‘Riding leathers lite’
Over The Hill
an essay by Michael McGovern
*
On a scorching hot day in August, we stop the van atop Anarchist’s Lookout and lift down my mountain bike. As a recently-minted senior, I’d decided to incorporate more gravity into my cycling. We’re headed west on the Crowsnest Highway, the #3 across southern BC, and it’s a playground for us over-the-hill types.
I change from shorts and sandals into jeans, windbreaker, and sneakers – my riding leathers lite. After pushing off from the big bronze statue of a reclining moose, seven turns of my pedals take me to where gravity takes over. Osoyoos Lake awaits, three thousand feet below.
After a slow patch at the beginning, the highway drops quick and straight toward a sharp left at the top of the cliffs. Past a sand-filled ‘runaway lane,’ the road falls long and straight, but comparatively gently, through thinning trees. Taking a cue from the hawks circling at eye level, I hold my jacket spread wide to the hot winds rolling up from as far away as the Sonora Desert. Always before on these Osoyoos switchbacks I’ve had to keep an ear out for a straining engine or brakes. This time there’s only the shushing of air across my ears as I slip down from one climate to the next.
A surprise flat stretch makes me pedal past a building or two for a couple of hundred yards, then the ground falls away again. Below, the Okanagan Valley opens out like a glossy tourist brochure for a little town clustered by a bridge across a lake. But the merely idyllic can’t hold my attention for long. Plunging ahead, and down, I try at first to remain upright by leaning further and further back on the seat. Soon though, the pitch increases and only my fingertips can reach the handlebars. This is an ordinary old mountain bike with a rigid frame and flat handlebars. Dropping forward distributes my weight more evenly and also lowers my wind resistance, so the bike picks up yet more speed.
Leading with my chin as I am, across the handlebars, I notice that the macadam ripping past underneath is starting to look like a belt sander, and I think about faceguards. I’m wearing a bicycle helmet and gloves, and a wrist brace from a pre-existing condition. But then I remember how thin my jacket and jeans really are – and my skin too. So, I turn to thinking: this downhill sport really calls for a big football helmet, and hockey goalie pads with big thick gloves and elbow pads and shoulder pads and … pretty soon, following along logically, I can imagine myself pinballing down the mountainside in an overstuffed armchair inside a reinforced gyroscope.
The shoulder of the road is paved and fairly wide all the way down, except at one bend, and it’s well maintained, except for the occasional drifts of sand. At speed, though, shoulder-checking strains the balance of a hurtling two-wheeled object. So, I add a rearview mirror to the new wish list. Luckily, traffic is light, so I never actually have to share a hairpin turn with anyone. The only time I need the brakes are on the lowest two sizzling right bends.
The longer straightaways allow me time to view the almost-monochromatic desert hillsides surrounding emerald squares of irrigation. The high sun makes no shadows where game trails slash down and across a landscape pimpled by sagebrush. Twenty glorious minutes of gliding later, bike and rider finally slow to a pause on the lowest stretch among the orchards. Then one more minute of pedaling buys me a further five minutes of coasting, down past the fruit and vegetable stands, almost to the main bridge. A few easy minutes of pedalling along the flat gets me to the beachfront.
Exhilarated, I can feel the lake water tickle through my skull. Bones, blood, eyeballs, meat, and cartilage all cool at different rates. My head could be a chicken in the soup pot, I think. I might be giddy. I hold my face under water and try not to giggle.
And Sunday Summit and Allison Pass are yet come…
*
Born in Scotland, intrepid adventurer Michael McGovern has taught English on four continents and been a carpenter on five. His first piece appeared in the GuangZhou Morning Sun, where he worked as a proofreader. Now retired, he works to decipher his old travel journals. A number of his stories and poems have appeared in Island Writer Magazine. [Editor’s Note: Michael McGovern previous contributed North Island Nosecount, his travel essay about his census-related travels across northern Vancouver Island]
*
The British Columbia Review
Interim Editors, 2023-26: Trevor Marc Hughes (non-fiction), Brett Josef Grubisic (fiction)
Publisher: Richard Mackie
Formerly The Ormsby Review, The British Columbia Review is an on-line book review and journal service for BC writers and readers. The Advisory Board now consists of Jean Barman, Wade Davis, Robin Fisher, Barry Gough, Hugh Johnston, Kathy Mezei, Patricia Roy, and Graeme Wynn. Provincial Government Patron (since September 2018): Creative BC. Honorary Patron: Yosef Wosk. Scholarly Patron: SFU Graduate Liberal Studies. The British Columbia Review was founded in 2016 by Richard Mackie and Alan Twigg.
“Only connect.” – E.M. Forster