Tamsui Louie

Exiting the subway at the end of the line at Tamsui, my ears were assaulted by a static-filled, strident voice screeching "ADARIPAFENDDADIDERATERAKATAY" over and over.  As I got closer to the noise I could see that someone had ingeniously held down the trigger of a megaphone and hooked it up to a recording device.  Looking away from the fly-blown, deep-fried GOD KNOWS WHAT that the auto-megaphone advertised, I spied a pink tandem being hoisted onto a rust stained passenger ferry.  Fearing that the ship would depart without my finding out where the tandem was headed I soon found myself a passenger of said ship.

Said ship

Sitting next to me on the boat was a fellow decked out in short shorts and a sleeveless tee shirt.  Slung over one shoulder was a plastic bag which I imagined carried all his worldly possessions.  I guessed at this because he reminded me of a man we see wandering our downtown streets and while he appears to be harmless, we give him a wide berth especially on the days when he wears a jock strap on the outside of his shorts.

In less than ten minutes I discovered that by crossing the Dansui River, I had stumbled upon the Riverside Bikeway - part of the redevelopment of the Taipei County waterfront.  Just steps away from the ferry dock a large jumble of bicycles caught my eye and after much sign language and pidgin English the old store owner and I agreed that with plunking down $1.50 on the counter, I could be entrusted for two hours with his shiny silver Narida commuter bike.

The Narida

Heading off in pursuit of the pink tandem which by this time had disappeared down the paved bike path, I found myself following the river, riding past white Cranes busily spear diving for fish and and large pleasure boats bobbing on the waves from the ferry traffic.  In spite of the rusted chain, the bike was surprisingly quiet except whenever I engaged either brake lever in which case the bike would let out a loud howl.  At least now I didn't need a horn or a bell to warn of my approach.

Mr. T. Louie

The combination of full sun and high humidity prevented me from riding too far from the ferry dock and after consulting my trusty map I decided that a distant bridge would be a likley place to turn around.  I had no idea how he got there before me but as I rode under the bridge, who should I see lounging in the shade but my seat mate from the ferry who I had dubbed Tamsui Louie.  I quickly turned around and made for the bike shop with the hope that I would make it to the dock and not have to share a seat with him again.  For all I knew he had some ADARIPAFENDADIDERATERAKATAY in that bag of his.

A Whole Different World

Cycling in Taipei has a whole different meaning than in North America.  In my time here in the nation's capital, I've seen only two recreational cyclists.  I came across them lounging on the patio at a Starbucks at the end of the subway line at Tamsui.  It wasn't their expensive road bikes that gave them away but their loud jerseys and colourful spandex shorts which none of the cyclists I'd seen to this point had been wearing.

Shotgun?

The many thousands of other cyclists use bicycles as their main transportation - often with another person riding shotgun on a narrow pad affixed to the rear pannier rack.  The rack itself must be designed to hold much more weight than the racks we use.  Mine are only rated to hold fifty pounds.

I came across many other bikes that have been manufactured with an added seat post placed between the main seat and the handlebars.  Probably for a small child to sit on.  One bike appeared to have been adapted for another passenger with what appeared to be an accessory seat post that was simply bolted onto the downtube.

In a city of three million, it is surprising how few bikes can be spotted and as our tour guide Abraham pointed out - riding a bike on the very congested streets is a very dangerous undertaking.  Even riding a scooter, of which there appears be tens of thousands is a suicidal act given the number of cars, trucks and buses clogging every street.

A small minority

Mr. Dressup

My twin is always wondering what it is that makes my children want to dress up.  Both of my offspring have been members of the Knights of the Northern Realm, have taken sword fighting lessons and have sewn elaborate costumes to wear at special events.

Ms. Elizabethan?

My daughter dated a very creative fellow who makes his own fantastic outfits, knives, belts and such.  My son was married in Gimli wearing traditional Viking garb and still goes to the Icelandic Festival there every year to live in the Viking Village (not Value Village) and to sell handmade jewellery.

Mr. Viking

My own quest for costuming began last June when I knew I was going to join the Shakespeare Ride and wanted to dress as an English cyclist.  Being a first generation Chirper what did I know about these things?  Not being one to enjoy trying on clothes, I was frustrated in my search of the Antique Mall and just about every thrift store in the city.  I mean just how many jackets with sleeves hanging to the floor, sport coats with armpit stains and suit coats with questionable seams can one man try on?

I was happy to note that the reason 38 short jackets weren't fitting me anymore was because of the 2 inches of chest size that I have added since taking up cycling on a more serious basis.  Once I realized I needed a 40 inch jacket, my luck began to change and I found an ensemble at the GW Boutique (GoodWill) that would do just fine.

My recent adventure into dressing for the Tweed Ride proves that my children come by their need to dress up honestly.

Tweed Indeed

Having checked the forecast in the morning and discovered that the weather was predicted to be clear, I was surprised to find myself riding in the rain on my way over to the "Quad" at the university to join in the Tweed ride.

Following the vague directions that I had been given earlier I arrived at the Quad to discover that I was the only cyclist in attendance.  I rode the perimeter of the quadrangle and still seeing no other bikes, decided to lean my bike against a handy Teepee and seek shelter from the rain under its canvas skin.  While admiring all the mold growing on the canvas walls, I began to doubt that I had the correct day.  This wouldn't be the first time when juggling a lot of balls that I have shown up to an event bright-eyed and bushy-tailed only to be embarrassed to discover I was at the event a week early or a few days late.

In spite of being under cover, a shower of rain still fell in an ever widening circle inside the teepee and I was glad when Brett, one of the bike co-op's board members arrived and showed me how to close the rain flaps at the top of the tent.  We only had to stand around making small talk and smelling of wet wool for a short time before the sun came out and made a beautiful rainbow.  It was then that all the other participants made their fashionable entrance.

 

I thought I had figured out my tweed outfit quite well until most the men pulled out pipes and some of the ladies pulled cigars from their many layers of clothing.  I was further chagrined when a large number of flasks were brought out from their hiding places beneath skirts and from within vest pockets.  I soon discovered that a tweed ride is mostly a social event and I had to ask the mutton - chopped rider next to me if we were actually going to ride anywhere.  He assured me that a route was just being planned and that we would be on our way shortly as he took a long pull on his Cohiba.

Not far into the ride we could see crowd of Lycra-Spandex riders approaching our wool clad conga line.  A clash of cultures if you will.  Both groups stopped to talk and it was amusing to hear the fellow next to me and his imaginary conversation (with an upper crust English accent) "I say, people of the future - what is that strange material you are wearing?  Your bicycles appear to be made from a substance we have never seen.  And those hard caps you have donned on your heads - what on earth are they for?"




Culture clash

With the sun shining on the golden aspen leaves and the temperature rising, we had an easy ride downhill to the new bridge where there was quite a debate about the symbolic design of the structure.  Most of us were happy just to peer into the clear waters of the river and some speculated that the large sandbar south of the bridge would make an excellent beach for sunbathing. 

Tweed Ride

This afternoon a tweed ride is planned leaving from the Quad at the university and try as I might, I can't find the place.  Every student I asked seemed to know where the place is and with a vague toss of the hand would point me in the direction of the Student Union building.  No one could say definitively where I might find a place whose name sounded more like a motorized vehicle suited to the outdoors than a meeting place for cyclists.

At lunchtime on Thursday I could be found locked in a thrift store change room trying on a number of pants.  And these weren't just any type of pant. Earlier I had googled "Tweed Ride" and a baffling range of images presented themselves on the computer screen facing me. Cyclists decked out in Sherlock Holmes hats variously called Deerstalkers or banana hats or even umbrella hats.  Men wearing knickerbocker pants, women having donned herringbone vests and everyone cycling old school bikes with leather panniers and Brooks saddles.

Not being able to find plus fours anywhere in the city I had sheepishly slunk over to the women's clothing section of said thrift store and gathered up a number of muted capri pants in what I guessed might be a size to fit a man with a 32 inch waist.  Feeling ridiculous and wanting to hasten the act of trying on women's clothing, I neglected to remove my walking shoes and putting my foot through the tapered leg of a thick wool capri my balance shifted and my full body weight slammed into the flimsy door of the change room as I tumbled to the floor.  Since the door of the dressing room didn't reach all the way to the floor, I could hear startled gasps from the other side from customers waiting for a room to come free.

With the most dignity I could muster I exited the change room clutching a wadded ball of pants and as I passed the lineup, shrugged and announced "Halloween!" hoping that would assure the waiting customers that I wasn't a cross-dressing, middle-aged crisis prone creepo.

It is said that luck is simply when opportunity and preparation meet and when I found the men's suit rack after ditching the ball of capris, a fine, muted herringbone tweed jacket called to me and after checking its fit in the aisle, was happy to leave the store eleven dollars poorer.  But happy not to be explaining to a police officer what I might have been up to in that dressing room.

You Don't Want To Be A Groom In Bridesville

  We had finished Anarchist Mountain east of Osoyoos and Roy's GPS device told him that he had burned 5,000 calories climbing that edifice.  I can only imagine how many I burned what with all the crashing, bruising and cursing I did on my painful slog to the summit.  Which as Roy kept reminding me was not where I thought it was.

While we were intent on making Rock Creek where we planned to camp for the night, we felt we had earned a break and since for the most part, it was downhill from the summit of Anarchist to Rock Creek, we thought we could spare the time to explore the first town we happened upon - Bridesville.

Sweeping vistas

The last thing I would want to do is insult the citizens of this burg but as much as we looked, there did not seem to be one redeeming feature of the place.  Having once been on a very important railway, this was probably once a bustling town.  You know what I mean - wild salloons, gunfights on dusty streets, romantic intrigues.  Probably had 6 hotels, 2 livery stables, 3 competing hardware stores, a blacksmith shop and a brothel (one floor of the Hotel British California).  Like many of the abandoned towns in B.C., there is not nothing to see there today.  For example, this year we stopped at Eholt and had a small picnic at a wide spot in the trail.  The only indication that a town had once existed there was a commemorative plaque.  We couldn't even find the foundations described on the historic tablet.

Postcard Views

Roy and I ventured into a swaybacked house to inspect the garage sale advertised out on the street.  The husband and wife who lived there would have looked perfectly normal standing out front of their dwelling each of them clutching a pitchfork.  There was nothing for sale that interested us unless we had a use for rusty scrub pads, a bedpan with chipped enamel, a worn flourescent green office chair and such.  In one of the bedrooms, I did find something of interest although it was not something I could take with me - a curious method of attaching a shelf to a wall.  Some ingenious schlub  had bent two tin cans, one looked like a juice can and the other a no name brand of something gross like canned mushrooms, nailed them to the wall and then balanced a board on top.  Like I say, ingenious.

Ingenious

 I had forgotten about the experience and it was only the other day when I was quaffing some spring water and, as is my habit to read while I eat and drink, I nearly sprayed with bottled water the innocent patron sitting next to me at the lunch counter when I discovered the fine print on the label proudly declared that this particular water came from you guessed it.  Bridesville.

Even the post office had given up on this place

British California Pie

Cherry Rhubarb pie

It is never me that starts the whole pie thing.  Usually on one of our long trips, we will be stopped on the trail for some reason and Roy will lick his lips and say something like "Yummm.  Pie!  With ice cream!!"  While I don't think it has any effect on me at the time, I'll notice as I pedal down the trail and the repetition of pedaling, steering and shifting once again become automatic, the idea of a piece of pie begins to take hold in my mind.  If I was to have a piece of pie - what kind would I choose?  My favourite - cherry?  What if they don't have any?  Would apple pie do?  Ice cream on top?  Chocolate?

So that little vocalization of Roy's begins to latch onto my brain cells and is usually buttressed by our third cycling companion.  Two years ago I could hear Richard and Roy up ahead of me excitedly discussing the merits of pie and just how many slices they would each have at the next town.  This year it was Perry enthusiastically extolling the virtues of that delectable dessert.  As I rode through their comments I recalled a passage from Bil Bryson's "A Walk in the Woods":  ...Everyone on the trail dreams of something, usually a sweet, and my sustaining vision had been an outsized slab of pie.  It had occupied my thoughts for days and when the waitress came to take our order I asked her, with beseeching eyes and a hand on her forearm, to bring me the largest piece she could slice without losing her job.  She brought me a vast, viscous, canary-yellow wedge of lemon pie.  It was a monument to food technology, yellow enough to give you a headache, sweet enough to make your eyeballs roll up into your head - everything, in short, you could want in a pie...

The above should put to rest the question that is so frequently asked:  "Why does pie figure so prominently in cycling stories?"