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Big Hill ? "I've got to get to the top of the
hill ... "
In Piney, it appeared someone's summer job was to paint the town. Not red, mind you, but industrial green - a shade so hideous it made me think someone had gotten a very good deal on a bulk quantity. We located the town's fairgrounds and were burning our lunch, as usual, with our pyro WhisperLite stove. (I had discovered 'simmer' was about a foot off the burner and a bit to the right.) As we swatted out the flames a dusty pickup pulled up. A young fellow jumped out and charged over to our table. Perhaps the three-foot flame jumping off the burner had fired his curiosity? He stood beside us, not saying a word. Neither did we. He settled himself down on the other side of the picnic table - on the end farthest from us. After a couple of disquieting silent minutes, it turned into a virtual staring contest. With his unblinking eyes riveted on us, Sharon began to squirm. I thought perhaps he was mute? Perhaps he thought the same about the two of us? Still not saying a thing, he rose from his seat (lunch break over?) and trotted back to his pickup. Sharon and I gave each other questioning glances. Maybe the dude was a loony and had gone to get his gun? He returned holding forth two white ball caps - Piney emblazoned in navy blue across their peaks. "Thanks," we said, as we accepted his gifts. The ice broken, we spoke nonchalantly with him for a few minutes. He told us he was a Grade 12 student who had been hired to paint the town. They had given him a box of caps to hand out to tourists. "But you're the first I've seen. And I almost forgot I had them in the truck." Ready to be on his way, he asked, "Do you guys need anything?" "Anywhere I can get water?" I asked. "Sure," he said, and motioned to his truck. "Hop in." I gave Sharon a shrug. "Be right back," I said. We drove to a church. "It's another place I'm painting," he explained. From a huge ring of keys, he unlocked the door and led me to the kitchen. With all those keys he was a handy guy to have around. After filling our water bottles he drove me back to the fairgrounds. Sharon and I held up our new baseball caps and waved goodbye as he drove off to paint another building. Sharon grinned at me. "It sure is neat how just being on bicycles brings out people's generosity." I led the way to Sprague. A beardown wind made the distance feel twice as far as usual. The terrain was nearly dead flat, but the temperature equalled the 30 kilometre per hour headwind that impeded our progress. We endured a long, hot, slog. But we made it. Knocking back ice-cold lemony drinks outside a store, five kids rode up on old BMX bikes. Straddling their top tubes they stared at our bulging loads, and asked questions about bicycle touring. Conversing with them I learned that the definition of a hill was a relative thing. "Where did you ride from today?" one boy asked. "Rosa," I answered, and glanced at my odometer. "About 116 kilometres from here." "Whew!" they breathed, impressed. But they had never heard of Rosa. I rattled off the names of a couple of other towns en route. Still blank looks. "Piney?" I tried. Their eyes lit up. "Did you have to push up that big hill?" I narrowed my eyes, thinking back. But I still couldn't recollect any 'big hill' the entire way from Piney to Sprague. Just that horrendous headwind. "Huh?" I said. "What big hill?" "You know," one answered in an annoyed tone, thinking I was teasing them, "the one right after you leave Piney." I paused, thinking hard, and finally recalled what, to us, had been nothing more than an insignificant bump! "Nope," I answered. "We pedalled it." "All the way!?" "Yep," I nodded gravely. "No way!" one exploded, shaking his tousled head. "No one can ride a bike up that hill!" "Especially on those things," another sputtered. "You must have had to push." |
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