Cycling alone, surrounded by men

“You’re going by yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Why not. 

For months, I’d dreamt about doing my first overnight cycling tour. A bit at a time, I cobbled together a pair of on-sale bike panniers, an inflatable sleeping mat, a cheap, but light, A-frame tent. I was doing longer day-rides. I spent hours looking up potential cycling routes before landing on the Olympic Discovery Trail in Washington, a short ferry ride over from my home in Victoria, British Columbia. 

Until this point, I had never even camped in my car alone. I had a perpetual fear of weirdos and bears. And I didn’t even know cycle touring was a thing! Somehow, for years I’d failed to notice lycra-clad cyclists alongside highways, laden with gear stuffed in bright red or yellow Ortliebs. A few friends had previously suggested we ride bikes long-distance, over multiple days, and I didn’t really know what that meant. Where do you sleep? How do you pack camping gear on a bike? How much water?

I decided to go by myself because, to be honest, I was a loner at the time. I was living in a city apparently filled with adventurers but had yet to meet any of them or at least the ones who liked traveling by bicycle and had a reliable enough one to make an overnighter feasible. My co-workers liked running and baking and theatre. 

Plus, there was an urge to face my fear of being somewhere new alone. To force my body to make the distance, to cook over a fire I started, and sleep in a tiny tent by myself. I hunted for blog posts about people who had cycled the Pacific Northwest. Most of them were written by men, but occasionally I dug up a story written by a woman…usually travelling with her husband or boyfriend.

My own husband was concerned. I was not only crossing country borders without a working cellphone, I was going somewhere rural where guns are legal. I left him with the name, website address, and phone number of the state park I planned to camp in. 

Lickety-split, the day came when it was time to roll out. My topsy-turvy hybrid bike with extra-comfy flat grips was loaded with everything a person could possibly need for a bike trip, including way too many clothes. I kissed my husband’s anxious face goodbye, rolled out the door, squeezed the bike into my tiny elevator, and cycled the short distance to the ferry terminal. 

There, I surprisingly ran into a group of guys I kind of knew who were on an annual cycling trip from Victoria to Port Townsend and back via Sidney. They invited me to go with them as they crushed beers on the ferry deck, offering their hotel as a backup in case I changed my mind about camping. I quietly slipped away and took my time getting on the cycling path in Port Angeles, where the Olympic Discovery Trail winds its way along the coast, through farmland and forest, to Port Townsend. At this point I was obsessed with going alone, though the idea of a safe hotel was tempting.

As I began pedaling the Olympic Discovery Trail, I was fighting a minor panic attack having left civilization much quicker than expected. I passed a rough-looking young guy swerving his BMX not far from Port Angeles and worried who else I might run into on the path. I waited for a bear or a rabid dog to come jumping out from behind one of the old-growth cedars. Or a dude with a gun. 

After about an hour and some serious hills (note: if you need to release anxiety, do hills), I began to relax and fall in love with scenery. Big trees, rolling farmland, the Olympic Discovery Trail is a treat, nicely separating cyclists and pedestrians from the noise and danger of highway traffic. I felt the hooks of cycle touring dig in—falling in love. 

After 32 kilometres, I leaned my bike up against the Sequim Bay State Park office to register for a campsite. I was offered one of the cheaper sites just for cyclists and I purchased a cord of firewood. At this point, I was on a high of endorphins and forest scents, looking forward to setting up camp. The site was on the outer edge of the park. 

I awkwardly set up my tent and bed, ate a snack on the bench, and decided to bike back to the little town of Sequim for coffee and wifi. I was nervous about leaving some of my gear behind and packed most back on the bike instead of leaving it inside the tent. 

In Sequim, I got a coffee and an hour in a café on the main road. They had wifi, so I Facebook messaged with my husband to let him know I was OK and that I’d check in in the morning when I could get wifi again. I felt free in a new place as I chatted with the waitress, a friendly camping enthusiast who served me a delicious latte. 

And then, on a whim, I stopped at the grocery store on my way back. One of my favourite things about traveling to new places are the snack and liquor isles at grocery stores—full of novel things to try! I found a small tetra pack of wine (they didn’t sell these in British Columbia at the time, but they’re great for cycling because they won’t break in your bags) and a bag of popcorn, and headed back to my campsite. 

Sipping a glass of red wine, feeling pretty alright with the world, I listened to the happy screaming of kids in the family campsites at the other end of the park. Night approached and I decided to light a fire. As I crumpled paper and built a stick teepee over it, a very thin man with wavy dark hair walked over and introduced himself, handing me a piece of firewood. I’d noticed his site across from mine—it looked like he’d been there a while. It was cluttered with trash and random belongings. 

Immediately my spidey-senses perked up. Something wasn’t right here. The man had glazed eyes and slurred when he spoke. He tried to help me light the fire but nearly fell in. I quietly asked him to leave which he did after a while. But then he returned with more firewood. 

At this point, I was considering packing up and moving campsites or calling the friend who was staying in a comfortable hotel room. I didn’t feel safe and the man kept coming back to my campsite…until a fellow cyclist rolled into the other cyclist’s site right beside mine. His presence immediately scared off my visitor, like magic. I waved thanks to him as he stretched a hammock between two trees. 

I tried to calm down and sip the rest of my glass of wine. I curled up inside my tent, head-down on the slight slope (I’ve since learned this is a bad idea) and stress-ate my popcorn while reading a book by flashlight. I kept a dull pocketknife by the door and was too afraid to go outside and hang my food away from the tent. I crossed fingers there were no bear problems here.  

Eventually, I fell into a fitful sleep. At around 2 in the morning, the scary man started blaring 80s rock on a radio with blown speakers. I listened as he yelled into a phone (or to no one?), begging for a place to stay. He was supposed to get picked up on the highway tomorrow but he didn’t want to go. His voice was strained and high-pitched and delirious. I reached for the tiny knife by the door for reassurance as ACDC reverberated over the campground. Eventually, out of exhaustion, I fell back asleep. 

All night, I dreamt of bears and weirdos, trying to get comfortable on my very thin inflatable mattress. As a side-sleeper, I have since experimented with several of these to find the right one after many uncomfortable nights. 

It was barely light and I could hear rummaging in the bike panniers I had left by a tree at the far end of my campsite. I put my hand on the knife and slowly, quietly opened my tent zipper, expecting the man but seeing an opportunistic raccoon trying to figure out the zippers and pull-cords on the pannier bags. It saw me and scampered up the tree. 

My adrenaline was surging and there was no way I was falling back asleep, so I dragged myself out of bed and to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face. 

Everything is less scary in the daytime. I realized how close the family campsites were to mine. A few people were already up. I could smell pancake syrup and coffee. Things felt familiar. The scary man was asleep in his tent, stuff scattered all around it. 

I boiled tea and took my mug to the beach, where I watched seals bobbing their heads and birds scouring the rocks for snacks. The ocean was calm and grey, swishing in and out at the beach. I wrote in my journal and decided that everything was OK. I would get dressed and head home early because I was very tired, but I had survived my first night alone. 

I’ve done many cycling trips since then, with a better bike and lighter, more comfortable gear. I carefully choose campsites if riding solo (camp beside a family if you’re nervous), pack a bigger and much more useful knife (perfect for sawing tightly-knotted tarp strings), have had a couple more incidents with weird, overly friendly men, but many more experiences with both women and men who are curious, who join me on my journeys, and who have become lifelong friends. As I look back on that first trip, I wonder if I overreacted to the situation and I realize how dominated the outdoors are by men, whether they’re willing or not. Where the ladies at?! I’ve gone solo camping in my car and I can start a mean fire in a few minutes. I’ve learned how to make really delicious dehydrated meals. And I sleep through the night on most trips now. 

It sucks, but we do need to be aware and prepared when we travel solo. But also be prepared for the kindness of strangers, the beauty of new places, inquisitive wildlife, weird and wonderful snack foods. For me, this crazy overnight experience was life-changing. My confidence and independence increased, I made adventure friends, I learned bike mechanics, and have slowly been working my way towards a whole new way of life that enables me to do more cycling. 

All because of what could have been a scary solo experience. 

Story by Rikki Ayers

Follow Rikki’s adventures: https://www.instagram.com/remoterenegades/

Featured photo by Lu Davidson

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