“And those who were seen dancing,

were thought to be insane

by those who couldn’t hear the music”….

-Friedrich Nietzsche

 

 

 

Thirty-one years is a lifetime…a generation.

When we first started our bike trips, many of the women were buying gifts to take back to their toddlers at home. Those same little children have grown up and now, three  four (!) of our group are no longer young mothers, but, wait for it….grandmothers.

How. the. hell. did. that. happen?

Yet every year we have managed to assemble ourselves and show up at the agreed upon destination to start pedalling and screaming and laughing and, very often, crying; all of it done at full volume.

As one of those grown-up sons recently commented about an image of us, “I can hear that photo.”

Historically, women gathered by the river bank to bash their family’s clothing against the rocks or to pull threads through quilts, tan hides or gather berries. Done collectively the infinite work load was shared and for a little while those women were no longer alone. Yes, they probably were married and had children, but especially back then, women served their families and those gatherings with their women friends were an integral part of their emotional survival.

Times ‘improved’ and along came washing and sewing machines and eventually, even delivered us frozen Costco berries in a big plastic bag.

Just like that, women were left alone in their homes living that independent American dream.

All those ‘mother’s helpers’ spawned a different kind of mother’s helper. Valium helped generations of women get through the isolating monotony of their days spent in service to their household, too often in direct denial of any of their own dreams and desires.

 

 

I’m quite sure none of us were thinking about these things as we huddled around a picnic table on this year’s first lunch on the road. Instead we were layering on toques and wool socks and laughing loudly at the ridiculousness of a freezing Canadian picnic. When we were finished eating, we packed up and the fuel of that lunch fired us into New Denver.

When we found the wallet and cellphone on the side of the Slocan Pass and called it into the RCMP, the poor answering officer had no idea that he’d be surrounded by loud women who were busy reliving their Nancy Drew years, intent on helping him solve The Mystery of the Missing Wallet and begging him to pretend to arrest Debbie.

 

 

This year, more than any other, we were asked to be photographed. It was hardly a stampede of requests. I think it only happened three times. I’m not sure if they were simply gobsmacked that women as old as us could still swing a leg over the bike rail, or what it was, but it was fun to be trailed by a trio of paparazzi…

Dancing in the Kaslo Legion at the noon to four pm dance was a riot, the raucous dinner at Sanderella Restaurant was not only great food but made better because the owners joined in the fun. Taqueria El Corazon Restaurant in Kaslo was like a divine slice of Mexico and the Kootenay Tamil Restaurant in Nelson was so good, two of us went back for their breakfast.

 

 

 

Those meals were made more delicious after grinding up each mountain through construction zones that included bone-rattling grooved pavement, tons of places where there were no shoulders and thunderstorms with accompanying monsoons.

I’m sure that if I’d never cycled up a mountain before, I’d be daunted, but baby…I’ve got history…

After all these years, it is not just a physical resilience that builds up but also a psychological one. Each time I remind myself that I’ve done bigger and tougher climbs and I’ve always made it. I repeat my mantra that ‘this too shall pass’.

Those four words have taken me through the worst of grief and the toughest of pains and are my continual reminder to have faith in the process of life.

Struggle breaks us open and the joy, when it finally comes (and I promise it will) has more space to occupy in our bashed open hearts.

Cycling, like life, is not about looking for the easiest way…instead it is about working hard, pushing through, having faith, laughing as loud and as often as you can, and, when the downhill comes, remembering to hang on and feel the joy.

Ride, sister, ride.