Meetings
The best people, a few fears, & c.; or The Bike Rally is complete.
Before setting out for the PWA Friends for Life Bike Rally, a six-day, 600 km cycling journey from Toronto to Montreal, I was particularly worried about one thing: biffing it in front of everyone with my amateur bike-handling skills. I was a little bit worried, too, about spending a week awkwardly at the edges of everything because so many people on the Bike Rally have been doing this for years and it’s easy to to be isolated among several hundred people.
I got my first worry out of the way early: while overcompensating for passing bikes on a very narrow bike path bridge over some wetlands because I am very much unused to riding in such close proximity to others, I got my shoulder into the barrier wall. To keep from wiping out entirely, I threw my arm over the top of the wall, which did keep me and the bike upright (thereby keeping about eight other people from either falling or running me over or both). The result was a pretty impressive brush-burn on my forearm, but that was the sum total of the damage. A bit of gauze and Polysporin and no worries.
As for the second worry: even before we’d finished affixing our name tags to our gear bins, we were made welcome. I have never, ever been in such an immediately warm and invested space that was clearly entirely intentional and still effortlessly organic. After packing bins, the team met for brunch1, and though it was a first meeting for many of us, it had the quality of a college reunion: boisterous, full of laughter, full of curiosity about what everyone’s been up to (even for those meeting the first time). That genuine warmth of spirit persisted for the entire six days of the rally, which also contained some gnarly headwinds, bone-jarring potholes, and three massive thunderstorm cells that seemed to be timed for the most tent-soaking hours of the day (one amid an all-night soaking rain, one “short but spicy” storm attended by gale-force winds that arrived about an hour after most of the tents went up, and one that lingered through day five’s afternoon and evening, forcing some folks to take hasty, impromptu shelter along the road or, in-camp, having a cozy little cower inside the box of a transport truck). Whole tents flooded. Sleeping bags sodden. And flat tires and broken spokes and derailleur gremlins and crashes and bee stings and sore bodies and a lot of other things that could really throw a damper on, well, everything. And yet, the prevailing feeling was one of optimism and good humor and persistence.
During the candlelight vigil, as some shared their stories, one of the speakers pointed out what a charmed and sweet space the rally is. Every day, someone is standing at a busy intersection helping you to navigate traffic. Every day, someone wants you to have enough nourishing, delicious food to eat. Every day, someone waits at the top of a hill to encourage you to keep going. Every day, someone serenades you with a tambourine when you come to camp. Every day, someone says, “Good morning,” and means it. Every day, someone, even as they’re passing you, tells you you’re going strong. Every day, a team of physios is ready to wrap a wound, tend an injury, treat the aches and creaks and cracks. Every day, someone turns up with spare hands or a spare tube when something goes awry with your bike. Every day, someone will share the bug spray or the sun block or the gummy bears. Every day, so many, many good things, born of care for each other.
There’s no reason to save this kind of care for a special event. These six days were special—a life-altering kind of moving and movement—but the real spirit of the Bike Rally lives in how it carries out and away from the particular days of the ride. It’s about how you meet the days afterward, which includes meeting those fears—whatever they may have been or still may be2—and doing that work of care for others as you go, because most of what I saw us doing was helping each other meet and overcome those fears. Each of those intentional moments of inviting someone into a conversation or asking a question helped someone else not feel like an outsider. Each of those moments when someone said, “You’re almost there!” helped someone else feel like they could complete the day. Each time someone said, “That’s just a daddy long-legs—it doesn’t bite,” someone sat a little more comfortably in camp.
One last time for the 2023 Bike Rally: if you’d like to make a little contribution to support people living with HIV/AIDS, here’s the link.
Links & making & reading recommendations will return in the next installment!
My debut novel Heading North is now available for preorder! You can also join me and a bunch of supportive, interesting writers at Barrelhouse Magazine’s wonderful and affordable Conversations & Connections conference in Philadelphia on Sept. 23.
At Revelstoke in Toronto, a vegan cafe that seems to specialize in brunch and served up the most beautiful, massive order of avocado toast. I will stop being basic about avocado toast when it stops being so delicious.
Narrow paths & gates/bollards: eek, et cetera.