LIFE EXPERIENCE EXPLORER

MALIBU TO SAN DIEGO, CA

FROM MALIBU, ALISHA AND I PEDAL UNTIL THE spinning Ferris wheel of the Santa Monica fairground casts its shadow over top of us. We pause to snap a photo, then continue to twist down the beach path, engulfed by the swarm of tourists on shiny blue and red cruisers, and locals pedalling sandblasted three-speeds with rust-chattering chains. Palm fronds shutter in the wind. The beach path should bypass downtown traffic and take us all the way to our host’s apartment in Redondo Beach. With the influx of runners and pedestrians who join us at every juncture, to say nothing of a man on rollerblades playing a sax, the route becomes chaotic.

We push through schools of slow-riding cyclists to maintain pace. But after half an hour of struggle, we submit to the throng, hop off our bicycles to walk among fortune tellers, artists, and vendors selling knock-off sunglasses and neon muscle shirts on the busy Venice Beach promenade. I check the bike computer: sixty miles, four p.m. We have nearly twenty miles to go.

“We won’t make it to our couchsurfing host’s place until after dark,” I say.

“Let’s just keep moving.”

It’s as though a wire is pulling me, chest-first, through a movie set. I’m overwhelmed, my head swivelling to take in the panorama of vibrant hustle. Venice is diverse, a collision of cultures. My eyes dart from beach volleyball players to skateboarders to Schwarzenegger-esque bodybuilders powerlifting at Muscle Beach. The breeze mixes scents from the ocean with greasy takeout from trash bins. After the crowd thins out toward the end of the boulevard, we resume pedalling, the crash of surf resonating on our right and an endless row of beach houses to our left. Sand skitters across the path, dusting my chain and sifting into my shoes.

VINCENT’S APARTMENT IS COMPACT AND BARE. A few IKEA paintings of cityscapes adorn white walls and a mountain bike leans against the wall opposite the living room sofa. We park our bikes by his and slump into the sofa cushions. From the grey hairs sneaking in behind his ears, I’d guess that Vincent is a few years older than us. He works as a computer programmer.

“How was the ride?” he asks.

We’d strayed from the beach path once to take what looked like a shortcut, but it had landed us en route to the airport. We’d lost time backtracking, rolled into Vincent’s long after dark.

“Have you always lived in LA?” I ask.

“No,” he replies. “I was born in Ensenada, Mexico, seventy miles from the border. But my parents moved here when I was in high school.”

Vincent has tan skin, but could be from anywhere. I’m excited to speak with someone who is actually from Baja California. When we tell Vincent our plan to cycle to Cabo I recognize the shimmer of longing in his eyes. He digs out a photo album from his most recent trip south and promises to get us in touch with a friend who can put us up while we’re in Tijuana.

“It’s not dangerous?” Alisha asks.

“Less dangerous than LA,” he assures us. “Some Mexicans don’t appreciate gringos, but you girls look like hippies. You should be fine.”

We leaf through photographs of beach palapas, Vincent’s girlfriend drinking from a coconut. Magnificent-looking cactuses that recall the Taco Time sign we spotted just outside Venice Beach.

“What’s the road like?” I ask.

“There’s nothing once you get past Ensenada.”

“What do you mean, ‘nothing’?”

“Highway and desert.”

“Are there towns?”

“A few, but they can be hundreds of kilometres apart.” Vincent appraises our bicycles with a critical eye. “Be sure to carry water.”

THERE ARE A MILLION THINGS WE COULD DO IN LA, but Alisha and I pass the next day at the beach, scoping the locals and concocting fictional life stories for the people who own the swanky bungalows along the waterfront. Down by the seashore, everyone is carefree, happy for no good reason except the sand between their toes and the wind in their hair.

We arrive back at Vincent’s place just in time to join him for dinner at his friend Maria’s place. “She’s also done some cycling,” he says. “You should have a lot to talk about.”

Maria lives with three roommates, all Chicana like her, in a cozy house with blue walls and broad-leafed plants. She greets Vincent with a kiss on the cheek, and fetches three glasses of red wine before we’ve found our way to the kitchen table. An aroma of roast garlic and vegetables spills from the oven.

“A couple of years ago, I did almost the same trip as you, in the opposite direction,” she says, leaning an elbow against her placemat and lifting the glass to her lips. Maria is trim but not particularly athletic-looking. She’s dressed in a skirt that rustles around her shins and a grey knit sweater that hangs off one shoulder.

“I planned on cycling to Alaska, but when I arrived at the border, they didn’t want me.”

“They didn’t want you?” I say, confused.

“No,” she says. “Canada Customs took me into a tiny room and dumped my bags. They asked how much money I had and contacted my bank because they didn’t believe me. They said, ‘You’re coming here to work, aren’t you?’ And I told them, ‘No, I just want to ride my bicycle.’”

I glance between my sister and Maria, both sitting across the table from me. One blonde-haired and fair-skinned, the other with a darker complexion.

“That’s pretty unfair,” I venture, reflecting on the ease of our own entrance into America.

“Yeah, I thought so. They made all these assumptions about me, just because I was born in Mexico. I anticipated a six-month entry stamp and they gave me one for just two weeks. The worst was they expected me to be grateful, even after they emptied my bags all over the floor and treated me like a criminal.”

“How was the trip overall?” I ask, keen to change the subject.

Maria stands to check on the vegetables. “Strange,” she says, her back to us as she peers though the oven window. “I felt like an outsider. Refused to stay in campgrounds with all those people spoiling the outdoors, but afraid to camp on my own in the bush. You know where I slept? People’s front yards. I’d just wheel my bike into their shrubs and roll out my sleeping bag. I felt safe there.”

I look at Maria with newfound respect: It takes guts to sleep on a stranger’s front lawn, never mind deal with racist border officials. I remember how terrified I’d been camping solo on Vancouver Island, heart banging around in my chest all night because I was certain I would be devoured by bears before sunrise. I wonder what other aspects of Maria’s trip have differed from this journey.

Until now, I hadn’t considered how my own skin could colour my experiences. Why had my parents, my teachers, all failed to mention that my life would be valued more, that my voice would be given more weight because I had fair skin? I think back to the Highway of Tears and the Indigenous women who were killed there, my own easy assurance that the world is my oyster and how entitled I felt to this adventure. I reflect on the dozens of times over the years that I’ve passed through Customs without a second glance and realize that I’ve been playing life on easy mode. This world, the road, is a much more complex and unlevel place than I’d previously understood. And even with Maria sitting right here, telling me about it, I know that I’m only just beginning to comprehend the extent to which a person of colour’s everyday experiences are different from my own.

“Have you told them about San Ignacio?” Maria says, her eyes darting between Vincent and the two of us.

“What’s that?” asks Alisha.

“San Ignacio—this oasis town in the middle of the desert. The most beautiful place ever. You’re driving for hours and hours with nothing but sand, and then, wham! Palm trees and ponds.”

At least we have that to look forward to.

THE RIDE BETWEEN LA AND LONG BEACH turns out to be the most miserable twenty miles of the trip—worse than Devil’s Slide, perhaps more so because we don’t even have a good story to tell afterwards. Confined to the Pacific Coast Highway, a polluted artery running through the industrial wasteland of Greater Los Angeles, I struggle to breathe. The asphalt is potholed, strewn with gravel and no shoulder to speak of. Smog wreaths the skyline and factories stretch for block after block. Dusty aqueducts feature the occasional hobo dragging a garbage bag of bottles for refund. Grit sticks to the sweat on my forearms, and I keep telling myself that there’s only ten miles to go…nine…eight.

Zombie people shuffle along the sidewalk paralleling the highway, stoop-backed and limb-limp under the furnace of the sun. A man in a mechanic’s jumpsuit carrying two paper coffee cups asks us where we’re headed.

“Mexico!” we holler, into the bedlam of traffic.

He shakes his head and continues walking.

But there is one moment that lifts my spirits. While Alisha and I wait for the green light at an intersection, a toddler in the crosswalk with his mother stops to point at us. His face is stoic for a child, eyes fixed on our bicycles. He waves, and we wave back. Then his mother scoops him up, and carts the boy across the intersection.

For the rest of the ride into Long Beach I grin every time I recall that boy. I can’t articulate why he’s so important to me. Perhaps because he was the only person who seemed to care. I realize that doesn’t make much sense—we didn’t even exchange words. But after a morning of dodging the side mirrors of trucks, I need to imagine someone cheering for me.

AM I REALLY JUST SQUANDERING MY LIFE in a misguided pursuit of temporary happiness? I spend the morning on the Long Beach-bound highway brooding over the realization that came to me in the Santa Barbara bar with Kevin. I’m also beginning to wonder if past judgements about my mother have been a little harsh. While my mother followed through with an unrewarding career, at least it provided her a foothold so that all the other pieces could fall into place. She’s been able to fulfill her dream of getting married, raising children, and creating a comfortable family home. Over the last few years, she’s found more time for herself, and carved a life path that none of us expected.

The transformation from Mom-as-we-knew-her began when she took up bodybuilding, though it wasn’t until she discovered yoga that she really came into her own. Still recovering from her fractured ankle, she hobbled into a yin yoga class, asked for a chair, and followed along as best she could from the back row.

“It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” she told me later. “But I loved it.”

My mother was an instant convert. Soon, her muscles—bulky from weightlifting—flattened out. Spread long and sinewy, tight against the bone. She studied anatomy and enrolled in workshops, which turned into weekends out of town: Victoria, Seattle, Tucson. Yoga opened up opportunities for travel, for mental wellbeing. A way to connect with her body totally unlike anything she’d experienced previously. What is interesting is that in both our cases—her discovery of yoga and mine of cycling—it was an injury that prompted the sudden shift of course.

ALISHA AND I COUCHSURF FOR A NIGHT in Long Beach with a late-twenties carpet salesman and his three-year-old son, sleeping on our air mattresses next to the television. At sunrise, we point our tires toward the beaches of Orange County. Oceanside, our next couchsurfing stopover, lies a mighty eighty miles to the south.

Just as in Malibu, the wealth of these beach communities is unmistakable. Palm-lined boulevards and million-dollar houses with security cameras poised over citrus trees; lavishly green lawns, day-glow pink and orange hibiscus blossoms, and gated U-shaped driveways. We can’t actually be here, I think to myself, dazed by affluence and the incredible climate.

At a Starbucks in Newport Beach we pull over for our morning coffee. The green-and-white espresso siren appears everywhere in Southern California. Clientele, universally dressed in active wear, appear to be either going to or coming from the gym. Their attire contrasts markedly with the sun-shielding garments and broad-rimmed hats of the gardeners we pass outside of the mansion homes.

Alisha and I roll over to a nearby field with our coffee and pull out granola and apples to snack on—our yogurt has been spoiling in the mid-day swelter. It’s hot already, both of us in sleeveless shirts, our shoulders slick with sunscreen.

“Let’s go swimming today,” Alisha says, quartering an apple with the Leatherman. “What’s the point of staying in a place called Oceanside if we don’t enjoy the ocean?”

We’d avoided the water in LA, fearful of city runoff and pollution.

Suddenly, a black and white dog bounds between us. A woman in a pantsuit and sunglasses comes by to retrieve him, apologizing for the intrusion.

“Where are you girls off to?” she asks, eyes shielded behind thick-rimmed sunglasses, the kind that a daytime TV star might wear for an afternoon on a yacht.

“The tip of the Baja Peninsula,” we say; the border is only two days away.

“And you’re eating that?” she says. I notice the flesh of my half-eaten apple, brown in my hand. “Listen,” she says, pulling out a ten-dollar bill. “Go buy something hardy. Get yourselves a roast chicken.”

“We usually eat well,” explains Alisha. “We’re just short on groceries right now.”

We decided to hold out on shopping until we cross the border, reasoning that groceries should be less expensive when we exchange dollars for pesos.

The woman shakes her head. Puts one hand on her hip and extends the bill toward us with the other. “Take it anyways,” she says. “Buy yourselves a couple of margaritas once you get to Cabo.”

Alisha folds the bill into her passport as the woman and her dog stroll off.

I feel strange watching them leave. I’d like to attribute our good fortune to the Universe looking kindly on us, but after our interaction with Maria in Los Angeles, I’m starting to wonder whether putting faith in the grand powers of the Universe—an indefinable outside force—negates the existence of other factors, like ethnicity and class. Would our margarita benefactor have given that money to Maria? Impossible to know. But I still can’t shake the feeling that the woman’s kindness had something to do with our shared whiteness.

We reach Oceanside in the fading thrum of sunset. The sand stretches out in front of us, and what I’ve come to recognize as a typical SoCal pier probes into the sea. Palm trees mark the waterside path and designate the border between public beach and private condos. Aside from a pair of surfers in the water, Alisha and I have the beach to ourselves. Waves lap dark against the shore.

“Let’s do this,” I say.

The two of us dash inside a washroom to change into swimsuits and walk into the ocean, swell surging against our shins and thighs. The temperature is cool but not freezing. Warmer than the water off of BC’s coast, even in summertime. In a second my muscles release. I duck to let a wave rush over, exhaling through my nose. When I come up, my eyes sting with salt, but I’m invigorated, alive. We haven’t been swimming since our mad dash into the frigid water off Washington—hopefully we’ll be able to make more time for fun in Baja.

Alisha and I bob just deeper than where we touch bottom. I brush my fingers through my hair, the strands silken underwater, almost ethereal. The seam of distant horizon burns amber. With deep breaths I exhale my uncertainty. Whatever happens, this is perfect. The pair of surfers glides to shore, dark silhouettes embracing on the sand.

Mike’s condo sits a few blocks from the beach.

“Mi casa es tu casa,” he says, a dimpled grin on his face and sun-freckled arms open wide.

The building is an older one, corncob yellow. Floor to ceiling, the walls inside are plastered with artwork. Mike is middle-aged, bearded, and works in the music industry. On his online profile he describes himself as a “Life Experience Explorer,” a phrase that caught my attention. I ask him what it means.

“I love travelling, encountering new places and ideas,” he says, cracking two local microbrews and handing them across the kitchen table to us. “I look at each day as a chance to do something different, explore a fresh perspective. That’s what being a Life Experience Explorer is about.”

Mike hands me his card, text over orange and teal shaded landmarks: the Eiffel Tower, Mount Rushmore. In bold type across the top, his name. Phone number and email printed below, counterbalanced by a charcoal sketch of a youthful, smiling Mike, backpack strapped to his shoulders. In the place where one typically lists an occupation, Mike has written Life Experience Explorer.

“This?” he says, gesturing toward the artwork. “I’ve brought it home from places I’ve visited. When I can’t travel I host couchsurfers—I think of them as my lifeline to the outside world.”

Mike treats us to dinner at his favourite sushi place. The three of us sit on high stools at the bar where we can watch white-robed chefs chop and roll. Could I be like Mike, a Life Experience Explorer? Living minimally on this journey has forced me to be more alert, enjoy what I have, and experience each day with the sort of bright-eyed wonder that I see in Mike. I doubt, however, that I’ll be able to sustain this attitude when life returns to usual back home.

KEVIN ROLLS UP TO MIKE’S CONDO on a mountain bike just after ten the next morning. He’d made the drive from Lompoc to San Diego yesterday, and decided to hop the train up to Oceanside with his bike so he could ride with us to his parents’ place. Dressed in baggy cargo shorts and a baseball cap—no helmet—he looks nothing like either of us.

“Be careful in Mexico,” Mike warns as we haul our bikes down the condo staircase. “Have you been following the news?”

We’ve only seen headlines, caught snippets on the radio. Stray bullets in Tijuana and border towns overrun by cartel violence. The kind of sensational stuff we’ve chosen to ignore, for the most part.

“I wouldn’t go down there right now,” he adds.

“These girls are crazy,” Kevin says, embracing us both around the shoulders. “Totally loco.”

“Keep your wallets out of sight.”

As we pedal away, past the sushi place and the long finger of the pier, I flicker back to Mike’s warning and hope we’re not making a huge mistake.

“You guys excited about Turkey Day?” asks Kevin, wheeling down a couple of stairs perpendicular to the bike path. “My parents are stoked.”

“I thought your mother was annoyed with us coming,” says Alisha.

“Wasn’t keen at first, but Mom always gets excited about company.”

“Are we going to watch the football game?” I ask.

“Oh yeah,” he says. “My grandpa loves football.”

Kevin is so free on his bicycle—he’s obviously loving this. He weaves between palm trees and pops the curb between the street and the sidewalk every few hundred feet. Alisha and I cycle with more restraint, stick to straight lines and smooth surfaces. In seeing Kevin’s joy, however, we become goofy, forgo our usual grit-jaw determination.

But just as we pass under the arched Welcome to Encinitas sign, ten miles north of Kevin’s parents’ place, Alisha blows out two of her back spokes mimicking Kevin in one of his curb hops. The spokes ping against the others like a wind chime.

We park our bikes in the shade of a smog testing facility, closed for the holiday.

“No problem,” I say. I’ve dealt with this before, back in Duncan. I’d even bought extra spokes so that I’d be prepared.

What I don’t have is the tool for removing the back cassette. With some fiddling, we should be able to work around it. But then Alisha points out that the replacement spokes are a finger’s width longer than her spokes. Turkey dinner is in less than two hours.

“Can you ride with a couple broken spokes?” asks Kevin.

“Not a good idea.”

If even one spoke is missing, the tire doesn’t rotate true. Under the weight of her back panniers, travel could lead to more broken spokes, and the last thing we want is to pedal into the desert with a wheel that is falling to pieces.

“I’m sorry guys,” I say. I thought I was prepared.

“How much farther do we have?” asks Alisha. “Should we walk?”

It’s noon, approaching the hottest part of the day, and we’re miles away from Carmel Valley, the San Diego suburb where Kevin’s parents live.

“No worries,” says Kevin, fishing for his phone. “I’ve got this.”

His father shows up half an hour later in the surf van.

“Hello, my name is Sam, Sam I am,” he sings. A fringe of white hair borders his balding scalp. He’s slim, no taller than Alisha or I, and dressed in a Hawaiian-print shirt and jogging sweats.

“I took the back seat out,” says Sam. His hands flutter around at chest level as he speaks, emphasizing words like a symphony conductor. “So if you guys can just curl up with the bikes and keep your heads down, that’d be great.” He winks at us.

Alisha and I clamber between panniers and bicycle wheels to settle on the floor of the van. The carpet has an old-vehicle musk, salty. From the front seats, Sam and Kevin narrate the scenery.

“Now we’re passing the best taco shop in Encinitas.” (Sam)

“That’s the shop where my dad restores surfboards.” (Kevin)

“There’s the shop where you’ll get your bike fixed tomorrow.” (Sam)

I wonder how we’ll get back to the bike shop with Alisha’s wheel, and if it’s even feasible to leave for Tijuana in the morning with repairs and other preparations—like finding a map and purchasing Greyhound tickets home—still to take care of.

“Don’t worry,” says Sam, in synch with my thoughts. “You’re welcome to stay until you get yourselves sorted.”

We tumble into Thanksgiving with hardly a moment to change from our spandex. Kevin’s parents live in a clean, bright, two-level house with citrus trees in the garden. Sam’s restored surfboards and beach-inspired artwork adorn the walls. Kevin’s mother, Karen, makes him take off the baseball cap.

“I don’t know why you insist on wearing that thing in the house,” she says, and then turns to us. “Why does he have to dress like a gangster? Girls, tell him those shorts are too baggy.”

Alisha and I grin, red-faced from the California sun and stuffy van ride.

“And why on earth are you girls going to Mexico?” she says.

“We want to get to the end of the road,” I say.

Karen sets her eyebrows and gives us a stern look. Her face fluctuates between two expressions: pleased and annoyed. Right now she’s annoyed.

“It’s part of our journey,” Alisha offers. “We’ve cycled down the coast from Canada, and we’ve got to go to Mexico to follow the Pacific to the end of the peninsula.”

“You’ve got to go to Mexico?” Karen says. “Believe me, no one’s got to go to Mexico. Honey,” she turns to Sam, “tell them they don’t have to go to Mexico.”

“You know, I used to travel down to the beaches around Ensenada with my surf buddies,” he says, enunciating with his hands again. “We’d drive out Friday after work, pick up a case of beer and some fish tacos, and head down this dirt-track road toward a little stretch of sand with a perfect point break.”

Karen gives him one of her annoyed looks.

“But, ah, that was years ago,” he backtracks. “Before the gangs got bad.”

Just then Karen’s younger sister, Nancy, a rancher in knee-high cowboy boots, interrupts: “Dinner’s ready, except we don’t have a recipe for the gravy.”

“Mom used to do it,” adds Karen, her voice suddenly flat. “This is our first holiday without her.”

“I can do gravy,” ventures Alisha. “I’ll need my sister to be my taste tester.”

Karen and Nancy show us to the kitchen and Alisha gets to work. Everyone has a laugh about the vegetarian making the gravy, but Alisha knows what she’s doing. Soon, we’re sitting down at the dining-room table to eat.

Thanksgiving dinner is everything I’d expected, the dozen of us pressed so close, our thighs touch. Aside from the people we’ve already met, there’s Kevin’s older sister Meredith, the marathon runner; her spouse, Anu; Nancy’s husband and their daughters Nicolette, the hopeful actress, and Camryn, the animal lover; Karen’s sister from back east and her husband, the only two who dressed up for the occasion; and Kevin’s recently widowed grandfather, Vern.

The turkey, glazed brown on the outside and bursting with stuffing, is by far the most enormous bird I’ve ever laid eyes on. Aside from the usual dishes—roast vegetables, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes—dinner features a few plates I’ve never tried before, like Jell-O with slivered carrots, and marshmallow yams (Vern’s favourite).

I’m so occupied with gorging myself that I hardly notice when Karen and the rest of the relatives begin haranguing Alisha and me. I tune in again when someone mentions that both the US and Canadian government have issued travel advisories against Mexican border towns. Everyone has an opinion.

“It’s not safe for bicycles.”

“It’s not safe for women.”

“Just stay here with us in San Diego,” says Karen. “Sam will teach you how to surf.”

With each dictum, I dig deeper into my pile of mashed potatoes, certain our self-appointed advisors are misinformed, voicing only one side of a complicated story. I hold on to Vincent and Maria’s encouragement, deciding to trust their experience over unbacked opinion.

WE SPEND THE NEXT THREE DAYS under Sam and Karen’s roof, sleeping in Kevin’s old bed while he’s displaced to the living room sofa. Time slows. At night we watch movies that Karen borrows from her neighbours, the five of us snug under blankets on the sofa and loveseat, passing a bowl of stove-popped popcorn between us. Kevin calls us his sisters, and Alisha and I refer to them as our San Diego family. I grow to adore Karen and how she dotes on us. Sam shows us around his work studio with its paint-splattered floors, high fluorescent lights, and enormous racks of on-the-go surfboard restorations.

Karen takes us to the bike shop to fix Alisha’s wheel, then to REI to stockpile on electrolyte tablets, spare tubes, and patches. We pick up a set of maps to chart our course down the Transpeninsular Highway, and somewhere between REI’s climbing wall and kayak display, I realize that I’m done with Southern California. It’s been a blast, but I’m bored with the monotony of affluence, a Starbucks on every corner. I’m ready to be surprised again.

But despite my eagerness to cut and run, I can’t shake the premonition that something sinister awaits. The clerks at both the bike shop and REI react to our trip the same way as Mike in Oceanside and Kevin’s family at Thanksgiving. I’d hoped for some encouragement, but all I’ve been hearing is negativity.

Bad press aside, a multitude of other doubts mar my thoughts. We’re down to our last few hundred dollars and only one of us speaks a lick of Spanish, and I lost our phrasebook somewhere south of Oceanside. On top of cartels, Baja also has scorpions, snakes, and plus-thirty temperatures to look forward to. Only now am I realizing that I know nothing of the desert—the closest I’ve ever come are the sagebrush hills of Kamloops, BC.

We remain steadfast, though I wonder if this determination is a symptom of our youthful stubbornness, rooted in a need to prove others wrong. I recall that night speaking with Maria about the Canadian border: Her experience makes me question if what I’ve been hearing in headlines is just fear of the Other. I won’t know what Mexico is really like until I visit for myself and get the rest of the story.

Rain splats against the skylight in Kevin’s old bedroom. From the upstairs window, the road outside appears strewn with snapped branches; channels of water cascade toward drains. Kevin is out there somewhere in the storm, slopping his way back to Lompoc.

“He shouldn’t have gone,” mutters Karen, knee jittering underneath the kitchen table. Eyes glued to the weather report. “The freeways are mayhem.”

The forecast calls for several inches of rain between the border and Santa Barbara.

“You’re not leaving, are you? You can’t. Not when it’s like this,” says Karen. “Stay one more day.”

She shifts from her usual expression of annoyance to one of concern, the skin around her eyes hollowed. Jaw sucked back.

“What do you think?” I ask Alisha. No doubt it will be miserable with rain coming down in streamers—we hadn’t planned on bringing wet weather gear south, either.

“Give it an hour.”

I retreat upstairs to pack the rest of my belongings. We’ll have to leave soon if we want to reach the border by nightfall. I carry my sleeping clothes and toothbrush into the garage and pile everything into a pannier. With over 1,600 kilometres to cover in three weeks, Alisha and I have decided to travel light: take only what we need. We’ve pared down to a single pannier each, plenty of room on our back racks for water. Karen and Sam have agreed to store our camp stove, cooking supplies, sleeping mats, and extra clothes. However, the bikes, geared down for the final leg, look ill-equipped to fight it out in this weather.

It’s cool under the garage lights. I pace between Blue Steel and Sam’s surfboard, willing the wind to calm, the rain to stop. If we prolong our departure, I’ll have time to think things through. I might chicken out and choose a comfortable three-week vacation in upper-middle-class suburbia, nightly movies with Karen and surf lessons with Sam, over the unknown that lies ahead.

In the kitchen, Karen is frying eggs. Sam wraps a sandwich for work. I sit next to Alisha by the window with a coffee mug between my hands, morning news spitting from the kitchen television. Outside, palms trees swing like metronomes in the downpour.