Let me explain.
I love being on vacation. I love planning vacations and staring at maps filled with possibilities. I love stimulating my creative neurons with novel alleyways. I love meeting interesting people. I love sitting on a plane and guiltlessly playing video games for ten hours straight.
Fantastic. 11/10.
What I truly dread is the buildup.
Finalizing travel bookings is the second-best thing to actually going. What a rush. It’s happening. It’s going to be such a great time.
That’s not the bad part.
The bad part is when my brain starts flooding with tasks. That’s when the anxiety kicks in.
What if it rains the whole time? * Have I left my teammates in good shape? * Are my tires ideal? * Do I have enough storage? * How do I eat everything left in my fridge? * Am I even going to have a good time? * Where will I stash all the shiny rocks I collect?
It’s only once I’m actually on the trip that my nerves settle down.
In an effort to quash those thoughts—and maybe enjoy a weekend this month—I set off with my friend Rennie on a Memorial Day trip to French Beach on Vancouver Island to shakedown our setups.
My goal was twofold:
- Test my Europe trip loadout and identify shortcomings or excess gear.
- Figure out how I want to document my summer in Europe.
I really want to capture the trip in video. The problem is that I hate interrupting an experience just to document it. Video is especially egregious in this since you can feel the camera sensor being pointed during every interaction. I don’t like it. It feels like acting. That’s why I’ve been drawn more toward still photography: get the shot, then get on with having a good time.
The thing is though… video has so much life! Fine, I shall record it, but will set myself one rule: if I’m not having fun, I’m not going to do it. At the end of the day, I’m making this for myself. If the process becomes annoying, I simply won’t bother.
With that in mind—and a bike stuffed with tripods and camera gear—we set off.
The route was intentionally simple. Ride out from Swartz Bay, link up with the Galloping Goose Trail, and follow it most of the way to French Beach.Despite having several aspirational route plans in the area, I’d never actually been to the west coast of the island. It was a treat.
The trail was fantastic and sparsely trafficked once we left the city. We traded asphalt for gravel, while the trees shielded us from the late-spring sun. There was very little stopping. No navigation decisions. No turns. Just point the bike forward and ride.
Flow is such a joy.
Midway through the ride, we came across a group of guys replacing a tube. We stopped to help, but they seemed to have everything under control.
They were bike touring the right way: beers were out, vibes were high.
As it turned out, they were headed to French Beach too and offered us a spot at their campsite.
Sweet.
My lack of planning (usually) works out. We were a little skeptical that they’d actually make it there that night though, as we watched them down their beers.
As is customary, dinner involved sprinting down the trail to reach food before closing time. We slid into Stoked Pizzeria just before they shut the doors and left carrying three pizzas.
I think Rennie was mildly horrified when I put away two whole pizzas by myself.
It’s not a particularly impressive superpower, but it’s a useful one on bike trips.
Amazing. Stop by if you're in the area.
Then came the real surprise.
No way. The boys beat us to camp.
How the f—
Oh. They took a bus for part of the route.
My ego survives to bike another day.
I love those guys. Just a bunch of close friends who grew up together, messed around as kids, and somehow now have kids of their own.
What did they look like? - You’ll have to imagine it. I didn’t record anything - it felt annoying, so it broke my rule. Excellent, this rule is working as intended!
The next day, we rode back to the ferry—with a few route modifications—and headed home.
And then, naturally, I went back to stressing about Europe.
I had actually spent plenty of time stressing before this trip too. New roommates were moving in, which meant endless cleaning and admin. Work needed tidying up before I disappeared for the summer.
I’ve grown a gentle acceptance of my self-inflicted anxiety. It’s practically a personality trait at this point! When directed toward important decisions, it’s incredibly useful. The real problem isn’t the things I deeply care about nor the things I don't care about. It’s about filtering out the things I sort of care about.
Those are endless.
I’ve been told that the best part of cities is that there’s always something to do. I think that’s actually the worst part. It's a jungle filled with sort of options. *(At least for me - don't let me ruin your city fun.) There’s a meditative satisfaction in committing yourself to a single path and accepting only the options that exist along it. It’s probably why I love being on my bike. It’s probably why I love splitboarding.
Once I'm dedicated to my task, the static always fades, and the path forward is clear.
That’s why I know that the moment I board that plane— despite it being filled with all the coughing fits, body odours, and crying babies planes are known for—I will be blissfully stress-free.
