Sarah on the Run

I want to tell one of my stories.

The truck was rumbling as we raced over hills, the ocean sitting peacefully below. “Stuck inside these four walls, Sent inside forever, Never seeing no one nice again”: the perfect song. And my heroic friend, Brad, was calmly controlling this truck (it belonged to his brother, who loved altering the features to make for a larger sound, despite hindering the functionality), letting the wind toss over his smile. We were bound for East Bay, a week of adventuring in the woods and relating summer stories.
And I certainly had some stories. My mind was flashes of the roughest moments: the dream-hallucinations when I camped in the forest of the farm, the scary man who was trying to convince me to watch the football game with him in Drummondville, rolling into town after dark and seeing only dark houses, waking up to find that all of my possessions outside of the tent were stolen, having my tire pop three times in one day in heavy rain. But I got through it.
“Well, the rain exploded with a mighty crash as we fell into the sun, and the first one said to the second one there, “I hope you’re having fun.””
My mission was to bike from Montreal to the head of the Cabot Trail (Baddeck) in Cape Breton to meet an old friend from home for an adventure. I allowed myself twelve days to get there. My bike was a beauty, borrowed from Kate and Michel (my saviours), and was in mint condition for this trip. I was full of feeling like I was going to be stronger after this trip, whatever came of it.
And I was strong: my first day I could only manage 60 kilometers, but after that it was 100, 120, 140, 190. I was becoming stronger every day internally too. I was scared to ask random people if I could set up my tent on their property for the night, but I only received one “no” – and that was a man, on behalf of his old mother (he thought she would be frightened). I was scared to bike on highways in the middle of no where where anything could happen and no one would no me (especially after all my identification was stolen, cell phone, my bike lights (yayee…) – but, thankfully, not my journal). But I got through it all, and I almost made it.
It was five kilometers outside of Whycocomagh, where I’d planned to grab a little snack before racing through the last leg of road before Baddeck, that I heard a great SNAP! Immediately, there was something very different about the way my back wheel was operating, running more and more vigurously against the breaks. A spoke had snapped (too much gear on the back, and not a strong enough wheel). Seemed clear I wouldn’t be going anywhere at all anytime soon, for Whycocomagh didn’t appear to offer many services at all.
I made it to a grocery store where I bought some bananas and a muffin. I knew the answer but asked the clerk “is there anywhere in Whycocomagh that could help me with my bike? I have had some trouble, and need it to get fixed.”
“No, the nearest place to get help with that sort of thing is Sydney, about an hour up the road”.
“By car”.
“Yes, by car. Guess that doesn’t help you much.”
“Well thanks anyway”. As I thought.
“You know, you could go to the blacksmith. It’s just around the corner. I bet they could help you with your bike. Best option around, anyway”.
Woah. “Ya, you know, I will. Thank you”.
This smithy was in a bright red barn. And John (the Smith-er?) had a big grey beard, with the iconic rubber apron. John Mason was the guy I met who welded me a new end to my broken spoke, warned me about biking beside the Canada-day drunks on the Cape Breton roads, invited me to stay at his place for pasta-rhubarb-rum dinner, praised Eat, Pray, Love the film so much that we had to watch it, and offered me a sheep rug to sleep on in his toasty living room among his decorative iron lamps and under his decorative iron fixtures (his inventions, of course). He even offered me his phone so I could call brad, just across the lake, and ask for a ride to the bike shop.
I told John about my trip. How everything had gone wrong and I needed so much help. How my mother loaned me money so I could finish the trip. How people had gone out of their way to help me fix my bike so I could carry on. How I tried and tried to do the trip myself but just couldn’t.
His response?
“Whatever! You needed people. So what? It’s because you needed help that you met everyone you met. People love showing how helpful they can be. They love giving the needy a hand. You helped them by needing help, so don’t be sorry for that. I can speak from experience. You needed my help real bad, and I’m so glad for that”.
Maybe it was the rum talking, but it seemed the truest thing I’d ever heard.
“Well, the night was falling as the desert world began to settle down. In the town they’re searching for us everywhere, but we never will be found”.
I had a lot of heroes on that trip (my mother, John Mason, Brad from East Bay). But I couldn’t have done it without the support of strangers. Those beautiful people who trusted me at the first glance and gave me the momentum I needed to make it to my next destination.
I hope I can be a hero like that to a great many people.
“And the county judge, who held a grudge, will search for ever more.”
By: Sarah C Louise