Houston, British Columbia

Distance: 49 miles (155 miles total)

Climb: 1,027 feet

John and I woke up about the same time, slightly after 4 a.m. He didn’t sleep well. I slept like a baby.

Both of us were moving gingerly, fending off the stiffness and aches throughout our bodies. I made us a cup of coffee, then started working on transferring my photos from the Insta360 to the iPad. This is a lengthy process.

Breakfast was “underwhelming,” as John said. He had a bagel. I had cereal. Those were the only two options. He left around 7 a.m. I left about 8:20 a.m. I pumped up my back tire from about 40 psi to 60 psi in about three seconds at a nearby gas station.

The ride was exhausting, but the sights were beautiful. British Columbia is beautiful. I see lots of deer in vast pastures or crossing the road. The occasional fox, bear, or otter ambles about. Common Ravens are everywhere. They are larger than crows. Forests of pine, cedar, and quaking aspens— which resemble birch—line the road. When I stop, I hear birds caw and scream. Squirrels chatter.

I stopped halfway up a hill and lay on the blacktop in the narrow shade of an electric pole. Traffic rushed by at a safe distance. Semi-trucks, RVs, motorcycles, trucks with campers, pickups, dump trucks, logging trucks, SUVs, and four-wheel drives of all types roared by in a hurry to make good time. Soon, ravens began circling me, cawing and examining the curiosity below.

The rest felt good. Really good. I could have dozed, but I had good time of my own to make.

I pedaled on, dropping to low gears to get up gradual inclines, pushing Lucy up steeper hills, clicking into higher gears on flat stretches or declines. Even in 60-degree temperatures, when the sun goes behind the clouds, it gets cold.

The mind wanders.

I think about family. Grandkids. My wife. I think about my projects. Problems and solutions. Sports. International and local affairs. I think about friends, my past, my future. I think about music.

Less than two years ago, I started teaching myself piano. At home, I practice every day. I miss it out on the road. I listen to music and think, “I can learn to play that.”

I know I am not good on the piano. I am not a real musician. Your 60s is not the ideal time to learn a new language or an instrument. But I can play a few songs from start to finish, with errors and mistiming. The synchrony between the brain and the fingers and the keyboard to the ear and the brain is heavenly. A type of human circuitry, running like electricity through the fingers, ears, brain, fingers, ears, and on and on thousands of times a second—becomes captivating. Therapeutic. Relaxing. Enriching.

Just like learning to speak a second language, you cannot be afraid to make a mistake. Although an introvert, I am not embarrassed by grammatical or pronunciation errors in a second language.

Which brings me to Monica, the Indian clerk at the Pleasant View Inn. I greeted her in Hindi, and she was delighted I could communicate in it. I doubt she has many guests who can. Hindi is not her native language. Punjabi is. I studied Punjabi a little when I was in Lahore, Pakistan, in 2000, but I was too busy learning Urdu-Hindi to invest much time. The last couple of months of that trip, my family and I moved to the University of Peshawar, where I studied Pashtu. I wanted to be able to read elementary school textbooks in Pashtu.

Even my Hindi, which was quite good at one time, is now rusty, so I switched to English after I asked Monica what part of India she was from and how long she had lived in Canada.

“Monica is not an Indian name,” I told her.

“I know, but it’s my name. My mother named me that after a Bollywood movie called Monica,” she said.

We talked about the famous Muslim actor Shah Rukh Khan and his Indian movies. She and her daughter were just watching one of his movies that morning. I went out to the bike and brought back a couple of R4P stickers.

“Give these to your daughter.”

The key didn’t work, so I had to go back to the office. She exchanged keys with me.

“Here, try this one. I will send the man to help you get in,” she said.

That’s how I met Sam. He is a friendly Punjabi who showed me the trick to opening Room 36. “You have to pull when you turn the key.”

Afterward, I found him and another Indian woman changing sheets in a room, and I asked for some extra coffee pods. I almost always do this in hotels because I am up early, and I need my coffee. I offered him some money, but he refused to accept it. I tried again, but he still refused.

He ran off—literally ran—across the parking lot and returned to my room with plenty of pods. I tried again to give him money, but he refused. In all the years I have been asking staff for an extra washcloth, towel, or coffee, only Sam has refused money.

Wow!

I will leave it for him—or whomever—as a tip in the morning.