Kasiks Wilderness Resort, British Columbia

Distance: 37 miles (total: 317 miles)

Climb: 502 feet

Yesterday (Saturday) was a rest day. It was raining, and the weather forecast suggested a dry Sunday. So, I decided to rest and get Lucy into the spa. Her shifter was broken and getting worse. Her front and back brakes were soft, and her seat had tilted backward. The team at Wild Bike let me before they officially opened and fixed Lucy quickly.

At breakfast, John came in wet and cold. He’d spent the night with family but left early to tackle the wet and cold weather—though not before a big breakfast.

No, I didn’t want any part of that rain, so I went to the Days Inn manager to ask for a discount. That’s how I met Saqib Ashraf, an Indian from Srinagar, Kashmir. He is an attorney who ran a non-profit in Srinagar before moving to Canada a few years ago.

I told Saqib about R4P and about our time in Srinagar.

In 1987, I was selling cars in Naples, Florida. I was making good money, but I wasn’t achieving anything in my professional life that I wanted. I wasn’t publishing, not traveling the globe, not learning new languages or exploring cultures. So, I sold my car, took what little savings I had, and bought plane tickets for India. I had read British histories and novels about Srinagar. This was the cool city nestled in the Himalayan Mountains that Indian royalty and British officials used to visit during the sweltering summer months in Delhi.

So my family and I braved the miserable 32-hour bus ride up the winding road from the nation’s capital to Srinagar. We rented a houseboat for three months on Golden Dal Lake and read, studied, trekked, and enjoyed Himalayan life. I banged out pages and pages of a long, single-spaced novel that never got published—on an old typewriter.

“You made my day,” Saqib told me, referring to R4P. “People like you… helping other people… you’re doing all the work.”

Saqib also helps others. He volunteers for a local non-profit that supports recent migrants to Canada: English classes, legal services, tax preparation, and other acclimation efforts.

Unfortunately, the forecast changed. Whereas there was almost no chance of rain for Sunday (today) when I last checked a day or so ago, now rain is predicted for the next several days. And to complicate matters, tomorrow would be a hard day even if it were dry: 919-foot climbs across 54 miles. Now add 50-degree temperatures, rain, and cold headwinds, and suddenly we have a recipe for misery.

Oh well. Complaining won’t help. Buckling down and trying to inhale Canadian atmosphere—and my existence at 65—will. Whatever life throws at me, I’ll have to deal with. Why? Because I have no choice. The only variable is my approach to confronting it.

On my rest days, I tend to do a lot of self-reflection. What can I do better to become a better person? A better husband, father, grandfather, colleague, American, patriot—whatever. It’s easy to discuss. Easy to boast about the good things you’ve done. But it’s much more delicate to actually examine today’s behavior and thoughts toward evening and critique specific areas for improvement.

But I think I’ve found the key to peace and happiness: focus less on what I want and how to fight for it, and more on what I must achieve to become the person I need to be.

Countless artists, philosophers, spiritualists, and leaders have described versions of this. Buddhists strive to stop clinging to ideas, possessions, and expectations. Michael Jackson sang about changing the man in the mirror before changing the world. The Serenity Prayer teaches us to focus on what we can control and let go of what we can’t. Christ’s message calls on believers to give to Caesar what is his and to God what is His. Muhammad taught followers to eat when they had food and to fast when they didn’t. The Minimalist Movement promotes a worldview of fewer possessions to achieve greater happiness. The love of money is the root of all evil, right?

How many of us who talk this talk actually walk this walk—day in and day out?

I know I don’t. I try. But I fail.

I’m not trying to proselytize. I’m just soul-searching. Self-reflecting.

Many years ago, a Palestinian family hosted my wife, children, and me in their basement in Bethlehem. They protected us, fed us, and treated us with genuine hospitality. One evening, we were sitting outside drinking tea when the father, a professor of Arabic literature, asked me, “Why do Americans always support Israel in their aggressions and injustices against Arabs?”

I explained that the Jews had suffered the Holocaust, and Americans felt a profound empathy.

“Yes, but that was at the hands of Europeans, not us,” he said. “So why make us suffer?”

I added that there’s this biblical narrative that the Jews were the “chosen,” and many American Christians interpret that as an obligation to support Israel at all costs.

I knew then—and I know now—that my statements were broad and couldn’t begin to describe the complexity of relationships between Americans, Arabs, and Israel.

The war in Gaza has added new levels of complexity, injustice, and horror to a crucible I am not prepared to analyze.

All I can say is that I can never justify violence against unarmed, innocent women, children, and men. I blindly adhere to the protection of the innocent and vulnerable.

When I was about six, my grandmother once told me, “I can’t even treat a dog bad.” Although, admittedly, she and I would skin a rabbit or twist off a chicken’s head for an evening meal without wincing. Concepts about cruelty and protection of the innocent became lodged in my soul during those formative years and have only evolved and strengthened over the next six decades. The more I meet wonderful, peaceful people in Asia, Africa, Europe, and the Americas, the more I find in common with them. The more I appreciate them.

After breakfast, I packed up and carried four bags down to the front desk, where a woman from Hunza, Pakistan, attended me. She introduced me to her husband, and we spoke about the majestic Rakaposhi Mountain, Passu Glacier, Baltit Fort, and other wonders of the Hunza Valley. My family and I had visited in 2000.

The same Punjabi man I met on Friday held Lucy while I installed her saddlebags, lights, and camera.

After bidding farewell to such pleasant hosts, I pedaled out into the nearly desolate street.

The temperature started in the low 50s, and I was bracing for the rain.

The first time that I clicked on Lucy’s new shifter, I was elated. I had forgotten how easily shifting could be. I used to hate sifting low, medium, and high chainrings. I had to keep small washcloth wrapped around the shifter to allow me the grip needed to shift up and down. Thanks to Wild Bike, this was now heavenly.

The ride was quick and beautiful, snuggling next to the massive Skeena River. I enjoyed every mile.

Toward the end, a road or energy worker in a white truck flagged me down to give me a bottle of cold water. What a nice gesture!

I arrived at Kasiks Wilderness Resort just before 1 p.m.—dry. I’d averaged about 10 mph. Better. I’m getting in better shape.

A couple about my age were walking to their car after a short stroll. As I parked Lucy by a picnic table, the man said, “Look at those hummingbirds.”

He was right. There were dozens of hummingbirds darting in, out, and around feeders. They were so tiny I thought they were horseflies at first.

The resort’s restaurant was full when I entered. Andrea was greeting diners at the cash register with one of the brightest smiles and most welcoming demeanors I’ve ever seen. In her 40s, the First Nation manager deftly handled orders, payments, last-minute purchases—little teddy bears, T-shirts, and large peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies. Every customer bought cookies before leaving.

Andrea also handled check-ins, like mine. But before that, I wanted to sit, unwind, and eat.

“What is a Chicken Smash?” I asked about the special written on the huge blackboard.

“Two chicken patties smashed together on the grill,” she said, “and served with cheese, lettuce, and tomato.” I also ordered the last diet drink.

“Perfect.”

Before the meal though, she delivered traditional First Nation’s bread and a tiny bit of maple syrup to dip it in. It was delicious.

After most of the guests had left, Andrea gave me my room key, explained the lodge’s systems, and took my order for supper—hot wings.

“Anything else?” she asked.

“Do you have any other diet drinks?” I asked.

She looked at her unopened bottle of green tea. “I can share this with you.”

Wow. I thanked her, but declined.

Andrea hails from the Tsimshian Nation and her husband from the Gitxsan. She explained that many Canadians refuse to travel to the U.S. due to recent tensions, but that won’t stop her. She plans to travel a couple of times this year.