Smithers, British Columbia

Distance: 39 miles (total: 194 miles)

Climb: 1,207 feet

Happy Canada Day!

On July 1st, 1867, the three British colonies of Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, and the Province of Canada joined to form the nation of Canada. Much like our 4th of July, Canadians celebrate July 1st enthusiastically.

For a national holiday, the traffic on the road became heavy.

But I enjoyed the terrain of lakes and ponds, melting snow on mountain peaks dowsed with fog. Thick forests. Raging rivers.

On this short 250-mile journey so far, I’ve noticed that British Columbia is a genuine melting pot. Today, I met a young woman in her early 20s selling ice cream out of a trailer in Telkwa—likely born in Canada and of British descent. Four adults of similar heritage were buying ice cream. A Ugandan Muslim woman, about 30 years old, wearing a black hijab and black jacket, was at the A&W restaurant. Two Punjabi men and two Punjabi women were at the Capri Hotel. An Australian woman (who may have been a tourist) held the door for me while I rolled Lucy inside. Several Indigenous men and women. Another Indian woman at the 7-Eleven.

Two retired women parked their car on the street and got out just as I was locking up Lucy.

As they approached the door, I asked, “Where are your bikes?”

Taken aback at first, they then saw my bike, and one woman said, “We were camping,” then pointed to the sky. “Now we are looking for a room.”

“Too wet and cold?” Indeed, the temperature had dropped into the 50s and was drizzly.

“Yes,” she said. Looking at my bike, she asked how I had endured the cold rain. “I hate riding a bike in the rain.”

“Yeah, me too. But it wasn’t that bad.” Somehow, I missed the worst of the rain but had been suffering the cold drizzle for the past hour or so—and maybe an hour earlier in the day.

Upon announcing R4P, one asked, “Are you American?”

“Yes.”

“Welcome,” she said, opening the door.

“I feel sorry for you,” her friend said.

The conversation carried on inside as the two women checked out prices for rooms.

“I feel sorry for you,” the woman said again. She grumbled a bit. I understand her point of view perfectly, but…

“There is nothing I can do about that [politics], but I can promote goodwill. I can shake your hand.”

I shook both their hands, offering a gesture of goodwill in the process. Really, that is all I have to offer. Kind words. The occasional hug.

“I wish you good luck,” the first woman said. But then the clerk told them they would have to reserve online if they wanted those cheaper prices, so both women sat down and began scouring apps and websites.

I dazzled the Punjabi clerk and his colleague—who sat at a desk in the office diagonal to the front desk—with my 30 seconds of Hindi before switching to English to describe R4P. The clerk was very friendly, like most hospitality workers I’ve met so far.

People in B.C. tend to be warm and happy.

Take Isaiah. In his 20s, with shoulder-length black hair, born and raised in Smithers, he is the epitome of goodwill. He greeted me when I entered the Wash the Works door. Here you can wash your vehicle or RV, take a shower, and wash and dry your clothes. Or you can drop your clothes off, and Isaiah will wash and fold them.

In fact, Isaiah was folding clothes with great care when I entered. He took pride in being the best at his job. And why not? We can make the world just a little more pleasant for those around us if we make an extra effort.

With a healthy Canadian accent reminiscent of my friend Bruce from Vancouver, Isaiah described the process of washing your own clothes. We shook hands when I introduced myself and my mission of promoting goodwill.

I purchased some laundry detergent, popped my clothes in the washing machine, snapped a photo of Isaiah and me, and told him I was going to eat and would be back. He gave me the double thumbs up before I left.

I walked to A&W for the very same meal as last night—double teen burger, with the exception of onion rings in place of sweet potato fries.

A woman with nine kids was ordering a meal. Two young teens were sitting with four younger children in a booth, while the woman politely herded three others who were at her heels or on their knees, picking at gum or some other hidden gem under the counter.

“Looks like you have your hands full,” I said. I am extremely insightful.

“I do.”

“Here, take these stickers.” I carry these around in case of emergencies just like this—or some screaming toddler on a plane or somewhere.

Two retired ladies sat drinking coffee at the A&W restaurant. One lady said to the other, “She was young. Couldn’t have been more than 14.” The lady was complaining, but I tried not to listen much. I was busy taking notes when a tall man about the same age, who was carrying a tray of food, stopped in front of the two women to greet the one who was doing most of the talking.

Her demeanor changed. She smiled. “I just love retirement… My son is at the hospital right now… ten pounds… he wanted to, but his partner didn’t want to…”

“Well, I just wanted to say, hi. I hadn’t seen you,” he said, walking away, “since I don’t know when.”

For the last 90 minutes of the night, I tried to book a flight on Air Canada from Prince Rupert to Whitehorse. But I had to register my bike first. Which I tried to do, but couldn’t speak to an agent. One was supposed to call me back after 20 minutes, but no one called. I will try again tomorrow night.