Truth, and winning at all costs.

In a sport often decided by thousandths of a second, competitors jockey for position to gain an edge in the women’s 1000-metre short track speed skating semi-final. Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympics. Photo courtesy of Andrea Sirois Photography.

Within the span of a week, Olympic speed skater Simon Cho has admitted to tampering with an opponent’s equipment, and cyclist Lance Armstrong’s history of denying use of performance-enhancing drugs has been undeniably laid to waste by the U.S. Anti-Doping Agency. And, as if these examples of cheating weren’t enough, the recently broadcast documentary film 9.79* has brought back memories of Ben Johnson, a 100-metre sprinter who became Canada’s hero in the 1988 Seoul Olympics, only to come crashing down with a nation’s hopes and dreams two days later with a failed drug test.

These men are examples of the extent to which some athletes will go to win. All three are now labeled as cheaters.

Although their exploits occurred at different times over the last quarter century, all represent not only the sad truth about what sometimes goes on in sport, but the equally sad truth about the choices some of us make, athletes or not.  It is hard not to be cynical, and many of us are. For me, it is equally hard to miss the connection between similar decisions made in both the corporate and political worlds.

All three cases present explanations, reasons as to why their impact against fairness and truth should be mitigated. Cho claims his coach instructed him to damage Canadian skater Olivier Jean’s blade, and the coach’s position as an elder in South Korean culture made it a fait accompli.

9.79* exposes the fact that most of those involved in the Seoul race were found to have doped previously, or were caught in later competitions. It helps foster Johnson’s own misconception that he is more a scapegoat, than the author of his own demise.

Lance Armstrong, 7-time Tour de France champion, iconic cancer survivor, role model and virtual demi-god to millions afflicted with the disease around the world, continues to deny using performance-enhancing drugs. Business advisors and a legal team second to none laud Armstrong’s position. Their platform is based on the premise that he never tested positive, and that their man is the victim of a witch-hunt that serves only to damage the reputation of someone who has done so much for the fight against cancer. In short, the allegations are nothing more than hearsay, without any evidence of truth. Many Armstrong supporters justify his actions by using a clouded rationale: at the time, everyone was doing it.

According to USADA chief executive Travis Tygart, speaking to the report implicating Lance Armstrong:

“The evidence shows beyond any doubt that the US Postal Service Pro Cycling Team ran the most sophisticated, professionalized and successful doping program that sport has ever seen.”

Accusations against Lance Armstrong are not new. Only this time, he has been implicated by no fewer than 26 individuals, 11 of them his former teammates, and one of them his most trusted lieutenant and friend, George Hincapie. The evidence is truly damning. So damning that it seems to be just a question of when, not if, he is officially stripped of his wins by cycling’s governing body, the Union Cycliste Internationale (UCI). This will leave cycling’s once undisputed king with a gaping hole in his palmarès, the cyclist’s résumé.

So, what have we lost in all of this? It is more than just the sense of fairness many of us are taught by our parents, which hopefully manifests itself in play, and then life, as some emulate their role models, and heroes. We’ve lost that basic tenet shared by many a society, regardless of their geographic location, or socio-economic standing. I refer to the truth.

Armstrong may become the Ozymandius of his sport. Like the fictional ruler in the Percy Bysshe Shelley poem, he was at the top of his game, while simultaneously establishing an earthly kingdom with an amazingly successful personal brand, rich in hubris, and built firmly on the back of the sport he seemed to transcend. Only now, like Shelley’s “king of kings”, his legacy is in the process of crashing down around him, and possibly disappearing. It remains to be seen what the ultimate impact of this will be on his foundation, and the support for it given by millions of those who are, or have been affected by cancer. His legacy could be relegated to what remained of Ozymandius’ once-great empire, a broken statue surrounded by “the lone and level sands”.

The saddest part of Armstrong’s story is his seeming inability to do the honorable thing, the right thing. Perhaps it is naive to think that someone as lawyered-up as Lance Armstrong would ever risk the financial fallout from admitting the truth – and I’m not talking about the planned, calculated, hollow, least damaging, and self-preserving type of admission suggested by legal and/or marketing teams.

Those who continue to believe in him and his foundation, regardless of the allegations, will continue to do so; those, including major sponsors who have disassociated themselves from Armstrong as a spokesperson, have separated the actions of the man from his foundation. They are showing you can support the troops, and still not agree with the war; they are showing the end doesn’t necessarily justify the means.

But, it is the men, women and children around the world that have regarded him as an icon, and a role model, who now sit in disbelief, crushed at the fall of their hero. Along with the millions of dollars his foundation raised with the help of his celebrity, there now comes a personal responsibility to all those people who truly believed in him. These are the real victims of his actions. They, above all, are owed the truth. And nothing should ever compromise that, least of all, winning at all costs.

“Those of us who doped and lied and those who were accomplices and witnesses remained silent for a long time in a misguided attempt to protect our jobs, our reputations, our teams’ sponsorships and the image of the sport. It was wrong. We followed a code of silence guarding an unhealthy culture. Riders, staff and officials must not fear speaking the truth. When they do, real reforms will follow.” 

-   Taken from an essay by Michael Barry, admitted doper, former member of the U.S. Postal cycling team, and teammate of Lance Armstrong. Published in the New York Times October 15, 2012.

What goes around comes around: Vancouver relives its cycling history

Riding south on Granville Street approaching Dunsmuir Street, which is the current location of one of Vancouver’s separated bike lanes. Photo circa. 1900, and courtesy of the City of Vancouver Archives.

The recent Velo-city Global conference is an event I have been working with for the last eight months, and is a new undertaking for the City of Vancouver. In so far as this gathering of cycling infrastructure expertise, and the sharing of transportation and urban planning best practices may be new, and even cutting edge, Vancouver’s connection to the bicycle is actually old news.

The backdrop for this year’s Velo-city conference is the City of Vancouver’s recent announcements on the permanent status of its separated bicycle lanes, improvements for existing cycling infrastructure, and the go-ahead for a public bike share program. The result has been the expected public debate, filled with a multitude of opinions. As with any democracy, all of them share the same entitlement, and not all of them agree.

But, these initiatives are just the latest in a long history Vancouver has shared with cycling. So it is perhaps the best type of irony that finds delegates of Velo-city Global 2012 discussing background research, experiences in implementation, and the merits attached to these same initiatives all over the world.

At the turn of the twentieth century, Vancouver was a virtual backwater. A frontier type town born earlier of a national railway known as the Canadian Pacific, it was literally the end of the line. According to longtime City of Vancouver archivist Major J.S. Matthews:

The bicycle “craze” was prevalent in Vancouver, as elsewhere, about 1900; almost every family had at least one, some had more; nearly all young men, and most young women, many elderly men and some elderly women rode. It was a convenient mode of travel in a city as yet unprovided with a full street car service; a growing city badly scattered, and among a people who, as yet, had acquired no individual wealth to speak of. Motor cars were still some years off, many had neither facilities, room, nor means to possess stables or buggies. The bicycle was no longer the unwieldy “penny-ha’penny,” big wheel small wheel affair. The “safety” bicycle had come, and with it the Dunlop pneumatic tire; and the “coaster brake” was soon coming. Both wheels were the same size now; it was easily mounted and dismounted, and a fall from it rarely gave much hurt, as the old high wheel, hard tire “wheel” did.

The bicycle became so popular that racks were put up in the vestibules of the small office buildings to receive the “machines” of those employed there and who had business there. At the City Hall, there was a long rack which would accommodate perhaps two dozen bicycles. Similar racks existed at the C.P.R. Depot, and also public places such as parks, post office and hotel lobbies. At the corner of Pender and Granville streets, where now stands the Rogers Buildings, a school for bicycle riding was flourishing…

The “machines” were so numerous that the City Council ordered special bicycle paths constructed on those streets which were most frequently used. These paths were invariably cinder surfaced, and rolled flat, and ran along the edge of the street between the gutter and wooden sidewalk. They were about six feet wide, and constantly kept in order, level and smooth, by city workmen.

The bicycle paths led to and from some well-frequented area, or beside streets where there was considerable vehicular traffic. One ran from Seymour Street, along the north side, to the entrance of Stanley Park; another on the west side of Seymour from Robson to Pacific Street; a third from Granville Street South (from the Third Avenue Bridge) from the bridge, along the north side of Third Avenue to about Maple Street, where the track turned off in an indeterminate direction through the clearing until it reached Greer’s Beach. This cinder path ended at Maple Street. There must have been others; I think there were, perhaps on Pender Street West, to the Park, on Powell Street, on Westminster Avenue leading to Mount Pleasant, and on Beatty or Cambie streets to the bridge, and then up the hill on the south side of False Creek. These cinder paths ceased as they approached the centre of the business section of that day.

Gradually, the bicycle craze died down, and the street car system was extended into even remote and sparsely settled districts; then the motor car came. The bicycle paths fell into disrepair, and finally mysteriously disappeared.

Of course, the story does not end there. Call it cliché, but cycling, and bicycle paths have fallen back into fashion. Maybe the old ways have something to contribute to our new way of life, and in the case of the bicycle, what was old is new again. In an age where it is easy to lose sight of the common, and perhaps universal social benefits in the court of public opinion, the Velo-city conference aims to keep the discussion trained on the finish line of benefits that cycling represents.

Approaching the finish: high wheel bicycles race at Brockton Point, Stanley Park, circa. 1890’s. Photo courtesy of City of Vancouver Archives.

With Vancouver’s hosting of Velo-city Global 2012, what goes around has truly come around. The discussions ranged from research and planning to best practices and inspiration. The realities of  global urbanism, inherent in  nations spanning the developed, newly developed, and under-developed world was there for all to see, and hear. And, with an international conference composed of almost 200 speakers over four days and delegates from around the world, a 19^th century human-powered invention was heralded as an important and necessary aspect of transportation policy and urban life – a fitting tribute as Vancouver moves forward a century and a half later.

This article was originally posted on the website of the European Cyclists’ Federation, and can be found here: http://www.ecf.com/news/falling-back-in-love-with-cycling-a-glimpse-at-vancouvers-bicycle-past/

A First Nation’s call for help

The author at 15 years old, just past the halfway point on the 8.5 mile long Grand Portage linking Lake Superior with the Pigeon River, and the namesake for this 1977 expedition.

On Thursday, February 23, 2012, the last of 22 new modular homes arrived in the Attawapiskat First Nation of northern Ontario. To the Canadian federal government, it signaled the trumpeted end of a crisis that began almost a full four months earlier.

Minister of Aboriginal Affairs John Duncan issued the following statement: “The arrival of these modular homes demonstrates our government’s commitment to the residents of Attawapiskat First Nation.”

Not trying to look a gift horse in the mouth, I can’t help but think that maybe this type of band-aid solution, although well intentioned, is only masking the reason why Attiwapiskat, and many other First Nation communities find themselves on the precipice of marginalization.

Attawapiskat, Ontario, Canada, 2011. Photo by Oakland Ross / Toronto Star.

On October 28, 2011, Attawapiskat, an aboriginal community on the shores of Canada’s James Bay, declared a state of emergency. The reason was not one of natural disaster, or act of God.  Instead, it was a human act: that decidedly oxymoronic, and inhumane human act known as neglect. Attawapiskat was, according to Chief Theresa Hall, suffering from inadequate housing.

What makes this so hard to stomach is that it is happening in one of the wealthiest countries on earth, and I can’t help but think not much has changed in the 35 years since I viewed my first northern First Nations’ community from the middle thwart of a canoe.

The long-haul transport rigs of Canada's fur trade: the voyageur canoe. Painting by Frances Anne Hopkins. Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

As a high school teenager, one of my unconventional school’s requirements was paddling the historic trade routes shared by the voyageurs, and the companies vying for control of the fur trade: The Governor and Company of Adventurers of England trading into Hudson’s Bay, which became the Hudson’s Bay Company; and its rival, the Montréal based North West Company.

These corporate entities provided the drive and determination needed to open up the interior of the continent through exploration and mapping, linking great watersheds like Hudson’s Bay, the Arctic, the Pacific, and the Great Lakes-St. Lawrence River in the process. Ultimately, their competitive zeal would lead to this vast landmass’ improbable birth as the nation known today as Canada.

Our trips were up to four weeks in length. On top of giving myself, and my fellow students an up close and personal view of but a small portion of the huge tracts of wilderness that made up our country, it allowed us the opportunity to truly experience its history.

Paddling the Grand Portage Route: the roughly 800-mile fur trade "highway" from Fort William (present day Thunder Bay, Ontario) to Lower Fort Garry (Winnipeg, Manitoba), 1977.

After a week or more without seeing a trace of human existence, we would often paddle our 22’ Chestnut Freighter canoes around a point of land, exposing First Nation communities the likes of Wabaseemoong, Little Grand Rapids, Bloodvein, and Berens River. We were offered only a fleeting glimpse into the world of the Saulteaux, a branch of the Ojibwa, or Anishinaabe people. But it was a glimpse I remember with sharp clarity.

Clusters of pre-fab style homes would be grouped together overlooking the shoreline, often with newer buildings set amongst what looked to be their decidedly older, dilapidated brethren. Not all buildings were in such a sad state of repair. But the overall impression was one of poor quality, and disposability, as opposed to longevity.

When a building reached a certain state of disrepair, it was replaced. Left to the elements, it became an empty gutted shell of a structure that neither grew old gracefully, nor accurately portrayed the proud history and culture of its former inhabitants.

The sign that adorned many of the Hudson Bay Company's former northern stores in Canadian First Nation communities. Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

The locals would look on, perhaps offering a friendly wave and smile, as we cut through the water, and paddled out of their sight. Sometimes, we made a brief stop at the Hudson’s Bay Company store. These were often white washed buildings boasting impressive signs done in immaculate script, pronouncing the birth date of what is today, still the oldest company in North America, and one of the oldest in the world. The Northern Stores, as they were known, served as the last vestiges of the fur trade era, and stood in stark contrast to the worn, tired buildings many locals called home.

Little did I know that the situation I saw as a teenager would become symptomatic of the welfare state we have created for the First Nations people of Canada’s north. No doubt, a lot of money is spent at Aboriginal Affairs and Northern Development Canada, the department tasked with ensuring the Government of Canada meets its obligations and commitments to First Nations, Inuit, and Métis. But, there does not appear to be much change in the housing situation since my youth, other than the fact that communications and media allow for more well-intentioned Canadians to become aware of the problem.

Our government’s first response always seems to be laying the blame for deplorable conditions squarely at the feet of the chiefs, and band councils, citing fiscal mismanagement. But, then that same government offers another temporary solution to what appears to be a systemic issue, by throwing more money at the symptom, rather than fighting, and eliminating the cause of the problem. It is oxymoronic, bad business practice, and plain wrong on so many levels.

Attawapiskat is not the first cry for help to be heard from Canada’s First Nations, nor unfortunately, will it be the last. But, my hope is that the plight of these communities becomes a greater priority to all Canadians, and by extension, the federal government that claims to represent our views, and serve our needs. Because up until now, our collective actions prove the old adage that we have learned nothing from history. As a Canadian, this is embarrassing, unacceptable, and very sad.

On being Freshly Pressed…

In essence, it was an awakening. Photo by Andrea Sirois.

A wonderful thing happened to me one year ago. Barely six months after the launch of Cyclelogical, my on-line repository for thoughts on a variety of topics, I published a post entitled The Human Spirit. A short time later, I received an e-mail from WordPress.com congratulating me on being promoted on Freshly Pressed.

Freshly Pressed? What did this mean? I was new to the blogging world, and I used Cyclelogical, in part, as a virtual storage facility for some of my previous writing. It was my library of travelogues, thoughts and yes, even opinions that shared a sometimes obscure, at least to the outside reader, connection with cycling, and the role it has played in my life. But, perhaps more than anything, it was a treasure chest of memories that was unlocked by the subjects I wrote about, subjects that truly spoke to me.

On March 1, 2011, while contemplating two seemingly divergent news events on opposite sides of the planet, I was riveted on what appeared to be, at least to me, their commonality. The Arab Spring had well and truly begun, and  the city of Christchurch, New Zealand was reeling as it tried to deal with the aftermath of a devastating earthquake.

As I wrote, the thoughts and words flowed with an easy continuity. Jumping from one story to the other,  I thought about the nature of the two life-altering events. I thought of the wave of pro-democracy protests building energy across North Africa and the Middle East. I thought of my time spent in Christchurch years before, working as a cycle tour guide, and frequenting areas of the city that would now never be the same again.

Emotion welled up inside me as I pictured friends from New Zealand: people who shared important times and places in my life; places shrouded in time past, and now laid open by the tragic, present day reality. Ironically, the feeling I was left with after the initial rush of emotion was not one of angst, or despair, but one of hope. The strength, and resilience exemplified in the actions of the people from these two far-flung regions, dealing with drastically different issues, in markedly different situations, would ultimately result in my title.

Within minutes of the WordPress notification, my Inbox began to fill with comments: some insightful, some knowledgeable, and some very personal. But, their common trait was that they were overwhelmingly positive. This continuous two-day stream of reaction was joined by perspectives and subscription notices from fellow bloggers the world over, some from the very regions being affected.

To say I was surprised at the response would be an understatement. Overwhelmed would be closer to the mark. But, the thing for which I was totally unprepared, and for which I am most grateful, was the extent to which people shared their feelings upon reading my words. It was these raw, honest, and sincere reactions that spelled out for me, in no uncertain terms, the strength and power of this medium we call the Internet.

Today, an average, ordinary person’s ability to communicate, to share insights, opinions and thoughts that can truly affect others, is remarkable. Call it cliché, but the world really is a much smaller place than even a generation ago.

Thank you to all who read The Human Spirit. Thank you to all who shared a bit of themselves with me through their comments. And finally, thank you to all who unknowingly contributed to my very personal awakening to the power of the written word, which made this ordinary person’s day one year ago, well, nothing short of extraordinary.

Lest I forget, the biggest thank you goes to my life-partner Andrea, who is the person responsible for initially suggesting I use this blog as a writing tool, and as a purposeful reason to hone the craft, and write more. Her amazing photography graces many of my posts, including this one.

Paix , Friede , Vrede , Solh , Ειρήνη , 平和 , Shanti , Pax , Shalom , Kapayapaan , Santiphap  , Ukuthula , Salaam , Wolakota , Paz  , Peace   .

Happy belated birthday baby!

The Buddhist mudra, or hand position, known as Bhumisparsha. The name translates into “touching the earth”, and with five fingers extending towards the ground, it symbolizes the Buddha calling upon the world to witness his enlightenment. Photo © Andrea Sirois Photography.

According to United Nations predictions, mother earth welcomed her seven-billionth child on October 31, 2011. If we play the odds, it was probably a boy, and probably born in either China, or India. Regardless of gender, or home nation, happy belated birthday baby!

Today, well after many nations have already welcomed their own symbolic seven-billionth milestone, I would like to pass on my best wishes, and hopes for you in the years to come.

You have arrived into a world filled with seemingly unlimited potential, fuelled by the creativity, intelligence and vision of your many brothers and sisters. You will hear about their exploits: how they mapped the globe, climbed the highest mountains, navigated the longest rivers, and explored the heavens of the night sky.

Like you, they were full of wonder, and excitement. They sought to learn, and share their knowledge. Some were great inventors, learning to fly like the birds, and making the world a smaller place with amazing technologies. Some were great doctors, fighting sickness and disease, and allowing everyone the chance to live a happier, healthier life. Some were great communicators, whose inspirational messages told us to respect the earth, as well as each other. While others taught us to share, look after one another, and not to fight.

These are all great things, and represent much of what is wonderful about your new family. But, your life will not always be easy. As you grow up in your great big world, you will be met with many challenges. You will be tempted to avoid hard decisions. You may be convinced to look upon grief, and sadness as purely negative, something to be avoided at all costs, and lose sight of their lessons. You may be overcome with circumstances that cloud the real issues, and make it harder to find your way. You may be coerced into thinking about you, and you alone. And sometimes, you may see the very worst examples of our human condition.

But, amidst all of this, I wish for you the ability to think, and look for meaning and hope on the periphery, and in places where it might not readily appear. I wish for you the desire to grow your knowledge and creativity to the betterment of all around you. Lastly, I wish you a never-ending sense of wonder, at the rainbow that makes up your extended family, at the natural world you share, and has been entrusted to you, and at your important, and deserved place within it.

Corporate greed: the plight of Indian Alphonso mangoes and the message of the Occupy movement.

Occupy Vancouver protest on the steps of the Vancouver Art Gallery. Photo courtesy of Andrea Sirois Photography

What do the spate of Occupy movements around the world have to do with a group of protesting Indian fruit growers back in the mid 1990’s? Well, at first glance, perhaps nothing. But for me, it is probably closer to everything. With the benefit of hindsight, it doesn’t take long to unearth the common underlying thread in these stories, one that has prompted action in the struggle against imbalance, social injustice, and quid pro quo economics, which first rose up on Wall Street and has since gone global.

In March 1996, I travelled by bicycle along India’s west coast from Mumbai to the subcontinent’s southern tip. After a routine descent from Maharashtra state’s Deccan Plateau towards the estuary of the Vishishthi River, I boarded a small ferry in the town of Dabhol. Dabhol, or at least the headland on the other side of the river, was to become the home of India’s largest power project, a fact often trumpeted by local, and regional politicians alike. Now, anyone who lives in India, or has travelled there will be aware of the electricity supply problems that plague the countryside, leaving rural areas with lengthy daily disruptions in order to benefit the major cities, a practice commonly referred to as load shedding. So, one would think a power plant to be a good thing for all.

Maharashtra’s Alphonso mango, India’s anointed king of fruit. Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

But, on that particular day, mango farmers and fishermen gathered along the roadway. They were part of the local population who saw, and were already experiencing the negative side effects of what was being heralded as an overwhelmingly positive initiative. They opposed the project, and its American backer, a company that I had heard of, but knew very little about. The company was Enron.

Unlike the Occupy movement, the complaints of Dabhol locals were simple and direct: pollution from the plant was ruining the local mango crop, and killing local fish stocks. As much as the Dabhol plant symbolized to some a change from the old socialist and corrupt India to the new capitalist and transparent one that benefitted the poor with jobs and financial compensation for expropriated land, it devolved into a case of environmental negligence, rampant cronyism, and allegations of both political and corporate corruption. It left the local economy in tatters, and over fifteen years later, the project still has not lived up to expectations. The power plant is not fully operational, Maharashtra State’s electrical power problems are arguably still the worst in the country, and the plight of local residents has worsened.

Enron country. The Maharashtra coast, India. Photo by Mark Mauchline.

The story of Enron is now one for the history books. Among other allegations at Dabhol, and in the true spirit of baksheesh, opponents accused the company of bribing officials, and charging exorbitant electricity rates. These were business practices that should, and could have been a warning perhaps, if they were taking place in some place other than rural India.

In December 2001, Enron, the institution worth over $100 billion and voted by Forbes magazine as America’s most innovative company six years in a row, filed for bankruptcy. It seems that the company’s innovative tendencies also included entrenched, systematic accounting fraud. Its legacy became not that of one of the world’s largest energy, commodity and services companies, but one of corporate corruption and fraud. The business tactics and methodology used in the handling of the Dabhol power plant seemed to be consistent in the way Enron did business. For me, it was as simple as that.

More recently, barely two weeks ago, and in the latest example of corporate greed with criminal underpinnings, hedge fund tycoon and self-made billionaire Raj Rajaratnam was sentenced to 11 years in prison on insider trading charges – the largest prison term so far handed down for such a case. In addressing the court, US district judge Richard Holwell stated, “his crimes and the scope of his crimes reflect a virus in our business culture that needs to be eradicated.”

Occupy Vancouver, October 22, 2011. Photo courtesy of Andrea Sirois Photography.

The question has been posed: was this an isolated incident, or part of a wider culture of greed? With Enron sealing the fate of former “Big Five” accounting firm Arthur Anderson, and Rajaratnam’s conviction paving the way for ex-Goldman Sachs director Rajat Gupta’s guilty verdict on associated civil fraud charges, my guess would be that many of the world’s Occupy protesters, as well as rational and honest individuals of both the 99% and the 1%, see it as closer to the latter. While many Occupy groups meet daily to reaffirm their cause and stay on message, media and some opposing their protests criticize them for not having one that is clear enough.

For me, nothing could be further from the truth. Whether they articulate it to the media’s standards or not, they are protesting greed, and I would hope we take note. Often, real issues and themes can be found through the nuances of actions and events. The Occupy movement’s method of tugging at the shirt tails of democracy may not be to everyone’s liking, but what embryonic movement, whether democratic, economic, or environmental, ever was?

Inequality is both a perception, and for many of the less fortunate around the globe, a reality. The irony being that, as a perception, it is no less real for the individuals involved. We should heed the warnings of corporate greed and growing inequality. Now is the time to turn the lessons learned from hindsight into some decidedly honest and inspiring foresight. Perhaps then, and only then, will we disprove the adage that man learns nothing from history. I prefer to believe that we, as a society, will “get it,” but only if we choose to recognize the message.

Who could have guessed that the concerns of some fruit-growing rural villagers on the west coast of India could have pointed to the corporate corruption at Enron? If the Indian government had listened, if the world had known, and if anyone had perhaps cared, the whole Enron debacle might have been recognized for what it was, and much sooner.

Will we remember these pie charts fifteen years from now? Occupy Vancouver protest. Photo courtesy of Andrea Sirois Photography.

Soul sport: much more than the Tour de France.

The spirit of the peloton. Christian Meier, Team Garmin-Transitions, in Vancouver’s 2010 Yaletown Grand Prix. Photo: Andrea Sirois Photography.

Bastille Day has come and gone. It’s mid July and cycling aficionados the world over are having to adjust their much-varied, geographical time clocks. For people who follow this sort of thing, it is the height of the professional season, and daily schedules are reworked in an attempt to watch the Tour de France: 21 days of racing spread out over three weeks, and some 3200 kilometers of French countryside. It is the time made famous by the bastions of the sport: Anquetil, Merckx, Hinault, Indurain, Armstrong, and now, Contador.

But, for me, the colour, pageantry, and rabid crowds that turn cycling’s marquee event; the travelling circus that affords the most nondescript of wayside French towns their own Warholian fantasy, is not necessarily the true essence of the sport.

I know of no other human-powered pursuit that affords one the combination of speed to cover a significant distance, while offering the opportunity to truly absorb the surroundings. Bicycling can be as competitive as a Grand Tour, as social as a granfondo, and as solitary and deeply personal as you wish.

I never feel alone when I ride. Whether doing circuits close to home, or expedition length trips half a world away in South or Central Asia, I am in constant communication – with my bicycle, the terroir, and myself.

I feel the wind, both around me and self-generated. I hear my surroundings with an amplified ability, ready to react, while at the same time being lulled into a trance by the sound of tires on pavement afforded by a generous tailwind. I see the world with a certain focus, and peripheral perspective whose intimacy is dictated by speed. I smell the earth, the flora, and the approaching rain.

Spinning down the road, the slightest increase in grade translates into more force going to my pedals, a tensioning of hands, arms and shoulders as I grip the handlebars or brake hoods tighter, and the burning sensation of air as my breathing ramps up to the point where it forcefully mimics my pedalling cadence.

Once crested, a climb rewards me with a levelling out, or a brief pause before the inevitable, gravity-induced adrenaline rush of  the downhill. All the while, the back and forth swagger, and up and down nature of the terrain supply the rhythm for my pedalling, my breathing, and my thoughts.

As the pro peloton snakes its way through the Pyrenees, the Massif Central, and now the Alps, I watch the almost super human efforts of the sprinters, the puncheurs, and the rouleurs as they connect with the environment of the parcours in their own way.

I am not a competitive athlete. But, after a relatively late start in life, cycling has provided me with a means of healthy transport, some fulfilling work, adventurous travel, challenging workouts, and ample opportunity to think, and ponder my surroundings, as well as my place in them. It transcends the basic role of recreation, and sport in my life. It provides a connection to the world around me, while forcing me to delve deep within myself. For me, it embodies, and represents a pursuit of the soul.

Bonne route.