Oh right... THIS is Why I Don't Highway Ride... aka "Bus Jam and Bear Jam and Camper Van... Oh My!"

Son-of-a-you-know-what, what exactly am I doing out here?  Day 2, in spite of its physical challenges was very enjoyable.  Today had lots and lots of wonderful moments, but I find myself forced to swear, once again, off of highway riding.  After Australia, I swore never again.  Brent has always maintained that the Alberta shoulders are way better than the Australian ones, and he has been proven right, but that does not explain the traffic on the Alberta highways.  

Today was "only" about 95km.  It's really interesting how a person's definition of "long" or "hard" or "steep" can inch its way, imperceptibly, forward until you find yourself "meh"ing things off that should, by rights, scare the beejeebers out of you.  110km including Sunwapta Pass... GAH!!!  But hey, only 95km, and the worst of it was 5km of 4.2% grade uphill, and 7km of 4.5% grade.  Now that's an easy day for you.  

Or... it should have been.  It's the traffic.  Oh my... the traffic.  That's the killer for me every single time.  It killed me in Australia, and it killed me today on the Icefields Parkway.  Thankfully, not literally, although it was not for lack of trying.  

First of all, there was the final push up to Bow Summit (that was the 7km / 4.5% grade section).  I could have ridden that one (unlike Sunwapta Pass) with occasional breaks, but I chose not to.  About 6km of the 7km uphill has a passing lane on the uphill side, which uses up enough of the road to leave the shoulder virtually non-existent.  I was riding, steadily, up that long sucker, when I got caught in a bus jam.  We were on the inside of a turn, which meant that the Greyhound-sized Winnebago that was in the right-lane didn't see us until it was pretty much on top of us, and blocked in by the other Greyhound-sized Winnebagos and other campers that were passing it on the left.  It flew past me with maybe 8" to spare between it and my bicycle.  I admit I yelled out in terror, but at least I didn't bail off the bike into the rocks and trees that were my next stop off the road.  I rode for a short time after that, but as my "near miss" sunk into me, I got scared enough that I got off the bike and pushed up most of the rest of the hill so that I could keep a close eye on the traffic behind me and easily bail off the side if I had to.  I guess a steep hill up with a narrow shoulder is my nemesis... the steep hill with a sufficient shoulder... sure, I could ride that.  But take away my shoulder and I'm done.  Done, I tell you.  

Once I reached the top of Bow Summit, I was on again.  Good to ride.  Bow Summit to Lake Louise is mostly downhill, and, as has been established, I am a "downhill demon".  I still touch the brakes now and then when I get going a little beyond the comfort zone, but that is happening less and less.  

My next terror was the bear jam.  Actually, it was more of an annoyance than an actual terror.  We got to a section of highway (yes, yes, tourists, I must remind you it is a HIGHWAY) where there were about 30 vehicles parked on the side of the HIGHWAY with people wandering all over, most of them trying to fire off the perfect photo of the little black bear nibbling on a tree in the ditch.  The traffic was virtually stopped on the road, as opposed to the cars on the side of the road which were completely stopped, so the cars had to brake suddenly, and some of them decided to cut in front of me to join the bear jam, while others decided to eschew the bear jam (probably shaking their heads, as I was, at the folks stopped who are willing to risk any danger to themselves, the people around them, and the bear in the ditch, to fire off that perfect photograph).  As we joined the traffic wending its way slowly through the bear jam, a parked car from the bear jam decided that, just as it was beside me, was the perfect time to re-join the flow on the road (naturally, without looking).  Good grief people.

The clincher for me, though, was in the final stretch of our ride... about 15km from the end, when the road was open, the sun was shining, we were mostly coasting downhill, and there was absolutely no... and I mean NO... reason for a camper to be on the shoulder as it passed a couple of cyclists, when one did just that.  There was plenty of room in the lane... and plenty of room in the open oncoming lane for that matter, to give us a wide berth as they passed, but no... they came over onto the shoulder to "buzz" us as they passed.  The highway is no place for a cyclist.  At least not THIS cyclist.  

I find myself... AGAIN... swearing off of highway riding (sorry Brent).  However... tomorrow isn't a highway ride... it's Bow Valley Parkway (speed limit 40) from Lake Louise to Banff.  Will I ride it?  Only me and my obnoxious saddle sore know.  Oh no... don't get me started about the saddle sore.

Sun-Kicked-My-Ass

Sunwapta Pass = Sun-kicked-my-ass.  110km today and the unbelievable hill from hell.  I couldn't do it.  I had to get off part way up the pass and push my bike up for... oh... probably close to 2km.  Part of my problem, though, was that the shoulder was super narrow and I was moving so slowly that if I wobbled around at all I could fall into traffic, so I felt safer pushing rather than riding.  More than half of my companions pushed at least part of the way as well.  It was a long and tough day, but I'm super happy to report that the shoulders have, for the most part, been great, and the traffic, for the most part, has been very very cycle-conscious and considerate.  I appear to have almost lost my fear of speed on a bicycle... my top speed coming down the other side of Sun-kicked-my-ass was... ahem... 67 KM PER HOUR!!!  I rocked that downhill!!  Rampart Creek Hostel is very nice, but I am cursed by technology.  Athabasca Falls had power but no internet, and Rampart has internet but no power.  *sigh*  I must wait another day to share all of my important thoughts with the world.   The special moment of the day was when the very large grizzly ran across the highway a ways in front of us... maybe about 30m or so.  The motorcyclists in front of us had to brake for it, but we just got to see it unfold right in front of us.  It was really spectacular (but I was happy when it was gone).  

Ben is an amazing support driver.  He leapfrogs the group, keeping an eye on the slowest folks *ahem* but also setting up several breaks and meal stops along the road on the way.  At the end of the break, we will ride off while Ben packs all of our food and such away, and then he'll proceed on past us to the next checkpoint.  I wave, and Ben gives a quick flash of the brake lights.  Every single time we would pull in for a rest stop, he'd give me a cheezy word of encouragement about how awesome I was doing... but the cheese is completely irrelevant.  Those words of encouragement are worth their weight in gold and really did help me keep going on the times when I considered not.  

And Brent.  My goodness, Brent is an amazing companion.  I think it's pretty clear that I enjoy his company... but no matter how slow or scared I am, he sticks with me.  Just being his wonderful Brenty self.  Brent, I love you completely.  

Some Lessons Take More than Once

What AM I doing here?  What was I thinking?  Wasn't it just a little over a year ago that I emphatically swore off of highway riding?  And here I am, just finished the "warm up" day of the ride from Jasper to Banff on the Icefields Parkway.

Maybe Brent is right.  Maybe I'm a bicycle fanatic.  Or maybe I'm just too cheap to work at a bridal show for free.  What?

See, the thing is, I know this guy who runs a shuttle bus service from Edmonton out to the mountains.  And this guy, we will call him Ben Johnson, booked himself to be at the Edmonton Bridal Show for the second year in a row for 2012.  Which begs the question of why does a guy who runs a shuttle bus service from Edmonton out to the mountains bother booking himself into a bridal show, but that is a story that only Ben himself can tell.  Suffice it to say, Ben booked himself into the Edmonton Bridal Show, and then my guess is that Ben himself wondered why on earth he booked himself in to a bridal show because... ooops... he "accidentally" double-booked himself and was scheduled to do an awesome tour of mountain madness on the exact same weekend of the bridal show.  

So, Ben sent out a plea to folks he knows asking for volunteers to work the bridal show for him (I didn't fail to notice that he didn't send out any pleas for someone to take over his tour of mountain madness instead) in exchange for some kind of a deal on a future trip.  Well, to know Ben is to know that you can't receive a plea from Ben without stepping up to whatever you're being asked for.  That's just how it works.  To know Ben is to love Ben.  That is not negotiable.  So, my hand shot up in the air to work the bridal show.  A bridal show.  Is there any WORSE possible way to spend a Saturday?  I can't think of what it might be.  And then I had to think of what I might ask Ben in return, and after careful consideration, I asked him for a deal on a cycle tour... the Icefields Parkway.  Largely because Brent wants to do cycle touring and I want Brent to have what Brent wants.

So, back into the saddle I get... not that I ever left, because I love cycling... I just don't love being out there on the highways with the (fast) motorized vehicles.  It is unlikely that we'll encounter a lot of transport trucks or logging trucks on the Icefields Parkway... my two least favorite things.  The biggest terror of the Icefields Parkway is retirement-aged tourists who have rented their first-ever Canadream land-yacht motorhome.  

Like with the Golden Triangle, I did a fair amount of training for this one.  We rode from Edmonton to Devon and back a couple of times, but my best training was my "Six Killer Hills" events with the Edmonton Outdoor Club (if you think Edmonton is flat, you just haven't looked hard enough).  The day to start the trip arrived, and oddly enough, I wasn't filled with dread; I was actually rather excited and happy.

Along with six other riders from the Edmonton Outdoor Club, Brent and I set out with Ben on a Friday morning at 7:00.  We loaded our bikes, gear and luggage into his van and trailer and headed out of town.  I made everyone watch "Letters to Mark" (which I call "the Doug and Brent movie") to "inspire" us.  Everyone was inspired.  We stopped in Hinton for lunch.  Everyone was lunched.  Ben dropped us off just east of the Jasper Park Lodge and we started riding.  Day 1 was a relatively easy 40km from Jasper Park Lodge to Athabasca Falls Hostel.  Really only one hill to speak of.  My training buddy Colleen didn't even start hating me at that hill... maybe a mild dislike, but certainly not a hate.   The traffic was very considerate (even the Canadream motorhomes) and the shoulders were wide and clear.  The weather was warm... maybe a little too warm, but I'm too smart to complain about that.

We reached the hostel more than a full hour before it even opened, so we walked across the highway and went to check out the Athabasca Falls.   We had a marvelous potluck dinner with Colleen's award-winning lasagna and Brent's home made strawberry pie and Bear Flag wine (which I bought because it had a picture of a bear and a picture on a bus on the label).  Day one did not suck.  But Day 2 is niggling a little in my brain... 109km with the biggest climb of the trip... Sunwapta Pass.  

Love for My Un-Hard-Core Friends

One of my favorite things about my friends is that none of us feels pressured to keep up with the hard-cores… we just decide what we want to do, for our own enjoyment, and then we go out and do it. And thumb our noses at any raised eyebrows or mockery from the folks who think if you’re not torturing yourself to prove something to the world, it’s not worth doing.

This summer, nine of us went out to do a West Coast Trail South-Ender. The West Coast Trail is a 75-km backpack, done, on average, over seven days because the terrain is just that challenging. I did the West Coast Trail five years ago, and vowed I would never do it again. I am spoiled by the Rocky Mountains. I’m used to getting this much “wow” for this much effort (imagine left hand at mid-height and right hand slightly lower than mid-height), and THIS much “wow” for this much effort (imagine left hand high in the air and right hand in between mid-height and high in the air). When I did the West Coast Trail before, I found it to be this much “wow” for this much effort (imagine left hand slightly below mid-height and right hand way up in the air). The wow/effort ratio just didn’t add up.

My friend, Marg, had eschewed joining us on that trip, not wanting to do the whole thing. She asked me if I would do an out-and-back sometime just on one end of the trail. My hike companions at the time weren’t interested in that, and I was kind of caught up in the idea that if you’re going to go that far, and pay that much, to do the trail, you ought to do the whole thing.

After about three years of Marg cajoling me to return to the West Coast Trail to do an out-and-back, I finally relented two summers ago. I told her I would go back if we did the south end, at a time when the tides were favorable for going to the sea caves at Owen Point on Day 2.

The south end is the harder end of the trail, according to common knowledge. But, because it is also the oldest growth rainforest, I find it to be the most beautiful. And I missed out on seeing those darned amazing caves the first time because I was worried about my ability to get around the point on time to beat the tides in the amount of time we had that day.

So, I chose the route, and I chose the dates based on some tide table analysis to make sure we’d have the most time for Owen Point on Day 2. We would hike in from Port Renfrew on Day 1 to Thrasher Cove, do an out-and-back day hike to Owen Point on Day 2, and then hike out to Port Renfrew on Day 3. Seven more folks signed on for the trip and we were a whopping group of 9.

It was so exciting for me, driving into Victoria and then Port Renfrew, to see the group start to materialize as well. Everyone had their own agenda, some folks had their families in tow, and some folks carpooled out to Vancouver Island. Everyone arrived at Port Renfrew in plenty of time for our orientation at 3PM on the day before we were to begin.

Well in advance of the trip, I chose some photos from my previous trip to share with the group to make sure they had a clear idea of what they were getting into. The West Coast Trail terrain is just so much more rugged and challenging than anything we get in Banff and Kananaskis where we do the majority of our frolicking. I didn’t want anyone to have any nasty surprises once we got out there. I carefully chose photos depicting us climbing over enormous, tricky root systems… tromping through deep mucky bogs… climbing and descending rickety ladders that really do make your blood run cold. I shared my photos and everyone commented with great merriment in the months leading up to the trip.

And yet… we were still surprised by the ruggedness and the challenge of the trail. Even me, to be honest. We got off the boat and took our obligatory “before” photo and set off up the trail. Within moments, we were in the thick of the climb through the rainforest. Roots. Bogs. Ladders. Just like in my photos. We climbed, we navigated, we descended, we took photos, and we got our muck on. When the reality was all around us, that's when my friends told me they'd just assumed I'd selected the really crazy pictures to impress them with... they hadn't thought that the WHOLE TRAIL would be like that.

A little more than two hours into the hike, we reached a kilometer marker. It said 74. A quick bit of math told me that we’d already hiked three of our six kilometers for the day. Yay! Then, I remembered that my math was faulty… when I had done the trail before, I hiked a total of 78km because of extra kilometers here and there, particularly the extra kilometer down to Thrasher Cove and then back to the main trail. The trail is actually 75km long.

We had gone ONE KILOMETER. In terror, I looked around at my companions and briefly considered suggesting that we just turn the h-e-double-hockey-sticks around and head back to the boat. At the rate we were going, we would reach Thrasher Cove by… oh… 9PM if we were lucky. I stuffed my inner sissy back down into my stomach and pressed on. We all did. A few of us confessed to each other later that we had all had that same thought at Km 74. But continue on we did, and we reached Thrasher Cove, covering the six kilometers, in nine hours from the time we started.

On Day 2, half the group made it to Owen Point and the other half turned back because of the boulder clambering involved. I was one of the turn-arounds. I guess it’s just not in the cards for me to see the sea caves at Owen Point in person – I’ll have to live vicariously through other people’s photos. I’m ok with that, and my friends who turned back with me are ok with that too. On Day 3, we hiked out from Thrasher Cove to Port Renfrew in seven hours – an improvement of two hours over the first day. I believe that’s partly because we were practiced up, and I believe it’s partly because we split up a bit instead of having the whole group waiting around for their turn every time we had an up or a down ladder.

It makes me sad when people feel that they can’t do certain things because they can’t do the WHOLE crazy hard-core thing. Whatever the whole crazy hard-core thing is. And it makes me mad when other people try to make me feel like I am inferior when I don't do the whole crazy hard-core thing.  I love choosing things within my ability and having wonderful friends to share them with who are happy to do them.

Thank you, my wonderful un-hard-core friends!

A Little Wool-vangelism

I devote a fair amount of time, effort and money... oh yes, the money... in my quest for the perfect clothing and gear for the things I do. And I like to keep things as simple as possible. For example, I have always said that if a garment requires more care than just a quick run through the washer and dryer, then it doesn’t get to live in my closet.

It was with great reluctance that I allowed some wool to come into my life. A few years ago when I was preparing to hike the West Coast Trail, someone recommended Merino wool. The West Coast Trail is a grueling, multi-day backpack requiring that you carry as little clothing with you as possible (and, of course, no opportunity to shower). Merino was recommended for its ability to take the abuse and keep on... not stinking. You gotta do what you gotta do.

One of my West Coast Trail garments - a green sweater - became an essential item for a lot of my hikes, and even for my cycle commute in to work. I love that sweater, and since I’d already taken the plunge with allowing wool, I accumulated a small amount of other pieces.

Then, this past fall, in a moment of mindlessness, I accidentally ran the green sweater through the wash on the warm cycle. It came out... uh... small-child size. GAH!!! It was at that exact moment that I realized just how important my green wool sweater had become to me. It was perfect! Right down to its top-to-bottom direction pocket zippers. And I ruined it!! I tried to stretch it back into shape, but it was beyond hope.

I have consistently had problems with other fabrics. All the fleece and polypro and other fancy fabrics that the outdoor stores flog for proper comfort in the outdoors did not do what they purported. I know a lot of people who swear by them, but I decided that I must have magical non-wicking sweat because I consistently became chilled during events (due to the layer of sweat being held against my body by my “wicking” clothing), and especially after events when I felt like I would never be warm again.

A couple months ago, I went out snow shoeing with a wool base layer, then one of my Helly Hanson Merino hoodies, the green sweater’s replacement (a lovely, but inferior in a couple of ways, orange 1970’s-reminiscent wool sweater), then my outer shell. Wool, wool, and wool. And, to my amazement, I stayed warm and dry throughout the event AND in the vehicle after the event! Wool, wool, and wool. Wool, wool, and wool became my mantra, and the only thing I would step into the outdoors with, particularly in winter.

I love finding a solution to a long-standing problem. Even if it does require special care, I guess. Thanks to Value Village and Goodwill, I’ve added a few more wool pieces to ensure that I’m never without. My other “perfect solution” to date is Lole Traveler’s Pants, which I wear nearly every day because I can travel (or commute in them on my bike) and they still look like great business pants!

As I write this, I’m looking at the green sweater... soaked and stretched over my stuffed backpack in a second attempt to bring it back to its original size. Wish it luck... I would sure love to wear it again! And I promise to be more careful washing it in future. It can live in my closet as long as it likes.

Leech Attack

On our last day in Australia, Carleen and John (Brent’s sister and her partner) took us out on a hike in Ku-Ring-Gai National Park near their home in Hornsby (north of Sydney). It was a phenomenal, scenic, lush, beautiful hike and we had a wonderful time – it was the best send-off possible… well… maybe except for one small part.

After walking several kilometres, ooh-ing, and aahh-ing, and taking an annoying amount of photos, we began passing groups of hikers who all offered a brief warning – watch out for the leeches. Uh… hello… we’re in a forest, but, ok, thanks for the tip. I had been fascinated by the enormous ant hills all over Oz, and we reached a section of trail where the trees were thinner and it was more of a low (chest height), thick foliage. There were several of these ant skyscrapers, and it was our last day so I stopped to get a picture of them.

As I was bent down checking out the ant hills, I noticed a “twig” that was waving about sort of like it was searching for something. I realized that I was looking at a leech. Cool! We’d walked several kilometres without seeing one of these, and everyone seemed pretty excited about them, so I made sure to get a picture of him.

We kept walking, and soon, Carleen noticed that she had several of these guys crawling on her shoes and socks. Turned out Brent did, too. We stopped briefly and pulled a few leeches off and kept going. We could see them everywhere on the trail – sitting on the ground, waving about, searching for a shoe to attach to. For some reason – John speculated that it was the lighter coloured shoes, Carleen and Brent got more of them than he or I did.

That put a fairly quick end to picture-taking time and we decided to zoom through that section of trail. Every couple of minutes, Car or Brent would stop and do some leech removal, often requiring Brent’s help – these little guys can REALLY hang on. Once, when Car stopped, she dug around and discovered a leech had gotten into her sock and was firmly attached to her ankle. She commenced with the shrieking and dancing around that one does when they discover a leech inside their sock firmly attached to her ankle and yelled something that sounded like “Brent!Brent!Brent!Help!”. Brent ran over and performed a leech extraction, but since it had been completely attached on her, her ankle bled out for about a half hour after that.

We really kicked it into high gear after that – zooming down the trail, but compelled to stop occasionally to make sure we didn’t have any hangers-on that were getting dangerously close to pay-dirt.

Finally we reached a more open and dry section of trail (an old road) where we could stop and finish the leech removal. Seriously, these guys can REALLY hang on. You had to grab them, practically squishing them to get a grip, and tug like crazy. They seemed to have the ability to hang on with both ends, so sometimes you’d pull the end off that was stuck to your shoe or sock and the other end would swing around and grab on to you.

Because they could grab with both ends, they moved kind of like inch worms, crawling up… up… up… your shoe, sometimes stopping to try and attach to your sock, and sometimes getting more ambitious and finding their way inside the shoe (or in the case of Car’s “favourite”, inside a sock).

I had a lot of them on my shoes and some on my socks. Some of them were hiding out in the treads of my trail runners. I wasn’t very good at pulling them off, so I took to using a stick to try and pry them off.

In the final scene, our three terrorized heroes (Car, Brent and Rhonda… with John looking on in bemused impatience), danced around on the road flinging leeches in every direction… oh, but wait… somehow they can tell where you are (maybe smell?)… and each one of us had created a circle of leeches around us where we’d tossed them off, and in an almost coordinated fashion (or so it seemed), the armies of leeches circled and inch-worm creeped their way towards us trying for round two.

At the end of the hike, I thanked John for taking us out. He laughed because he thought I was being sarcastic, but I wasn’t. It had been a beautiful hike, and the stuff with the leeches… well, that’ll buff out… and it makes a great story!

It's Not About The Bike: Taming My Inner Lance Armstrong

Why do I do this to myself? Why am I constantly comparing myself to others and finding myself wanting and feeling frustrated and ashamed? I don’t consider myself to be a competitive person. I don’t care about being the fastest or the strongest or reaching the most peaks or getting there first. Really, I don’t... so why do I do this to myself?

In the early days of the COC, I pushed myself pretty hard. There were very few volunteers, and I felt compelled to offer people the activities they wanted at the pace they wanted. It was a constant struggle of trying to keep up, and feeling like I had to “beg” people to stay in the back with me so I wouldn’t be left alone. As the club, and the volunteer team, grew, I was able to back off and figure out what I really wanted to do for me. I met people, hiked with them, and watched them move on to the more challenging activities. Gradually, though, I started to gather up some friends who stuck around... who enjoyed what I enjoyed, and some of them (yay for Brent, Marg and David... and several others who pop in and out) even enjoy doing stuff at my pace.

I’ve never been an athletic person… I don’t think my family has that gene. I hiked for the first time when I started the COC. I’m an ex-smoker who, very very regrettably, acquired a lovely lung condition related to that past sin. These are my physical parameters, and as I found my “pace buddies”, I came to accept that I do a lesser distance and slower pace than many (but not all) of the people around me, and I’ve been ok with that. In fact, I’ve become quite protective of “my pace” and I don’t plan activities that are going to make me feel bad, or with people who are going to make me feel bad. I’m out there to have fun, see some great scenery, marvel at some wonderful critters, and build community with my wonderful friends – not feel pushed to go further or faster or longer.

It hit me really hard, though, that I couldn’t do the cycle touring at the pace that Brent had set out for us for Australia. Honestly, I shouldn’t have expected to be able to – we’d both over-estimated what I would be able to do. His original calculation went something like this: Rhonda can ride 100km/day, with hills, but that’s a full day. We want to have time to do other stuff, though, and go more slowly and enjoy ourselves, so let’s lop off 30% and plan for riding about 70km/day. Australia is the flattest continent in the world, so that means less hills and easier riding, too. Sounds reasonable, right? I thought so. I didn’t give that a second thought. I was looking forward to getting off my butt after this long, brutal winter and pedaling off these ten pounds that have found me since I quit riding to work.

Oh, but we left out one variable. Weight. I’ll come back to that, but first of all I have to interrupt myself to say… Australia… or at least the parts we went to… is amazingly UNFLAT. OK, weight. I know... yes, I do know… that when I add weight to my day, I have to cut the distance by about half. This includes backpacking (rather than day hiking) and snow shoeing (rather than day hiking). My preferred maximum for a day hike is about 18km. My preferred maximum for a day of backpacking or snow shoeing is about 8 or 9km. Half. Let’s re-visit that calculation: Rhonda can ride 100km/day, with hills, SUPPORTED (ie. with a van bringing all the stuff), but that’s a full day. Add the weight – Rhonda carrying her own stuff – and we have to cut that in half. 50km/day. That will be a full day. Lop some off to allow time for other things, and we’re looking at a reasonable plan of 35 to 40km/day.

It became very apparent, very early on, that with the mountains in Tasmania, and carrying my gear with me, there was no way I was going to do 70km/day and have time to enjoy other things. I knew that Brent could easily have done it, and I know that just about everyone else I know who cycles would have easily been able to do it. I felt wretched, especially because I was ruining the best-laid plan of my partner, and I didn’t want to disappoint him. Fortunately, Brent doesn’t seem to have been disappointed at all. He was perfectly fine with modifying our plans to accommodate his “small and weak” girlfriend (my words, not his). But it took me days to get over it... in a way I’m still getting over it. I’m going to have to find a way to carry my attitude about my hiking pace over to cycling and just be happy with it. I don’t care about being the fastest or the strongest or getting there first. Really, I don’t... so it’s time to adjust my attitude to my own abilities and be happy.

Incidentally, Brent had planned to ride about 1000km in Australia. We ended up riding just a little over 500. Pretty much half.