GROWING UP COASTAL Ride to the End of the Road

JOSEPH MCLEAN

Photo © Joseph McLean

It was Kevin's idea. At the farthest place we had

ever biked from home, he looked wistfully at the highway heading south, rising over the hill at Lang Bay, leaving everything we had ever known. And he asked me, "where's the farthest place this road goes?"

Some years, that answer is 15,000 kilometres away on the Chilean coast, the southern terminus of highway 101. But Covid has readjusted our goalposts, if just for now. In a way, it is like when the children were very small, with each trip to the nearest hill a dramatic and fully involved adventure. Now their world is growing, and although the world is full of hazards and borders, there is still so much open space right here.

"The farthest place," I said, "is Saltery Bay. Any more and we'd have to get on a boat. But it's too far, and you're probably too little to bike there yet."

Well, that settled it. Planning for Proving Daddy Wrong About Biking began at once, and just two weeks later we set out at the crack of afternoon for Saltery Bay. Our expedition had grown to three: Ryan (almost 10), Kevin (newly seven), and Daddy (pretty old but still pretty good). One time, in the misty days before children, I had biked to Saltery Bay. I carefully adjusted expectations, but they were determined. And so we went.

The highway out of town has its ups and downs. Long winding hills, narrow passes, occasional maniac drivers. There is a wide shoulder that sometimes is as thin as my own shoulder. Our entourage had a flag, and we flew

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it bravely behind our littlest member. He connected to me with his trail-a-bike, peddling so hard I felt strongly propelled. In lead position went Ryan on his dirty blue Trek, hair sprouting from his bike helmet, adventure treats rattling in the easter eggs he secreted amongst his many pockets.

We cycled through the invisible borders of qathet: Powell River with its busy streets, Myrtle Rocks with its empty beach, the endless hill to Suncoast Cycles and on to Black Point, the farthest I had ever run. Kevin kept time by counting phone polls, each one labelled with broad metal numbers. Pole 1 is by the edge of town. Pole 300 is near Palm Beach, our farthest point yet.

The hill there is incredible, rising like a rampart out of the farmland that gathers around Lang Bay. We should have walked our bikes, but we were still feeling macho. Up we went, gasping and grunting. At the midpoint, a pause for one Jelly Belly each. And then onwards past pole 300 and into the beyond.

Now we were crossing Eagle River, gazing down at the waterfalls there, astonished by our height. "Feel my heartbeat, Daddy," Kevin said. It felt wild, racing exuberant. It felt like mine.

The last hill to the viewpoint goes for two kilometres. It is a hill designed to drain your spirit, your hope, and your every weary muscle. Now we were walking our bikes, hard over on the shoulder, watching for ferry racers. Corner after ragged corner, the hill continued. And then, impossibly, the viewpoint. We stood enchanted, 15 minutes from Saltery Bay, and I put them to the question: If we went over the side, we would have to come up that great hill again. We'd be home after dark. It was a long way.

There is no dishonour in turning around when you are done, and the discussion was hesitant. But in the end, the delight of telling Mummy they'd made it was too much; of knowing in their hearts what they could do.

We reached the waters of Saltery Bay 3h15m after leaving home. We ate all the cliff bars. We watched the boats come in to harbour. We used a truly handy port-a-potty. And we thought about the mountains left to climb.

As we walked our bikes up that first great hill, Kevin quietly asked Ryan if he could take over. Their default mode is squabbling, but as a team we marched up that hill together. It wasn't even as hard as we thought it would be. Whooping, we turned our bikes to the sun and peddled hard for home.

The sun was down when we burst in the door, wearing twice the layers as when we left. Steaming bowls of pasta were on the table, the room was brightly lit. The children galloping off into the kitchen, yelling about 64 kilometers, and 800 meters of elevation, and 490 telephone polls. And 6 whole cliff bars, and the sparkle on the ocean that was like a painting, but wasn't a painting because it really happened. They really made it. To the ends of the green earth and back again, just in time for bed.

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