The road less cycled

<Author’s note: If anybody’s still reading this far down, I thought it would be humourous to point out my ignorant usage of the phrase “doggy-style,” which I recently realized has strong sexual connotations…something I’m all the more aware of after reading Richard Van Camp’s “The Lesser Blessed.”  Oops End note>

The cold penetrates the thick blanket I’ve awkwardly wrapped around myself, and I drowsily wake to the realization that it’s finally morning. I’m still curled up doggy-style – the only comfortable position I’ve been able to find while jammed into the close confines of my car seat. I’ve wished all night I was sleeping in an Oldsmobile or anything with a texture that doesn’t resemble that of the Canadian Shield so much.

I’ve only had about four hours of broken sleep, having arrived in Chilliwack’s Promontory Hills around 3:00 a.m. Now it’s 7:30 a.m. as I groggily decide it’s time to rev ‘er up and generate some heat again. The plan is to head over to the coffee shop corner store I noticed on the way up to write this piece for my creative non-fiction course. On the way down, the warmth slowly fills the interior of my car, and my mind activates accordingly. I’m quietly exuberant, having survived my first night sleeping in my car. I descend slowly in order to take in the view which the shimmering lights far below informed me last night would be so magnificent in the morning. And it is, despite being blocked by trees. Trees which howled the entire night, buffeted by strong winds cresting the ridge and caused me to consider moving to somewhere less prone to falling branches. I played the odds however, knowing it would have to be an exceptionally large branch to actually damage my car, and also that in such a wind-prone location, the trees have adapted to it, and aren’t any more likely to snap than anywhere else.

As I drive, my mind turns to my vegan friend GB who I know must have lived just over the ridge in the Ryder Lake area, having grown up in these hills only to recently abandon them in favour of the big city. The landscape, too, fills my thoughts – all the modern, sprawling development I witnessed on the way, and the sharp, rapid transition from urban residential to rural, bucolic back-country. I think also of the freedom allowed by my car – the freedom to go where I please and do what I choose as long as I’m able to pay the costs that come with having a car, not to mention being willing to quell the guilt I feel at becoming such a gas-guzzling roadhog despite my avidly professed preference for cycling and mass transit. Also, I reflect on my ‘lone wolf’ status – I’m somewhat of a renegade, keeping to myself and not really keeping in touch with friends the way I should. The lone wolf thing is somewhat appropriate – I’ve not met many people with whom I’m completely at ease, and any awkwardness might just compromise the moment.

I’m still winding my way down the ridge, but decide to turn into a side-road on a whim. It takes me though an under-construction subdivision and over a murky little stream, its water milky grey, likely fouled by ongoing development related erosion. Continuing up, I find myself at Falcon Heights, just past Thom Creek Park, an elegantly named subdivision with a magnificent view. I leave the car at roadside and go for a short amble, hands stuffed into my pockets in reaction to the blustery chill which blasts me. Sprawled out before me is the heart of Chilliwack and the surrounding farmland. On the far horizon is Chilliwack Mountain, dusted in white and jutting out of the flat landscape like a zit on otherwise perfect skin. As I attune to my surroundings, I notice a raptor dropping out of the sky, wings swept back – avian akimbo – to reduce air resistance. I can’t identify it – it’s a mere silhouette against a grey sky, but it looks about the size of a red-tail. I’m high enough, and it drops down far enough, that soon I’m looking down on it – always a surreal experience. The bird swoops down and joins another of its species – they dance and ride the winds together.

Falcon Heights, it appears, is well named, unlike many of today’s subdivisions which are typically named in romantically hypocritical fashion after the natural features and wildlife which they displace. I have a bumper sticker which reads, “Suburbia: Where we tear out the trees and then name streets after them.” Bumper stickers are my way of getting people to think about these things – I have a captive audience whenever I’m stuck in traffic – why not provide them with some amusement? Not quite as much fun as weaving through bumper-to-bumper traffic on my bicycle, but enjoyable nonetheless. I jump back in my car and as I circle back the way I came, I notice the air is rife with raptors – perhaps they’re out for a bit of a thrill in the windy weather. Ravens, too, play in the strong gusts of wind. If it were not completely opposed to my worldview, I could see myself living here – it’s that pretty. I can certainly see the attraction to living in this place, and why there’s a market for this type of car-oriented development. Still, I don’t like it.

Most of all though, I wonder at myself. Why don’t I enjoy these early mornings more often, instead of staying up late and sleeping in the following morning? To use a car analogy, why don’t I spend more time in fifth gear, rather than coasting around in neutral?