Ok, so I’m going on a bike trip, again, in two weeks. It’s the second annual Great Waterfront Adventure Tour. The riding, 800 kms over eight days from Niagara on the Lake to the Quebec border reveals some real gems — wineries in Prince Edward County, a Lake in a mountain, a grain mill tour — but I truly can’t wait to see my cycling buddies from last year’s ride.

It reminds me of tree planting — you are hanging with people, for a very short amount of time, but you spend every waking moment together: you wait for the others to brush their teeth in the morning so you can all head to breakfast together, and then after spending all day together, you put your head on the pillow only to continue a conversation until you both trail off to sleep. It’s like camp as a kid. I never went to camp, so perhaps this is my adult version.

I can’t wait to be with them all again. I live for distractions!

On another unrelated thought, I was driving to Niagara Falls two weekends ago for a an Italian food festival, when I passed a hitch hiker. My immediate reaction was ‘Wow, that’s great, some company. I would love to have someone to talk to.’ Then, as I got closer and saw axe murderer written all over his face, I don’t want to describe him for fear it might you, reading this very post, in which case I’m sorry if you’re not an axe murderer and I prejudged you, but in any case, my point is that my first instinct was that I was lonely and needed company, then, the logic kicked in and said, ‘Are you mad, a single gal picking up a lone traveller. That’s got ‘chopped-up-body-parts-in-the-trunk’ written all over it.’

It made me sad to think this, and here’s why. Many moons ago, back in 1995, after a hellish season of tree planting (weren’t they all, Melanie? Yes, I went back for six seasons. Mad). Anywho, back to 1995. Myself and three other girls headed to Banff to camp, shop, and then party. I remember we went shopping and I bought a pair of bell bottom jeans with the tag on the hip that read: love jeans. No word of a lie, I was wearing love jeans. I wore my love jeans dancing my crazy aerobic moves at the local watering hole and I wore my love jeans on the Trans Canada hitch hiking with my gal pals to Jasper. I stuck with Annie, while Sarah and — God, I forget her name — hitched ahead of us. Travelling in pairs was safe. Annie and I got picked up by two Aussies. Go figure.

When we got to Jasper, we parted ways. I was done with Ontario, having just graduated with my BA in English. Wow, I was ready to…waitress? Seriously. Not many options. So, I went on to full time tree planting (which is all you can really do with a BA in English) in hippie-ville British Columbia, while the other gals headed back each to Ontario.

During the next four months, I accumulated a chevy cargo van, and a sky-blue trek 7000 mountain bike. I ended up pruning trees — sawing off branches for eight hours a day — on Vancouver Island. For the next few months, every weekend our entourage of smelly workers headed Coal Harbour, B.C. to dance the night away. I wore my love jeans every weekend and by the time I left Coal Harbour, in my white chevy cargo van, the bottoms of the pants were frayed so badly, I used to trip over the strips of fabric.

At the end of four months, with little money to show for (I sucked as a tree pruner), I headed to Lillooet B.C. and met with a mean bear, but that’s another story. This was a story about love jeans and hitchin’ with gal pals.