Like a Tumbling Tumbleweed
Shawnigan Lake, BC - Tuesday, July 2, 2013

When I take cycling trips, I make notes. Very utilitarian notes. I record routes and distances travelled. But also social and economic conditions observed.

A loose-leaf notebook is in my handlebar bag, a current page is in my pocket, and every time Elizabeth stops to take a photo or consult a map, I pull out my pen and paper and hurriedly jot down a few details.

Of course, this time, Elizabeth is not with me, and never will be. And I’m a man on a mission, determined to fully document every metre of the Trans Canada Trail, its surface, its width, its gradient, its users and its style. I’ll publish my results.

So I’ve come fully equipped with all the latest electronic gadgetry: Garmin Edge 800, Dell XPS 13, Canon ELPH 330 HS, Sony ICD-SX712, Samsung Galaxy SIII.

Not only can I keep track of the most minute facts, I don’t even have to dismount from my bike. As I pedal down the Trail, I can change screens on my GPS device and dictate information to my digital recorder. No unnecessary stops; I’ll be a model of cycling efficiency.

If she were here, my wise and well-grounded wife would have talked some sense into me. “Don’t you think it’s dangerous to be playing with these toys while you’re riding your bicycle?” she would have asked quite pointedly. “What’s the rush? Take your time.”

And then I might have remembered the cardinal rule of two-wheel mobility: “If you don’t have both eyes on the road, you must have both hands on the handlebars.” (I learned this when I was a 21-year-old motorcyclist living in London, England.)

Anyway, it’s Tuesday morning, Day Two, and I’m still trying to connect safely to the Trans Canada Trail, taking a circuitous detour to avoid the Malahat Highway. I’ve left Shawnigan Lake behind me and, in a few minutes, I’ll reach the Trail’s spectacular Kinsol Trestle.

I’m travelling on a two-lane asphalt road with a paved shoulder and then, unexpectedly, the shoulder vanishes, transformed into a gravel slope. I continue downhill in the car lane, picking up speed, while reaching out with my right hand to change GPS screens and read the odometer; and then I turn on my digital recorder to note the road conditions.

I have an eerie sense of déjà vu. This Vancouver Island road greatly resembles the Prince Edward Island road where Elizabeth was killed almost a year ago. But that one was straight; this one is winding.

Suddenly, my front wheel hits a rut, slips off the pavement and slides sideways on the gravel slope. I’m fighting to keep the bike upright, but it’s a losing battle. And since I can’t get my feet out my toe clips, man and machine, inseparably entwined, are soon tumbling back and forth and bouncing up and down.

The handlebar hits and bends, my knee digs in hard, my shoulder rips through my shirt, a rear pannier drags free.

Finally, we all come to a full stop and I have lots of time to contemplate my stupidity. And flex my limbs to make sure nothing is broken. And be grateful that I haven’t been struck by a passing car.

I take a water bottle and pour the precious liquid on my knee and try to wash out the debris. (As I stare down at my bleeding leg, I remember my Glaswegian Uncle Alex telling me about the Scotsman who took a serious tumble as he staggered home from the bar. He had a whiskey bottle in his hip pocket, and when he felt something wet running down his leg he exclaimed: “I hope that’s blood!”)

Photo by Margaret Marean

Paul, a local fireman, stops his vehicle and comes across the road with his first aid kit. He has some antiseptic wipes for my wounds. “I’ll drive you to a medical clinic,” he offers, “but you’ll need a couple of stitches for that knee. And you can only get those in Duncan.”

Good. We’re staying in Duncan tonight. But it’s still 70 km away.

We repair the bike and then carry on. “You look like a homeless person,” my friend David rebukes, “with your torn clothes and oozing blood.”

At 7:30 pm we arrive at our hotel and then take a taxi to the Cowichan District Hospital. We’re there for five hours but it’s worth it. Dr. Michelle Weizel very capably stitches up my knee in three layers – three stitches close to the kneecap, four in the middle and five on the outside. A tetanus shot, an x-ray, twelve stitches, an intravenous, a prescription, and I’m good to go.

Sorer but wiser.