Another Cyclist, Gone

Photo: Ray Bradshaw of Global Halifax

A family has lost a loved one, friends have lost a companion. The cycling community of Halifax was somber yesterday, as riding buddies messaged one another to see if they were 'ok'. They too have lost one of their own -- a tight knit community of enthusiasts who love the feeling of two wheels, and the open road beneath them.

May she rest in peace.

Internet comments and observations are never a positive barometer of general consensus or thought, but are nonetheless disappointing. On News-sites and Facebook, some were blaming cyclists for being unsafe -- again. Others blamed drivers for being careless. It is a repetitive chorus.

As always, laying responsibility accomplishes nothing.

I cannot imagine the conscience of the truck's operator. They have inadvertently taken a life. A police investigation will discover the course of events, but we must calm our vitriol and remember this driver is human, as well.

It was an accident.

Another accident, following a string of collisions within the last few days. The last few months. Years, even.

It's easy to say Cyclists should be more cautious and drivers should be aware, but in the end everyone is using the same roadway, with nothing to separate them but a splash of paint (sometimes). We're in it together, but cyclists are the ones being seriously injured, or dying, in the resulting collisions.

The problem lies within the poor infrastructure, and bureaucracy that applies band-aids instead of meaningful change.

Halifax roads are unsafe. To make them safer for both all commuters, we need protected bike lanes.

Sure, the roads are old. So are the innumerable cities and towns in Europe where cycling is commonplace, or even the dominant form of transportation.



Morning Ebb And Flow from jim slade on Vimeo.


This lazy excuse is inadequate. The trouble is money. Luckily, the Halifax Cycling Coalition has figured out how much. Go take a read. They even address the common myth that roads are not wide enough.

We also need mandatory guards on the undercarriages of big trucks. The Halifax Cycling Coalition is also calling for this. It isn't the first time they've made such recommendations. Hopefully it is the last.

These precautions will save lives. They will encourage more people to cycle. This, in turn, could create a more positive relationship between motorists and cyclists. It would also equate to a healthier, more active community. In some cases, it's helped the economy.

Around the world, communities have flourished with these implementations. Halifax could very well do the same.

Email your local councillor and ask them for a safer and more inclusive Halifax roadway system throughout the whole of HRM. Don't settle for debate or assignment of blame.

Mostly, though, send your condolences and thoughts to the family and friends of yesterday's victim. Hopefully, she will be the last.

407 Is Destroyed

Ski Wentworth, as seen after the race. To the right, a straight shot up. That was ascent #2.

"Beat To Snot" was the name of the trail race.

More on this in a second.

As I crested the first ascent and turned the corner to a sharp downhill of Ski Wentworth, I had to take a second and forget about heartbeat, cadence, or the quiet burning sensation in my legs (it would get a lot worse). 

It looked like I was running towards the edge of an abyss. Closer to the end, it was obviously not the case, as a snow-less ski trail opened up beneath, with a visible trail of dirt and muck leading the way where others had tread down the precipitous slope. Trees were changing colour along either side of the descent, wet and lush from a rising fog which had soaked me on the way up. The valley below was barely visible through the mist.

It was beautiful. 

I remarked as such to the man ahead of me, with whom I'd barely been keeping up. 

He agreed, and added: "It's a good time for a snack!". 

I took his advice, and pulled out a strawberry Gu Gel from the pack in my pocket. Sucking on the sweet (not?) artificial gummy flavouring, I smiled. Good workout. Good view. Good people, even. This was pretty cool. 

Suddenly the man shot off down the descent, disappearing into the mist like that dude from the Polar Express. Or as my grandmother might have put it "like a fart in the wind." 

I tried to keep up, but couldn't. Not nearly enough stability or ability in my legs.

Turns out I'd be doing much of the race like this. Alone.

Oh well.

Post-race. Soaked. 

A glance at my Garmin marked the 2k point, and with a sign I continued onwards. One foot in front of the other. This wouldn't be over any time soon. 

I had no idea this Saturday race was titled "Beat To Snot". At least, I didn't know 'till I took a first look at the terrain, on Friday night. 

Only a couple of days before this, I had been asked if I'd be interested in participating. Without a compelling reason not to, I figured "sure!". It would be a good excuse to get out. Jeffery Zahavich, owner of Kinesic Sports Lab, was the one who had extended the invitation. He estimated he'd be in the same boat; undertrained, but enthusiastic. I didn't point out the difference between undertrained and no-trained, which was my case.

The longest I'd run this summer was 10k, on pavement. 

Oh boy.

I justified a 16k trail run as a great way to see some more Nova Scotian countryside. Who cares if I had never fun this far ever before? Who cares if it's on a ski hill? 

I sure didn't. That is, until I reached the bottom of the second descent. A volunteer was waiting, taking pictures with her iPhone, cheering everyone on. 

Between enthusiastic hurrahs, she yelled "5k runners, head to finish!". These racers were all done, and welcome to head straight on to the ski lodge behind her, with its warm and cozy interior. 

The temptation to spring forward was strong. Who would know? I could say I'd meant to sign up for the 5k. Jeff might rib me, but I'd be able to walk later. And I'd be dry.

Nope. With a sigh, I turned right and headed back up the hill -- straight line up a sharp incline, alongside the chairlift supports. 

Chairlifts. What a novel idea. 

The route was not exclusively confined to ski paths. Some sections cut between runs using flowy, mossy singletrack. Soft, and grippy. The fourth ascent was particularly fun, reminiscent of a Mountain Bike Trail, complete with berms and bridges. 

By now my Salomon Speedcross were soaked, and muddy. Along the first ascent, some burbling brooks and marshy pits were too wide to hop, so they were cristened early. Bought during the spring before, these kicks hadn't actually seen a whole lot of trail (any, really) until now. They were stellar. Impeccable grip, and quick to shed moisture. They're still drying in my apartment, but during the run my feet were never uncomfortably wet.

Finally muddy. 

A big part of my comfortable toes were the Multi-Sport Icebreaker socks I'd purchased the day before. Incomparable. 

Keeping my core warm was a light-blue Craft Cross-Country Ski jacket. I honestly can't remember its name, but it's kept me comfy for about two years now. I've used it running, cycling, skiing, and casually. It's held up in each instance, and proved to be perfect for Saturday. With a simple Icebreaker Running T underneath, I was never too hot or cold as the wind whipped drizzle around Wentworth's higher elevations. 

I had been nervous at the start, seeing som efolks dress up in shorts and a singlet. Others sported tights and Arc'teryx shells. Most everyone had some kind of a water-pack of some kind. I felt pretty dopey, carrying my single cycling bottle. Something to remember for next time. 

By the 10th km, the ascents were more like hikes for me. The downhills were starting to burn my thighs and glutes. 

It was hella-fun. 

Every climb lead to a beautiful vista, and every descent was a win, 'cause I didn't succumb to temptation and just roll down. 

Heck, just being there was a win. 

As the second hour rolled around, the mist disappeared from the higher elevations, leaving behind a thick dew. Gusts of wind chilled the spine a litte here and there, but it never got too cold. 

Lana Del-Rey was stuck in my head. 

I was keeping pace with a couple of people behind me, and one woman in front. She would blast off on the downhills, and my long legs would help catch her on the way up. The others stayed firmly behind, always in view. On the second-to-last descent, though, this pattern started to fall apart as my thighs began to stiffen up in protest of the abuse they'd been dealt. 

The head game had begun. Surprisingly, though, I didn't feel like I'd hit "the wall" at any point. It simply became a negotiation within myself: "keep putting one foot in front of the other, no matter how fast or slow. At the end, there could be cookies." 

Mmmmmm, cookies.

Gimme. 

The final rise was fairly tame compared to everything that had preceeded it. A mix of more singletrack, and a few overrun woods roads with tiny rolling hills. Cresting each rise deserved a smile, and got one. 

Then, down again... one last time. 

By now, the downhills were a gritty chore. My thighs were screaming. I stopped more often than I'd have liked, just to give them a break. 

One foot in front of the other, though. Keep on keepin' on. 

I passed the final Volunteer with about a kilometer and a half left, and he topped me up on water. 

"You've got about a mile left!" he told me, encouragingly. "It's all downhill from here!" 

Oh great, my favourite, I thought. 

More singletrack. More flow. I desperately wished for two tready wheels to carry me down, but nothing magically appeared. It was just me, and the mulchy earth beneath my shoes. With my Garmin reading Two Hours and Fourty minutes, I began to chant "Less than three, less than three..." 

One foot. Another. Run, run, run. Up, down, up, down. Turn left. Turn right. Cross the bridge. Hop the root. 'round the tree. Repeat. 

"Less than three..." down, down, down. 

Ouch. 

2:52:00, I passed a house. Hobbling along, I saw the trees breaking onto a cleared hill -- the bottom of another Ski run, with a muddy trail through the grass headed towards a gravel parking lot. 

Hitting the flat, finally, brought another smile. Turning left, I could see the finish next to the lodge. 

Less than three... 

I'd made it. A 16k trail run. Holy shit. 

Jeff was at the end, bundled up in a sweater and sweats. He'd finished a little more than half an hour before me. 

"What number are you!?" They asked me as I crossed the finish. 

"Four Oh Seven!" I replied. Ecstatic. Exhausted. 

To my left, the fog had lifted and revealed the top of the hill. I just ran up that, I thought. Several times. 

Woah. 

Jeff smiled at me, and offered a fist bump. "How are you feeling!?" He asked. 

I just laughed. 

Beneath the Salomon timing tent, Jodi (one of the awesome organizers) was grinning at me. He nudged Jeff. "I have something to show you, and Ryan too..." 

He pulled out his phone. 

"One of the volunteers texted me a little while ago." He scrolled, toggled the text, and then showed it to Jeff and I.

"Number 407 is destroyed. Well done." it said. 

Indeed I was. Destroyed, and happy. Beat to a snot. 

Not Just A Hit To Cyclists

Screencap from the Ottawa Citizen

When you see a headline this horrifying, it's natural to think it was written by The Onion.

Unfortunately this one was penned by the Ottawa Citizen, with no hint of satire.

An actual volunteer firefighter hit an actual cyclist, critically injuring her, and drove away.

It's only fair to note this man was indeed convicted of something -- impaired driving causing bodily harm, based on evidence provided by officers confirming he was, indeed, drunk.

He was not convicted of being four times the legal limit, though, because of police (mis)procedure.

As for the hit and run... well, the headline says it all.

Sentencing will happen in September, but given proceedings so far, it's probably best you don't heighten your hopes. The bar hasn't been set much higher than 'wrist slap'.

(For a point of interest, check out MADD Canada's summary of charges/ convictions.)

In the meantime, let's address the most concerning aspect of the situation. Forget for a moment she was a cyclist, and focus on the fact that a firefighter drove away from the scene because he was too drunk to know.

This volunteer is trusted with lives, in what is likely the most challenging and dangerous profession there is. Firefighters are leaders, in our society. We should be holding him to a more elevated standard. Hands down, no argument.

He is supposed to be a man of safety, and here he is allegedly driving four times past the legal limit (according to the citizen).

Luckily the victim is alive. Scarred, but alive. There are so many more across this country, daily, who aren't so lucky -- if you could call it luck.

The contradiction this judge presented in his ruling is staggering. He outlined the exact reason this man should be convicted, as a reason he was not.

What a dangerous precedent this sets.

Now, let's step back and recall she was indeed a cyclist.

As communities struggle to increase safety infrastructure to protect two-wheeled enthusiasts across the country, this sheds light on how far behind we really are. We aren't protecting cyclists fast enough, or indeed enough.

Simply put, as a question: how much do we value a life? Apparently, not much.

No Punchline

This is a love letter to all snarky fucks out there like me: "Get over yourself".

"Get over yourself" seems like an odd way to start an aimless, long-overdue blog post... especially this one. But there you go.

It occurred to me recently that I have trouble with sincerity, and adequately expressing myself with words that make sense. When trying to earnestly do this I throw in so many long pauses or 'ums' and 'ahs' that what ends up coming out can't possibly be considered English, legally.

Then I usually follow it all up with something akin to 'your momma'.

Funny? Probably not. Annoying... fuck, yes.

I certainly think sincerely, but the mental wall from what I think and what I eventually say is gargantuan.

Check out my ego, yo.

Because, ultimately, that's what it is... Ego. You don't want to sound silly by really truly earnestly expressing yourself... when, in fact, it's not silly at all. I shouldn't even be calling it that, I just can't think of a better word to use, contextually.

When a person says exactly what is on their mind, it's something to be admired. When they put themselves and their thoughts into the open, it's beautiful. Chances are, I'm preaching to the choir. You know and admire this... but it's always great to have the last laugh! 

Right? 

Wrong.

Well, it's just not what I do? I'm a close book. I'm dark and mysterious and...

Get over yourself.

What if it doesn't work out? 

Well, what does that even mean... 'work out'? You're not lifting weights, you're trusting in the people around you. If you can't do that, why expect that they would or could trust you...?

But, but... 

To blame it all on our upbringing or generational influences is lazy. Ultimately, it all comes down to the person and how willing they are to improve themselves rather than attribute to others.

But, it's not a bad defence. Look at what is called funny nowadays -- crass, demeaning, dismissive, sarcastic humour. Sincere moments are constantly punctuated by a punchline, characters are typically set up in a hierarchy where at least one or more are regular joke-butts.

Even the tone in our advertising is challenging, when it's not being unrealistically sexy. "Prove yourself by buying this product!" it screams, with the snarky "yeah right, as if" attitude of a playground bully -- mostly radio and TV for this, by the way. It's all about tone.

But.. that's irrelevant. We can be better. As much as "get over yourself" should be a daily mantra, "get over it" needs to be a close second -- applicable to upbringing, environment, or whatever sense of humour you think you have. Get over it, be better.

Unless you're a science experiment, your reactions are entirely under your own control.

So, to be dismissive or snarky.. it's not a part of your 'nature', it's a choice. It's a crutch.

Now, don't turn it off. It's a great way to express yourself when you're finally comfortable with someone, but not at the cost of sincerity. Allow yourself to be silent when it's most appropriate -- you don't have to be the loudest person in the room, looking for a joke around every corner. Some of the funniest people I know have also been the most helpful and sincere, when times required...

For some reason, this excellent blog post comes to mind: A Better Way To Introduce Your Friends At Parties. A person is not what they do, it's who they are. Listen to the message of every morality tale you've ever heard!

It'll require a little vulnerability, a little bit of silence, and some more eloquent words than 'fuck', but it's entirely possible.

Now comes the apology -- to those who have known me, and experienced this, I am sorry. I am trying to be better, more courageous, and more vulnerable.

I promise.

Oh Right, a Titile

Beginning to enjoy this school.

For those of you not up to date (assuming, of course, that there are any of you.) I am currently attending the University of King's College one-year BJ program.

Please hold your laughter 'till the end.

This is the sunset I had the pleasure of seeing last week while heading to an interview. Yes, I definitely miss the end of day on Newfoundland's West Coast, but in a small way this managed to adequately fill in...

Plus, yaknow, the school is damn pretty.

Nothing to add here -- just jumpstarting ye-olde blog today, in the hopes that making a photo/ film a day might help me keep this going on the regular.

Wish me luck.

Old Post

An older travelogue account of my time in Scotland. Wrote it for a creative writing class... and BOOM! Came across it today. Decided to blog it. Here you are. 

A massive wall of jagged rock stood before me, reaching up into a thick mist that was slowly working away at the snow that had for some time frosted the very cliff on which I stood at that very moment. The snow was had only recently melted, evidenced by patches of white that still cascaded down the mountainside to my right. This trip had been intended as an ice climbing expedition, but that idea was shelved when it became apparent that the ice was not safe enough to trust with our weight - myself and my guide, Chris - so it became a simple rock-climbing adventure instead. The crampons and ice-picks we had decided to carry just incase were all now dead weight which we were laboriously carrying to the top along with other survival essentials (also packed just incase) that were by no means light, even without the climbing gear. I peeked over the edge and took in the expansive valley that I had just vacated only a few hundred meters previous, and briefly considered how very fortunate I was to be rock climbing in the Scottish Highlands. 

The process had begun a few weeks previous, and was a fairly difficult one due simply to indecisiveness. The circumstances were more ideal than they would ever be again-- I was studying Theatre in England at the Harlow campus of Memorial University Of Newfoundland, and midterm was approaching. There were numerous options for what I could do with a week's worth of free time in a foreign country, but one that kept calling back to me was the relatively cheap airfare that could bring me on a pilgrimage I'd dreamt of since childhood: Loch Ness, Scotland. It was enticing, but why spend the money? In the end it was decided that the money should be spent because it could be spent, simply because the chance would never arise so cheaply again. With that in mind I booked a return ticket to an adventure that would deeply affect me, probably for years to come. 

On the morning of the climb I found myself waiting on a bus stop at 7:30am, munching on toast and honey provided by Morag's Lodge, the Hostel at which I was staying in Fort Augustus on the banks of Loch Ness. The bus ride to Fort William (where I was to meet Chris) was slow and oddly laborious, constantly stopping to pick up schoolchildren who lived on farms and fancy-looking, stone-built estates. Sheep dotted the luscious land as the vehicle occasionally broke down and had to be restarted by the driver, more like a computer than any bus I'd ever ridden in before. During these moments I took the time to lament the rain that dripped down the window on the outside and could very well have meant I wasn't going anywhere high that day. Providing a ray of positivity in these moments was the rolling hills of the Scottish farmland that lay on either side of the tiny highway where my bus sat, puttering away in an attempt to start. 

After dropping off the children at their school, I found myself in the parking lot of a grocery chain, greeting Chris- lithe and muscular in the way you always imagine your adventure tourism types to be. He sported a friendly smile and chatty attitude, setting me at ease concerning the upcoming adventure. We swung by some friends of his to pick up the Crampons and Axes, just in case. 

The journey started with a hike along the inside of the horseshoe valley, snaking up and down along green grass now wet with the same rain that was slowly beginning to soak its way into my bones. The trail weaved criss cross up and down at times, and each time you looked right it took all your being not to hold on to something for dear life. The hike developed a rhythm that allowed constant progress around the grassy green and beige Highlands, eventually finding the rocks on which I now found myself with short-term nostalgia. It was a long way down, and at times daunting to think how high I had come to have not reached the halfway point yet-- according to Chris. The reverie was interrupted by his Scottish accent tickling my eardrums, informing me it was safe to climb now that he had gone on to establish a route. Without any hesitation I turned from the vision and moved further up the jagged stones into the mist and fog. 

Ages

It's been ages since my last post, which is again a redundant statement to make on a blog that barely ever gets any love... Despite the fact I can use it on my phone?

Time to promise the ether (the invisible nobody, or maybe one somebody?) that I will not let this continue... 

For real this time.

--Cabin, July 7th.