Bike Camp (or How my Grade Seven Teacher Flung Me into the Metaphorical Wildebeest Stampede of Independence)

In my elementary school, the teachers with the most influence were the two grade seven teachers, Mr. D and Lucy.

Mr. D was a liberal, musical, bike-obsessed hippie who would camp in the corner of the class room and sleep, and encourage us to release our inner musicians in our regularly scheduled singing classes.

Lucy was a conservative, regimental, dictator of a woman who forced her students to run around the school every morning before class. 

The two disagreed about everything, to the point where any student who had been taught by Mr. D in grade six was not allowed into Lucy’s grade seven class (probably because she considered them tainted). The only middle ground between them was biking, which they both agreed was the most beneficial and enjoyable sport. Biking brought the two together. It created a foundation strong enough to support an annual bike camp for the grade sevens. 

So, in late spring, preparations and testing for the camp began. The sevens had a week off of school for training; this week was no joyride. 

The week was the most hellish, intense seven days of my life, wherein we focused on cycling up the steepest, near-vertical hills in Vancouver. By the end of the week, after testing for which bike group we would be in, which were separated by average speeds, my results showed my physical worth; I was in the slowest group.

My group was composed of:

• Willam (an actor known for giving the Cheese touch to German exchange students), emphasis on the drama of the actor
• Rachel, a pessimistic, artistic friend of mine
• Lauren, another artistic friend of mine who deserved a better group
• And Rupert, who dealt with our shit

After the week of intense training, and once the arranged camping groups had sent their own food and supplies away (the camping groups were comprised of 4 kids, personally chosen, who would be in charge of their own sleeping and cooking arrangements), we set off to the ferries, on bicycle, of course, which takes about 2.5 hours. You know, just for warm up. 

Once the ferry landed, we cycled to our campsite while Willam bellowed show tunes, stopped to call taxis, and drove into stinging nettle to amuse us.

Arriving at base camp, we found the grounds already divided and tents poorly set up.

The journey had begun. 

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What really made bike camp was the duality of the experience: 

In the daytime, we would bike our hearts out up the steep hills of the Gulf islands, but at night we would live like feral children, completely in charge of our own meal prep, eating arrangements, and entertainment. 

Think Lord of the Flies with supervision.

Memories come in a montage with no particular order to them:

• Discovering our cupcakes had melted in the cooler and now were only useful as cannon fodder

• Throwing cans of Axe in fires

• Lighting sticks on fire and running around the camp 

• Making our male friends wear our bras

• Falling asleep in caves.

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There were also some particularly impactful memories, like the time I concussed one of my best friends:

One of my fellow campers had stolen my favorite stuffed animal from me, and so, while sitting at the table on the other side of Lauren from me, I demanded my puff-shark back with the largest knife I could find. 

The knife, floating several inches in front of Lauren's face, startled her so much she fainted. She fell backwards, and hit her head on the cement. She then had to return to the mainland where she found out that she had received a concussion.

I was banned from touching any knives for the rest of the trip. 

Another memory was of the dock at Magic Lake:

Nearer to the end of the trip we went to Pender Island’s Magic Lake, where, after an afternoon of swimming, our class was hustled onto the floating dock for a class photo. 

If you’re unfamiliar with Magic Lake, you should know that it is notorious with the locals for being the most leech-filled, snake-infested, and spider-overridden lake on Pender Island. So, with that in mind, as the last kids settled onto the floating dock, 

it sank just enough to chase all the hobo spiders living under the dock out of the woodwork. 

I remember the screams to this day.

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Returning home to our televisions was like jumping into a frozen lake: a shock to the system. Being forced into nature for a week at that age really broadened our outlook on our own physical limits, and on how much we thought we could, as people, handle ourselves. The trip was as damaging as it was inspiring, and was quite a step up from our Galiano trip four years prior. I think that that shove into independence was just what a lot of the kids needed to realize that they were growing up.