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Authors: Julie Angus
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ventured.
“Well, I hope you have a good time,” Colin said, handing the book back to me.
“Good luck on your next expedition.”
There was an awkward pause, almost like neither of us wanted this chance encounter to be our only time together. Well, I could say with certainty that one of us felt that way; less than a year later, I found out it was mutual.
The next time I saw Colin was on a drizzly spring morning in Vancouver. I was standing at the bus stop, wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Two other Lycra-clad people waited at the street corner with me. We all had numbers pinned to our chests, indicating a shared destiny for the next three hours. The fourth person to join our group walked up with one of the most extreme duck-footed strides I’d ever seen. He was fit, but based on his footwear, which looked more like five-dollar Kmart sneaker cast-offs than proper running shoes, I wrongly deduced that he wasn’t running the ten-kilometre Vancouver Sun Run. And with a walk like that, who could blame him?
We all waited quietly. Occasionally one of us would excitedly blurt, “There’s a bus—maybe we’ll get on this one.” That was swiftly followed by, “This one’s full too.”
Bus after bus passed, packed full of runners, while the drivers shook their heads at us.
Then Duck-foot said, “At this rate, I don’t think we’ll make it in time for the start of the race. Maybe we should start walking and then try to catch a bus on Burrard Street, where it might be less crowded.” So he was doing the run.
“Great idea,” I said.
As we walked, chatter flowed, and I overheard Duck-foot say, “I haven’t been running much lately, because I’ve been on the road doing film presentations.”
The bulb went off in my head. “I saw you talk at the Ridge Theatre last year! Your show about the Amazon was great.”
He looked at me, eyes focussed. “Hey, that’s right. You were going to Turkey.”
I was thrilled. I couldn’t believe he remembered me. He must have met thousands of people on his tour and hundreds that night alone.
“I actually never went to Turkey, but I’m going to Nepal next week,” I said.
“That’ll be amazing. I’ve always been interested in Nepal.”
“I’ll be hiking to Everest Base Camp, and then travelling in the Annapurna mountain range. I’ll be travelling solo,” I added, trying to hint at my single status without sounding like I had no friends.
I was about to put my foot in my mouth when Colin mercifully interjected.
“Maybe you can show me your photos when you get back?”
“That would be great.”
I felt like a kid on Christmas morning. The next day I told a friend at work, “I’ve met the guy I’m going to marry.” I’ve never really believed in love at first sight, and I’ve always been rather bad at gauging people from initial impressions, but this time was different. It seemed like uncanny good fortune, or what some might call fate, had brought us together. We wooed each other with canoe trips in Indian Arm, hikes in the nearby mountain ranges, and runs along Kitsilano Beach. Ten months later we were engaged, and two and a half years later, I found myself on the Atlantic Ocean with my beloved duck-footed runner.
BEFORE I KNEW it, the sun was fully above the horizon, and my two-hour rowing shift was over.
“Good morning, Colin,” I said in a loud, happy voice.
“Your congenial greeting is a very, very thin veil for what you really wish to communicate,” Colin quickly retorted without a hint of grogginess as he peered between greasy smudges on the hatch. “How are things out there?”
“The winds are the same as yesterday, about force three, and they’re still coming from the north-northeast. Our speed is great, 2 . 5 knots. But it’s not easy rowing; it’s choppy, and the boat keeps pulling to the portside.”
“Have you tried adjusting the rudder?”
“Yeah, but it didn’t help,” I grumbled. “We need an autopilot.”
“Or how about a
“Well, I hope you have a good time,” Colin said, handing the book back to me.
“Good luck on your next expedition.”
There was an awkward pause, almost like neither of us wanted this chance encounter to be our only time together. Well, I could say with certainty that one of us felt that way; less than a year later, I found out it was mutual.
The next time I saw Colin was on a drizzly spring morning in Vancouver. I was standing at the bus stop, wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Two other Lycra-clad people waited at the street corner with me. We all had numbers pinned to our chests, indicating a shared destiny for the next three hours. The fourth person to join our group walked up with one of the most extreme duck-footed strides I’d ever seen. He was fit, but based on his footwear, which looked more like five-dollar Kmart sneaker cast-offs than proper running shoes, I wrongly deduced that he wasn’t running the ten-kilometre Vancouver Sun Run. And with a walk like that, who could blame him?
We all waited quietly. Occasionally one of us would excitedly blurt, “There’s a bus—maybe we’ll get on this one.” That was swiftly followed by, “This one’s full too.”
Bus after bus passed, packed full of runners, while the drivers shook their heads at us.
Then Duck-foot said, “At this rate, I don’t think we’ll make it in time for the start of the race. Maybe we should start walking and then try to catch a bus on Burrard Street, where it might be less crowded.” So he was doing the run.
“Great idea,” I said.
As we walked, chatter flowed, and I overheard Duck-foot say, “I haven’t been running much lately, because I’ve been on the road doing film presentations.”
The bulb went off in my head. “I saw you talk at the Ridge Theatre last year! Your show about the Amazon was great.”
He looked at me, eyes focussed. “Hey, that’s right. You were going to Turkey.”
I was thrilled. I couldn’t believe he remembered me. He must have met thousands of people on his tour and hundreds that night alone.
“I actually never went to Turkey, but I’m going to Nepal next week,” I said.
“That’ll be amazing. I’ve always been interested in Nepal.”
“I’ll be hiking to Everest Base Camp, and then travelling in the Annapurna mountain range. I’ll be travelling solo,” I added, trying to hint at my single status without sounding like I had no friends.
I was about to put my foot in my mouth when Colin mercifully interjected.
“Maybe you can show me your photos when you get back?”
“That would be great.”
I felt like a kid on Christmas morning. The next day I told a friend at work, “I’ve met the guy I’m going to marry.” I’ve never really believed in love at first sight, and I’ve always been rather bad at gauging people from initial impressions, but this time was different. It seemed like uncanny good fortune, or what some might call fate, had brought us together. We wooed each other with canoe trips in Indian Arm, hikes in the nearby mountain ranges, and runs along Kitsilano Beach. Ten months later we were engaged, and two and a half years later, I found myself on the Atlantic Ocean with my beloved duck-footed runner.
BEFORE I KNEW it, the sun was fully above the horizon, and my two-hour rowing shift was over.
“Good morning, Colin,” I said in a loud, happy voice.
“Your congenial greeting is a very, very thin veil for what you really wish to communicate,” Colin quickly retorted without a hint of grogginess as he peered between greasy smudges on the hatch. “How are things out there?”
“The winds are the same as yesterday, about force three, and they’re still coming from the north-northeast. Our speed is great, 2 . 5 knots. But it’s not easy rowing; it’s choppy, and the boat keeps pulling to the portside.”
“Have you tried adjusting the rudder?”
“Yeah, but it didn’t help,” I grumbled. “We need an autopilot.”
“Or how about a
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