A Rainbow of Colour

The colours of Pride Month are prolific in Victoria -- both conscious acknowledgements of Pride, and unconscious revelry in the joy of colour. 

I received feedback that people liked my May post on colourful art, so this is a reprise, looking at the amazing homage to colour that I see everywhere in this city. 

In front of the Empress Hotel, earlier this month

Steps to the Lutheran church on Fort Street

First Metropolitan United Church. This photo was taken in 2021.

A house in James Bay with an urban farm, owned by Chris and Susannah Adams

And now, to a few commercial buildings with wonderful splashes of colour. 

Bastion Square shop

Smoking Lily storefront

Friends of Dorothy Restaurant and Lounge, Johnson Street. I didn't know the reason for the name "Friends of Dorothy" until I did the research for this post. The term dates back to World War I, and was code for "are you gay?" There is a great short CHEK news video about Friends of Dorothy, at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jGUjiRON-As

Window reflection from a restaurant on Oswego Street

Johnson Street shop

The Paper Box Building on Johnson Street

Colourful exterior at a bike shop on Pandora

In this post I'm focussong more on public, rather than private, examples of colour, but I can't ignore the vibrant rainbows of colours in James Bay. Here is a small sampling.

St. Lawrence Street home

Superior Street house

A recently repainted house near me, on Rithet Street

An apartment building on Cook Street, in the neighbouring community of Fairfield. This building was also repainted within the last year or so. While this one sticks to one bright colour -- it is a bright colour indeed!

I've devoted a few posts in the last few years to murals. I'll include a only couple of examples here.

Downtown mural by Nicole Majcher

Mural on the side of the Trees Cannabis building, Fort Street. "In the Trees".

Africa Fest, at the end of May, was setting up when I walked through Centennial Square.

Detail from one of the Orca Whale sculptures located around Victoria. This one is in the Inner Harbour

Full depiction of an orca sculpture. This one is at a hotel along Wharf Street.

Detail from another Orca, this one on Quadra Street

Decorated "pop-up" piano on Willows Beach in Oak Bay. This photo was from last September; the piano was in place for three months last summer, by Oak Bay Recreation. The words on the piano are Oak Bay's motto, meaning "Good fortune under the oaks" in Latin

Another decorated "pop-up" piano, also from Willows Beach, Oak Bay, last September.

Colourful mini park, called a "parklet". This one was created by replacing several parking stalls along Fort Street with this infrastructure. It separates the cycling lanes, on the left, from the vehicles lanes on the right.

And, for my last image in this post -- a unique Canada Post van painted with bold colours. 

Seen on Dallas Road in March - a cheerful splash of colour on a grey day.  Although this was the first time I have seen a truck with the design, apparently they started rolling out in March 2021 to recognize the front line workers in Canada Post who kept the mail going during the early months of the pandemic. 

A Cycling Tribute

This blog post is different from most of my others. Yes, there are photos, with plenty at the end. The primary thread, though, is a personal story. If you're interested, read on. 

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In the year I turned 62, I became a road cyclist. It was the hardest physical thing I have ever done, and demanded I learn mental toughness and break through intense amounts of fear.

I always found athletics intimidating. I dreaded phys ed as a child; I did not have the skills to spike a volleyball, the endurance to run around a playing field, or the nerve to jump hurdles. I was more comfortable reading, and finding my adventures vicariously.

As an adult, the gym was overwhelming—the equipment, the energy, the fit muscled bodies. And, if I encountered cyclists on the road, wearing sleek leggings, bodies fluid in motion with their bikes, I never, ever, thought that one day that could be me.

It was meeting Ken that helped me change my attitude about myself.

“You’re reasonably fit”, he said, "but road cycling will make you fit at a deeper level than you can possibly imagine. When you reach that level, you will be so very proud of yourself.”

Looking back, I don’t recall why I made the decision to give road cycling a try. Perhaps it was something I could share with Ken, or perhaps I was ready for a new challenge.

And it would be a challenge. My last bike had been a three-speed, three decades earlier. I knew I would have to learn about shifting. But there was much more that was different.

At the bike shop, a huge protractor-type device was brought out to measure the angles my body made on the bike. This was to ensure I ordered one that fit me. “If you’re not comfortable on the bike,” Ken said, “it won’t work for you.”

When I sat on a road bike, my feet did not touch the ground. This, I would learn, added extra challenge, as would the technology of “clipping in”. Clipping in makes a rider far more efficient on the bike, able to use the force from pulling up the pedal, as well as that of pushing it down.

My bike would come at the end of May. While I waited, Ken set up his own bike on a stationary trainer in the living room, and I climbed on, wearing my new cycling shoes. I worked at clipping them into the pedals, and then learning the quick snappy twist that releases the shoe from the pedal.  It was hard; I took a long time to “get” it. “It’s got to be quick,” Ken kept telling me.

In April we went camping. I brooded over the bike and my fears. One day, sitting by a river, I began visualizing myself on the bike. I wrote a series of affirmations, and repeated them as a mantra, hoping to improve my outlook:

I am confident, I am strong, I am coordinated. I have the ability to learn. I am focussed. Accomplishing new things makes me feel good about myself. I enjoy challenges; I can do this one.

We drove back from camping with the words swirling in my head. Then, the bike arrived. It was a foreign object, inviting, yet scary. I looked at the gears, the levers on the handlebars for shifting and braking, the odd-shaped pedals – how was I ever going to feel comfortable with all this complexity?

Finally, the day came when the weather was warm enough to take the bike outside. I was nervous, and excited. I lifted my leg over the bar, clipped in my right shoe, got up onto the seat, clipped in my left shoe—and then, forgetting that I had to pedal the bike to keep it from toppling over, fell in slow motion sideways onto the hard pavement in front of the house. I was banged up and shaken.

Learning to ride, in front of the house in Salmon Arm, 2012

I got on the bike again, flushed. This time I did not clip in. I sat on the seat and pushed off. I wobbled but kept the bike going. Then, as I approached a speed bump a short distance down the road, I braked and put my foot down—the automatic reaction from the years of cycling on that old three-speed. But with my bottom still on the bike seat, my foot couldn’t reach the pavement; I fell again. I now had scrapes and grazes on elbows and knees, and my body hurt. I was also aware that neighbours were likely watching my antics through their blinds. My brain stopped functioning, and my mouth struggled to form words. 

“I can’t do this,” I said. 

“Yes you can,” Ken said. “Just ride the bike. And when you stop, stand up before you put your foot down.”

Over the next few weeks, the voice in my head chattered non-stop; it said things like “You’re over 60; reaction times slow down as you get older,” and “You’ve never been coordinated—why do you think you can do this?” 

I was infused with fear of falling—and yet another inner voice countered my negativity. I could not give up; I needed to keep trying. 

The visualizations I had done camping were not enough; even the simple task of stopping a bicycle was proving too complex! I had to go back to basics, teach my body new skills so they would become instinctive reactions. 

I began with practice drills in the neighbourhood. There were four blocks where I could ride on the level, and expect few cars. First I worked at just riding the bike, without my feet clipped in, and getting used to lifting my bottom off the seat when I braked. Then I clipped a foot in and practiced unclipping and clipping as I rode along, right foot, then left. I went back and forth, back and forth. If I heard a car behind me, I unclipped a foot, braked and lifted my bottom off the seat, ready to stop if necessary. The learning process was slow. And I went through some embarrassing moments. 

Once I was riding with Ken along a normally quiet street with a stop sign at the end, where cars turned left to go over railway tracks. This time, traffic was backed up, waiting to turn; a train was going by and the level crossing arms were down. Ken rode his bike between the cars and the curb, assuming I was following. But I couldn’t—the gap looked far too narrow for me to safely ride, wobbly as I felt. So I got off the seat, placed my feet on the ground, and hopped forward between the cars and the curb, feeling like an ungainly elephant. 

Even crossing those tracks took skill. Low gear to climb up, then accelerate and bump over the tracks so the skinny tires didn’t skid, then down the other side, braking for another stop sign while unclipping a foot and lifting my bottom from the seat. So complicated! The first time I did it, I was panting from anxiety—but I succeeded. We rode around downtown, practising stopping and starting at intersections. At one, I somehow punctured my calf on the bike’s chain wheel gears. Blood dripped down my shin and soaked my sock, but I kept going. 

Finally, one day in June, Ken said, “It’s time. You’ve been practising and practising—you’ve got to get onto the road.” Instantly, my stomach was twisting in knots. Could I do this? Was I really comfortable enough at those simultaneous actions I’d been rehearsing? 

 “The best way to learn,” Ken said, “is to just do it.”

This road, in the Armstrong area, is typical of the infrastructure for road cycling in the interior -- that is, cyclists share the road with other users, as well as vehicles. Generally the quieter rural roads do not have shoulders, and many lack a centre line.

So, on with cycling shorts, jersey, helmet and shoes. Water bottles filled, energy bar cut up. Finally, I was on the bike and pedalling. We were heading towards a valley bottom road frequented by cyclists. To get there required making our way through downtown, and then crossing the highway. Each intersection I reached, I was anxious; would I remember my drill? Could I come to a stop, lift my butt, and unclip? And then, could I get started again, and clip in on the go? By the time we were pedalling the last hill before dropping into the valley I was exhausted with nervous tension. There was a 4-way stop half-way up the hill. 

“You’ve got to come to a complete stop,” Ken said. “Otherwise you’re not legal.” And he advised me to practise a complete stop with my feet clipped in, by braking and applying pressure to the pedals at the same time, rocking the bike a little. “You can keep the bike balanced by doing this,” he said. “That way you’re ready to go when it’s clear.” 

But it was too much for me. I’d fallen off the bike so many times to feel comfortable staying clipped in while stopping, relying on a complicated manoeuvre to stay upright. When I reached the 4-way stop there were no cars, so I ignored the stop sign, and kept rolling.

For the last few hundred metres of the hill, I dropped to my lowest gear; my legs were burning. I was going so slowly I could not keep the bike straight. It wobbled back and forth, cars revving their motors beside me. I was hot and struggled for breath, with no reserves of energy left. I kept thinking, “I can’t stop now, I can’t stop now. If I do, I’ll never get started again on this hill.” I focussed on getting each leg to turn the pedal a revolution, then another and another. And then, I was at the top. I pulled to the shoulder, panting. 

“I made it! My quads are on fire but I made it!” I was excited that I’d actually accomplished something. 

“You did well, Sarah”, Ken said, “now let’s get onto the valley road. When you get some speed up, I’ll show you how to switch into your larger chain ring so you can go faster.” 

“Oh oh” —my nerves were talking back to me. “I’m not ready for this…What if I crash…. “

But I didn’t. 

Instead, I found an exhilaration I did not know existed, a euphoria only attainable from pushing my body in ways it had never been pushed. And I did push it, through the pain of muscles fatigued from hours of repetitive motion, the pain of a sore bottom from sitting on a hard bicycle seat cutting into tender tissue, the pain of fingers and toes that were either icy or burning.

On the road - Notch Hill Road, near Sorrento

I became addicted to the call of the open road. Lansdowne Road, Armstrong area

I had never felt that I was graceful or strong, but over the next months and years, I reached the point that Ken had described at the beginning of my journey. It was not a straight line; I had reversals, times when I was so anxious, I was almost sick before a ride, times when my mind was convinced I was not meant to be a cyclist. But I stuck with it, and Ken stuck with me, although he too was sometimes more than ready for me to cycle by myself. 

Getting ready for an early spring ride, Notch Hill hall, Shuswap area

I was proud of what I’d accomplished. But more than that, I loved the joy, those moments with the bike when I felt that I was one with it, when my cadence was perfect and the road smooth, and I sailed up and down the hills surrounded by forests and sky, my body and bike in harmony. Or, I stood on my pedals, my torso leaning into the handlebars, my hands placed in the “drops”, and I powered my way up a hill, in a rhythmic dance with the bike, feeling strong and fit. There was nothing like it.

Fall cycling on back roads in the Green Lake area of the Cariboo

And sometimes, the exhilaration was accompanied by a thrill of fear, when I was descending a hill at 60 km an hour, knowing I was on the edge of control. What if a squirrel ran out from that bush beside the road, or a bird crossed in front of me? I’d have no time to react. Or, when the wheels rolled from bright sun into a shady patch, what if there were a pothole right there?

I grew to love the sensuousness of cycling, the scent of wild roses on a warm summer morning, the heat from the asphalt on a hot summer afternoon when I would pour water onto my head through the vents in my helmet, the visceral odor cycling past fields of freshly sprayed manure, and the sweet scent of mown hay. I loved the things I noticed cycling, the vultures circling overhead on thermals, the colors of a red barn against bright spring green fields, the silence of a cool summer early morning, and the shrill whistle of hawks. And I loved the feeling of exhaustion at the end of a good ride, the knowledge that my body had accomplished a feat, the intense focus I had needed, the way the minutes stretched out. 

Following Ken zipping down White Lake Road, Shuswap area

Each time I returned from a ride, when I hung the bike up on its hook in the garage, I thanked it for the journey it had carried me on, for its performance, for bringing me back safely.

But always, there was a knowing, that I was living with risk.

The dangers were real. Debris from a logging truck could fly into me as the truck roared past. My strength might not be enough against the cross-winds which wanted to push me into traffic as I followed a narrow shoulder, descending a mountain valley, with a steep drop to a river on my right. And the dog which ran out from the farm yard chasing after me might decide to nip at my heels. Rural cycling was full of joy, and full of risk.

Near the Peace Canyon dam, northern BC

Along the Skeena River, near Prince Rupert

Kettle River, Washington State

Then, we moved to Victoria, a cycling paradise. I loved cycling by the ocean. But I was spoiled by those quiet interior BC roads. 

Early morning ride in Victoria

Early morning rides in Victoria were blissful, with the Olympics in the background and salt sea smells in my nostrils. 

I missed the country roads, the unencumbered mind, where I could enter a trance-like state as I worked hard, moving my legs in fluid motion, wind cooling my face. I missed the sounds of the forest and the fields, the whoosh of my tires running down a hill. I missed the euphoria of cycling.

And I became more aware of risk. Doctors told me that my bones were thinning, to the point that a fall from my bike might be disastrous. 

And so, for longer and longer lengths of time, my bike sat in the storage locker, unused.

Ken and I at Thetis Lake. I loved the forest here, but found the cycle paths and roads to get here congested and overcrowded.

I should go for a bike ride. The thought tormented me, would not leave me alone. Whenever I saw other riders, I yearned to be on the bike. But I didn't go. My bike was scaring me.

And so, I decided.

I advertised the bike for sale, dropped the price, then dropped the price again.

A few days ago, I wheeled it for the last time, one cool drizzly morning, to meet the woman who'd responded to my ad. I was aware of the bike's lightness, its grace, how easily it responded to my touch as I rolled it along, one hand resting on the stem. Such a beautiful piece of technology. But it was time to let it go.

Downtown, the woman who would buy my bike was in awe.

"It looks so much better than in the photos! You've taken such good care of it!" 

Now, someone else was excited by my bike.

We exchanged information and paperwork, and I walked away, with a pocketfull of crisp bills.

I may have let go of the bike, but I have not let go of the gifts it gave me. These remain a part of me.

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Addendum:

A few more images from past cycling trips. 

Ken has been a big part of my cycling journey; if it weren't for him, I wouldn't have discovered the joy of cycling. Thank you Ken!

Near Watch Lake in the Cariboo, in the fall

Cameron Lake, near Hudsons Hope, northern BC

Wind farm on the top of one of mountains in the Tumbler Ridge area, northern BC

Flooded Salmon Valley Road, spring 2017, Shuswap area. This made for great cycling as there were no cars on the road!

Granby River in the fall, near Grand Forks, southern BC.