New Hazelton, British Columbia

Distance: 43 miles (total: 237 miles)

Climb: 1,276 feet

I may have bitten off more than I can ride. That doesn’t sound right. I mean that I may have overestimated my capacity to accomplish the ride, distance, climb, and conduct business in dry spaces at the same time.

As usual, I woke up at 4 a.m. and started working on my blog, transferring photos, and doing other things. I was not moving very quickly—sore and stiff, sort of like an old man. I drank lots of coffee. I knew I would get a late start, and I thought about staying an extra day to rest, because there was a 10 percent chance of rain in the morning and a 35 percent chance by 3 p.m. More than anything, I was tired. I needed to rest.

At 9 a.m., I had an interview with Cliff Dumas on Juneau’s legendary KINY radio. And at 3 p.m., I had a video conference call with Explore Skagway, Alaska, and Sockeye Cycle to coordinate a riding event with other cycling enthusiasts to Dyea—a booming frontier town during the Klondike Gold Rush of 1897–98, but today all but a ghost town. That’s going to be fun.

To do both calls in dry spaces, I had two options: spend Wednesday night in Smithers and ride to New Hazelton on Thursday, or take the call and then attempt to ride 43 miles up a daunting climb in about 5.5 hours—roughly 8 mph.

No one will ever accuse me of being an athlete at 65 years old. Nor am I even in good riding shape.

But I am stubborn. I’ve got that going for me. And at some point last night, while sitting in the comfort of a warm room on a soft bed at the Capri Hotel in Smithers, I decided I could make the trip to New Hazelton. So I booked the room.

Strategy: Take the 9 a.m. call in the hotel room, then ride as far as I could. Stop at about 2:45 p.m. at a gas station or somewhere and take the second call with the Skagway team.

The interview with Cliff was short and fun. I was out the door pretty quickly afterward. I met an elderly Canadian couple pushing a cart full of possessions to their SUV. We spoke a little about R4P and its purpose. They wished me luck. The man told me he met two cyclists yesterday. I suspected one of them was John.

I hadn’t ridden two blocks when I realized it was too cold for shorts. So I pulled into a construction company parking lot and put on my sweatpants and coat, covering my ears. That was better.

I hit a hill immediately, but my legs seemed to have a little extra snap to them. I decided I was going to try my best to make it to the room before 3 p.m.

Miracles can happen, right?

And I did really well, pushing myself harder than usual, averaging about 11 mph for the first hour and a half. Then the strong headwind (8–14 mph), hills, gradual incline, and sprinkling rain all started taking their toll.

Halfway to New Hazelton rests a gas station on a tiny hill. I pushed Lucy the rest of the way. It was a little after noon, and I had about 23 miles to go. If I could get an energy drink—and by that, I mean a Diet Mountain Dew—and a slice of pizza or a sandwich, I still might do this.

As I locked Lucy up, a tall, friendly First Nations man carrying a Styrofoam bowl of soup asked me where I was headed. I told him.

The well-equipped convenience store, however, was closed to patrons. All services were sold through a glass window, which struck me as odd because a woman ran the window and a male employee was walking around inside.

I got in line behind three other customers and wondered how this would work. What do you have to eat? Sandwiches? Pizza? Chicken? Any Diet Mt. Dew? No? What about Diet Pepsi? Oh, I could use a bottle of water too. What size? Maybe 16 ounces?

The line began to form behind me too. And only one man had advanced.

I imagined standing at the window when my turn came, with half a dozen customers behind me who knew exactly what they wanted—and I would be asking silly questions about food and drinks, unable to make up my mind. That’s a lot of pressure!

So I got out of line and went over to the picnic tables, picking up the conversation with the first man and another.

“You can make it to New Hazelton in about two hours,” the first man said.

“I doubt I can,” I responded.

At precisely that moment, a third First Nations man about my age rode up on a bicycle. No saddle bags. No helmet.

“I just made it from town in two hours,” he said.

“Where’s town?” I asked.

“Back that way,” the first man said. He meant Smithers. “We’re about halfway.”

“The road,” he said, looking toward New Hazelton, “is hilly. And a couple of really big hills.”

“Yeah, but it’s straight,” the first man said, as a fourth man sat down.

By now, two conversations were going on at the same time. I told my interlocutor about R4P. He courteously said, “Good for you.” I suspect he had heard such good intentions from white men all his life.

What nonsense! Just another do-gooder—but this time, an old one. On a bicycle.

But he was polite. Cars were coming and going, and the line at the convenience store got longer, so I bid farewell and got back on the road hoping to make good time. After a few minutes of pedaling, I had to stop. I realized I hadn’t even sat down. I was as tired as when I arrived at that gas station.

While stopped, I heard what I thought was a pheasant crowing.

The hills kept coming. Gradual inclines, sprinkles, cold, and what felt like steady gale-force winds drained all energy.

Finally, I could go no more. I found a gravel turnaround and laid Lucy down on a moss-covered mound. I lay beside her and propped my leg over her saddlebags. The warm sun relaxed me. And I let consciousness begin to depart despite the roar and vibrations of rushing traffic in both directions.

Then I heard a car slow down and tires crunch gravel. I sat up, and a First Nations woman rolled down the passenger-side window.

“Are you OK?” she asked.

“I’m fine, thank you. Just resting.”

“Well, that’s what we thought, but we wanted to make sure. You never know.”

The car turned around. A big non-Nations man was driving. I waved at them both.

“That was very kind of you. Have a nice day!”

They had driven past me eastbound, saw me lying there, and turned around to check.

What an act of humanity! Of kindness. They weren’t interested in who I voted for, my nationality, religion, ethnicity, views on 51st-state rhetoric, or even whether I was in their country legally.

They just behaved with compassion, worried I might’ve had an accident or heart attack.

We could use a little more compassion in the world. Don’t you think?

I did fall into REM sleep for a few minutes, then got back on Lucy, feeling energized.

For about a mile. Then the power of the wind set me right back in my place. Even slight inclines drained me. The cold was brutal.

Then I saw a sign: Gas, Tobacco, and Beer — 5.4 kilometers ahead. Though none of those interested me, I hoped for a Diet soda and somewhere indoors to shake the chill.

I could make it 3.5 miles. That motivated me. Except 3.5 miles never materialized—just more stretches of cold, wet, windy blacktop. Sometimes there was a shoulder. Sometimes there wasn’t.

I started feeling slightly miserable. I wasn’t going to make my 3 p.m. deadline for New Hazelton. Nor did I know if I’d find shelter for the call.

It never occurred to me to quit. But I was seriously doubting my decision to make this R4P ride. Was it childish to think I could do this and make a difference? I’m too small a personality. Too insignificant. Funding has fallen short. I would use all of PeaceBridge’s modest startup funds—donated by my wife and me—on this first trip. Nothing would be left for projects in Florida. My wife and I would have to donate again soon.

I’m not a dynamic, charismatic communicator. Just this morning, my daughter volunteered to follow up with calls to chambers and hotels, but she has two jobs. She doesn’t know the route. Or my emails.

I know the cause is worth it. I know kindness and volunteerism matter.

But maybe I’m not the right person. Or maybe it’s a year too early.

Maybe I should be on the sofa watching Hacks or Chespirito. Playing UNO with my grandkids. Practicing piano. Researching 19th-century Jackson County, Indiana.

Then something magical happened.

I stopped to rest at a bridge. Traffic blasted by. I didn’t care.

Suddenly, I saw a large buck stick his head up out of the weeds—70-degree slope, 40 yards ahead. Waiting. Then a second buck. Just as majestic.

They waited. Then, when traffic cleared, they leapt over the concrete barrier and pranced into the woods.

I was energized. That made my day.

Then, a mile later, I heard a crunch. A black bear, on his back feet, watching me. Was I a toy? A snack?

By the time I stopped and grabbed my phone, I was a block away. I recorded him slipping into the woods.

That was magical episode #2.

I rode off excited. Of course, I could make this trip.

Then the rain came. Hard. Gusts tossed me around as I pushed uphill. No shelter in sight. If someone had offered a ride, I would’ve taken it.

When I found a flat stretch, I rode very slowly in the rain. Wet jacket. Wet socks. Wet shoes.

I stopped at a concrete barrier after a bridge. I had 25 minutes until the call. No shelter. I pushed a bit further and found an overgrown gravel path. I parked Lucy and logged into Google Meets.

A thick blackberry bush lined the path. I checked for movement as cars whooshed past.

The call was great—if a little awkward and noisy. Jaime from Explore Skagway and Dustin and Bekah from Sockeye Cycle were fun. We set the ride for July 17. I need to work out logistics fast—flight to Whitehorse, Lucy’s registration, lodging.

The rain let up. The sun peeked out. Wind tapered off. I threw my leg over Lucy and pedaled.

It wasn’t easier. But it was only 3:20 p.m., and I had 6.6 miles left.

The last mile was almost all downhill. Thank goodness.

I arrived. And that’s when the third stroke of magic happened: I met Brenda and Glenn.

Brenda showed Lucy and me to a basement room. I showered and got warm.

She invited me to dine with her and her son. Glenn, 12, is already a geography buff.

After a wonderful meal of shish kebab, beets (I love beets), potatoes, and salad, Glenn got the globe.

“Name a country before 1991, and I’ll find it,” he said. And he did. He was fast.

Brenda has worked across Europe and Singapore. Her background in development studies enriched her work in the private sector. Now in New Hazelton, she works with a nonprofit supporting Indigenous resilience.

She knows all about goodwill—she lives it daily. She’s a realist about division but still believes we must do better. I feel I found PeaceBridge’s first future partner in Canada.

Physically and emotionally depleted, I asked to stay another night. She agreed—and insisted on donating the room.

Brenda and Glenn give me hope. There are good people out there. Not just professionals. But neighbors. Coaches. Caregivers. Kind strangers who turn the car around.

I know I can do more.

Can you?