The road leading out of town is a steep uphill, a curve, very little shoulder, cars whipping by faster than you expect for a sleepy Gulf island. I’m on my ridiculous little folding bike, with the tiny wheels. It’s a mind game, many many tiny rotations, an unimaginably small gear, making it up and over the hill.

Two years ago, I was in Vancouver for a week, mostly for work and partly just to commune with the west coast. I was born and have lived most of my life in Ontario, but I have a “sliding doors” west coast life, a version of me that is only available here. I’ve spent many weeks on the Gulf Islands, lived in the lower mainland for a while. That September two years ago, I hopped on a floatplane to come to Salt Spring for the day, and on impulse, rented a bike, spent a couple of hours riding around the island.

The thing I remember most from that day is… it’s hilly. I’m sure there is some sort of geographic term for this particular kind of hilly, but coming from a pretty flat land, I experience it as a constant series of mini-shocks, like unexpected popcorn. It’s all climb or descent. Nothing that feels like a flat route.

On that day two years ago, I ground to a halt on the hills at least twice, then ended up walking the bike up when I couldn’t get a full rotation again to start in such a steep spot. Sure, it was a unfamiliar bike, and I wasn’t clipped in, but since I’d spent a good chunk of that summer riding, it was a little embarrassing. (To me. No one else was paying the slightest bit of attention, of course).

When I decided to spend three weeks this Covid summer on Salt Spring, I knew I needed a bike, and my folding Tern was by far the easiest to ship. (In case anyone is counting, I have 5 bikes. They all have a purpose). I took off one wheel, took out the seat post, let the air out of the tires and put it in the cardboard box it came in. There is a special-made rolly bag for it I hadn’t been able to get in Toronto, but I’d located one in Vancouver. Once I picked it up, I jettisoned the box and, for the ferry, I just had to fold the bike and put it in the bag. Jackets, helmet and the like fit in, and my yoga mat even tucks nicely under the straps.

The Tern has been indispensable for this trip, giving me access to beaches and hiking trails and views of the sea. But riding it is not… carefree. I think part of me envisioned a freewheeling sensation, like a photo I have of me, bare-headed, riding a sweet beachy bike around Grand Turks a few years ago, wearing a bathing suit top and eating a piece of liquorice. Or a similar era pic of me on a vintage bike, barefoot and bareheaded, on Toronto Island. Also… flat.

On this trip, the Tern and I? Every ride is an adventure. The roads are narrow, cars go fast, and there’s no springy easy flat. It’s either grinding sloowwly up or whipping down, usually on a blind curve.

I will admit? I found it daunting at first to know that every ride was going to require effort. That I would always have a point of puffing and breaking a sweat. I found myself googlemapping routes and looking at the elevation changes and talking myself out of going places. Did I really want to go to the beach That Badly? I mentally wished, many times, that I had brought one of my more powerful bikes, that I could clip myself in.

I also noticed that I wasn’t truly enjoying pretty much any ride. I developed a sort of whiny mental dialogue. It’s so slow. F– this is hard work. That hill is sooooooo long. Ugh, is any beach actually worth it?

I can argue myself out of that inner tedium reasonably well — but I will admit that my first few days, I didn’t venture as far as I wanted to. My first trip out to go for a hike had flattened me a little — the looooong uphill to the trailhead, the anxiety about riding the somewhat unsteady little bike down again. I was in a glorious place and inside my head was all whinge whinge whinge.

And of course? I made it up the hill to that first hike — and down — just fine. Had the glorious hike I wrote about here. Took the same route out, further, to a small beach the next day. Again, no drama. But still, the inner voice of avoidance, of whinge.

Last Sunday, after googling the route to the Good Beach, I spent way too much time looking at the elevation changes. I finally spoke sternly to myself, got on the bike. I grimly toiled up the long hot hill out of town, steered into the pretty, quieter winding road and was still in my head, still complaining at… the air, I guess. At life.

Suddenly, going up a longish but not too steep hill, resentfully clicking in once more to the smallest gear, grumbling at how slowly I was going — I suddenly clued in. It was like the whiney voices had been suddenly squashed by a burst of the obvious. You are actually doing these hills just fine. You are fine. The day is beautiful. Look at those old growth trees. You don’t need to go any faster.

And it was true. I don’t need to go any faster. I’m on an island, on holiday, with completely unstructured time. I literally have no need to go any faster, at any moment, on any day. The beach will be there. The restaurant will be there. The mountain will be there. I will be there. And honestly? I’m not actually moving that slowly. I’m just moving the pace that is.

I realized, in that moment, how much I’ve internalized a habit of speed. I don’t formally race, but I move through the world to get to the next thing as quickly as I can. I religiously check my running pace, mentally weigh my hourly riding pace against some random internal judgement. A judgement that does. not. matter.

This little bike is actually beautifully efficient — in a low gear, it does the work for me. It’s quite graceful, actually. It’s just not… fast. And I’m used to being able to power at things, through sheer will and muscle get to something as quickly as I want to.

Well, the Tern has a different kind of intelligence. It’s going to get me there. When it is ready. In that moment on the road to the beach, I eased up on myself, let go of fretting about the hills. I’ve now easily paced up that hill that defeated me two years ago, many times. I’ve ridden to the great beach where I had the spontaneous magical paddleboard experience, to the little beach where a family encouraged me to try the rope swing and shrieked with laughter when I kept going, to the quiet huge expanse of low tide pebble beach after the rain.

I’ve ridden to dinner, for groceries, and for two magnificent hikes up mountains. And I’ve ridden to and from the ferry where I crossed for the day to meet up with my cousin, hike the galloping goose trail with her beautiful dog, and eat a feast with her partner, the salmon he’d caught and smoked, the crab he’d caught just for me that day, the preserves they’d made and tomatoes they’d grown.

At the end of the ferry dock yesterday, after my visit to Vancouver Island, I rested my Tern for a minute against the faery door and magic tree, taking off my covid mask and putting on my bike helmet. I pedaled slowly home, savouring every small revolution. Connected with every hill. Listened. It was the right bike, after all.

Fieldpoppy is Cate Creede, who is spending her last week on the west coast.

It’s almost the end of August, unbelievably. As I wrote last week, I’m lucky enough to be on the west coast for three weeks, in a tiny little “camping casita.” I’m here alone, with a writing project giving a little shape to my days, an island to explore on my folding bike and feet.

Both Martha and Tracy have written in the past week about the renewal they are finding through “active rest” and unplugging. I’ve been trying to immerse myself in that same kind of “take what comes” kind of flow. Intuitive movement, intuitive eating, intuitive work, intuitive sleeping.

This morning, I woke up at 7, rain on the roof of my tiny little cabin. I got up to trek to my little bathroom, in a separate building, and the dark calico cat that comes sometimes came to visit me. He brought me a mouse, then ate it himself with a big crunch, then muscled his way into my little cabin, walked on my bed, inspected my kitchen, presented himself for a big pet and walked off again. I settled back into bed and slept for another three hours. Bliss.

Yesterday was the first day of big rain. I poked around my little place, had a spur of the moment phone call with my business partner, suddenly felt the urge to go for a run in a lull in the rain and ran further than I’ve been able to do since I developed a nerve problem in my left foot six weeks ago. Clouds eloquent above me. I pulled an apple off a tree as I came in, and ate it looking at a deer near the woods. Hot shower in the outdoor shower in the misty rain, cosy bed afterwards. Bliss.

Sunday, I spent the morning writing on my little porch, then suddenly heard what the sun and warmth were telling me — find a beach. The good beach is about 10 km away, on a hilly (Hilly!) road, and I have my little folding bike with the tiny (Tiny!) wheels. I set my jaw and set out — the hill in the first two km, just outside of town, is daunting. I crowned the biggest hill, got off the too-busy road, and rolled through a quiet, tree lined road.

At the beach, I encountered a guy renting paddleboards just as I started down the path to the ocean. We chatted, I found some cash, I signed a (sanitized) waiver, and then suddenly, I was on paddleboard, just me, flat sea, the bluest sky, dancing with the gentle swells, communing with seals. Two hours of utter, magical bliss. I dusted the sand off my feet, put my shorts back on and rode home.

Monday, I worked in the morning, wondering if I should head back to the beach and try to paddleboard again, looking at the weather that suggested rain later in the week. I listened to the voice that said to hike.

The biggest hiking trail — to the highest point on the island — is 12 (hilly) kilometres away. I tried to piece together the options for trailheads with a couple of websites and google maps, and was reasonably sure I had found one. Because the peak is also accessible by road, it was a bit confusing — it’s a provincial park, but not the kind that has an entry point with a little booth.

I found the trailhead, and paused for a while, trying to parse the contours, the distances. It was 230 when I arrived, and I wasn’t sure I could climb to the peak and down again and still get home before it turned to dusk. I don’t trust my biking on the unlit roads with the lack of shoulders and speeding drivers. I tried to mentally make sense of the many trails, the options to loop around the peak, the height. I took a photo of the map, obscured by the shadow of my phone in the high sunlight.

I climbed — steep, hot, lonely, dry. At the first viewpoint, I began to understand its power, the harbour where my bike was already far below me, sea on both sides of me. Another crosspoint, then another, then a decision that I might as well keep going to the top. It was so steep that I had to pause every couple of minutes to catch my breath, stretch out my hunkered shoulders. Just me, the sunlight flickering through the huge trees, the trail. Another turn, another decision, a massive fallen old growth tree with a huge cut out for the path to cross. Going through my water faster than I expected.

Then, an opened up panorama. Sea and harbour in all directions, fields. Salt Spring Island once grew more fruit than the Okanagan, a friend had told me. Pure verdancy.

I found the peak. No drinking water, which I’d hoped for. Just a parking lot, one car, one couple, an outhouse washroom. I chatted with the couple, sitting on a bench soaking in the immense space, asked them if there was any way they might spare any water. They did, we talked, I heard their story. Originally from the UK, living in BC for 20 years, moving back to be with grandchildren. We waved, I left and sat and ate an apple at the panorama. Made my way down to my bike — much more difficult technically — then rode back to town, dusk starting to gather and my stomach rumbling. Took myself straight to my favourite little cafe, changed my shirt in the bathroom and drank a local cider and ate a huge meal.

Wednesday morning, as the clouds gathered? Writing on my deck again, and then an hour of yoga. Letting Adriene tell me what to do as I practiced outside, added tree and crow and some hip stretches I needed. An impulsive pub dinner because I craved a steak. A late night binge of four engrossing episodes of a show I’d missed before it got canceled.

Two weeks of this intuitive, listening life, this life outside, letting my actions be guided by what I feel like doing? I’m restored. My regular life has so many great things in it — people I love, and structured workouts with our superhero team, and work work work, and carefully slotted in runs. Pushup progressions and acupuncture. Cats who demand to be fed at a particular time. Here, just me, my body, my sense of time and space — this absence of structure has given me complete movement to rest, to restore, to strengthen, to breathe, to run further and climb higher.

August is made for this kind of elastic time, this kind of intuitive listening, this moving for play and exploration, not repetition and discipline. Looking into the fall and winter we’re expecting, I ponder how to keep this elasticity alive. How to keep nurturing this kind of active emptiness.

What about you? What are you finding restorative right now? How are you planning for fall?

Fieldpoppy is Cate Creede, currently dancing with the waves and hills on Salt Spring Island.

This week I took off for the wilderness. Actually it was a very nice little house my friend lent me so I could enjoy a summer escape.

While it had all the amenities that matter — hot water, fans, ice — it didn’t have wifi (hence the reference to wilderness). 

I didn’t mind. My goal was to unplug, read, write, walk and sew. 

For the most part I got what I wanted. I read four books, I finished cutting out a quilt, and I started sewing blocks (66 of 90 completed — yay me). I wrote an article, made several lists, and planned out my fall. I fit in a couple of beautiful walks and I also kept moving by sewing, cutting and ironing in different parts of the room. 

I was surprised by how much I got done. Not checking email, Twitter or Facebook saved me a large chunk of time. Not being on the phone or taking part in any zoom calls also put a nice deposit in the me time bank account. 

My trainer is very fond of telling me how important rest is for fitness. Most of the time I focus on maintaining good sleep habits. This brief escape though showed me I also needed to rest my mind and also learn what if feels like when I set the agenda completely. 

I already share out tasks in daily living. Meal planning each week to manage has also saved me time. I never realized though how much time I spend managing stuff. 

It was a useful lesson to kick off adopting a new habit — meditation. I’m learning how to filter out the chaff and focus on the stuff that matters. I’ve not actively meditated before so I’m open to seeing how it may calm the jumble in my head. 

One of my favourite things to do is watch the waves roll in. I took the picture above to remind me of the sense of calm the ocean brings to me.

What are your favourite ways to turn off the demands in your life? Feel free to share in the comments. 

It’s heading into late August, dear readers– time for temperatures to cool down a bit, giving us a hint of fall. Well, this may be true for some areas of the country, but lots of us are still enduring full-summer heat. With that heat comes sweat. If you’re like me, a lot of sweat.

I wrote this post a few years ago before full menopause, complaining about my symptoms, which included copious sweating while doing anything as active as walking, hot hands and feet at night, and sensitive skin. Those are still going on, by the way.

Over time, though, I’ve accepted that serious sweating is just a continued part of my life, and I deal. It means carrying extra clothing for changes if I’m active on the way to a social or work thing, and more laundry than perhaps the average person. In addition to the showering…

One thing I’m learning is that increasing age seems to correlate with decreasing worry about some things I can’t control. Sweating falls into that category. As long as I’ve got bandanas, changes of clothes and a water bottle handy, I’m good to go.

How about you? What are some of your responses to “gee, you sweat a lot?” I mean, those we can print… 🙂 I’d love to hear from you.