. Awesome), waking up and showering, going to breakfast (should have gotten Eggs Benedict, so angry), walking around (oh neat, flowers, oh neat, some building), and then getting on bikes to ride again.

Oh the joy of rubbing your grundle on a seat again for three hours. Yes, it takes three hours to do this bike ride. A 20 mile ride each way, which is about 34 kilometers. Apparently the Tour de France stages range from like 150 - 220 kilometers. And that includes mountains. That must be why Lance can only date a woman who advocates wiping with only one square of toilet paper. And he couldn't even keep her!

Anyway, the ride back was much better. I must have gotten used to it or something. I even led for some of the way back. I stopped to take pictures with the deer (even though I kept picturing Tommy Boy type scenarios), eat part of a pepperoni stick, and just have a nice ride.

And what kept me going was this phrase: What Would Steve Beaudry Do?

He would say, "Suck it up Nancy Boy! Ride, sissy, ride!"

So I did. And I didn't die. That is twice in one week. That has got to be some sort of record.