Birch Bay —> Vancouver
Bidding adieu to Birch Bay, we set out for the border with purpose akin to a merry band of Hobbits, stopping to supplement breakfast at a mini-mart so we could smile at the border guards. Vancouver gleamed like Oz across the water.
Once snugged up to the crossing, they hardly checked our passports, meaning we may have missed a smuggling opportunity. Our spirits were contraband enough, and we carried them at a cheerful clip to our lunch stop in the US of Eh?.
At the Safeway, we met Alan, a cyclist with Rasta tape on his carbon fiber frame, who claimed he once did 368km in one day. His secret? Water, banana, don’t stop, go fast. Big up.
Cross the street to the neighborhood park and swimming pool, we scorched our soles on the b-ball court, 2v2 on one end and 1v1 futsal on the other.
Back on the bikes, we scampered to hit our 3 o’clock metro deadline. At four, they would stop accepting bikes. Bald eagles soared ahead, on vacation from stoking the coals of American patriotism, and we raced onwards, largely on calm roads and paths, the latter of which would throw us a few curveballs.
Mud, sand, gravel of varying grit sizes, and a veritable flooding requiring delicate portering on the rim of a stream all conspired to slow us, but we prevailed, crossing a rather unnerving bridge into Vancouver, and ultimately packing ourselves like sardines into multiple railcars at the height of rush hour. Our lack of Canadian restraint filled each car with acrid brashness, and our novice level of public transport navigation meant that nearly everyone bucked and stumbled on the first acceleration.
Now at the hostel, we showered and quickly struck out for incredible flavors at Fat Mao, followed by double gelato scoops. Then bed.
Downtown Vancouver is thrumming with pedestrian bustle. Clean, alive, colorful, just like us. Tomorrow, we bring ourselves more fully into the city, and take a piece of it in return.
