It should have been simple enough. Ride ahead of fellow cyclist Paul, for my trusty steed and I were somewhat quicker than he and his four-wheeled bikecar, Priscilla. Head for Whistler’s main plaza, locate Marie-Eve and explain that Paul was on his way to meet her, but delayed by some unexpected hills. Should have been. But it wasn’t.
I’d made good time into Whistler, despite the increasingly heavy rain. Only to discover that Whistler doesn’t exactly have a main plaza, rather an extensive pedestrianised area. Those willing to brave the unrelenting icy downpour were well-wrapped, mostly decent waterproofs or plastic ponchos. Little chance of ever spotting Marie-Eve from the description I’d been given.
Refusing to accept the situation for what it was – hopeless bordering on futile – I’d wandered about with my fully laden bike, hoping this might draw Marie-Eve out. But I’d two wheels and she was expecting four. I continued for a few hours, reluctant to give up, occasionally seeking respite under the odd gazebo. Getting ever colder.
Unable to find Marie-Eve, or to locate Paul, whom I was guessing must by now have reached Whistler, it was time to call it a day. For it would be soon be dark, and I’d a further five miles to reach my out-of-town hostel. Disappointing. Hoping Paul at least had more success.
