Life’s a Kayak—Get In!

I was in Mont Tramblant, Canada for both a cardiology conference and an adult holiday with my husband Adam. Lucky as we are, my in-laws had agreed to watch our children for a whole week while we gallivanted like the free twenty-two year olds we were when we first met. It was a lovely schedule: four hours of lecture that only a medical field heart junkie could truly enjoy, and the rest of the day to explore the surrounding mountainous terrain, lakes, and beauty that is the northern Quebec province. 

The first adventure included mountain bike rentals from a helpful shop in town. The cheerful young man advised us that we could hop right onto the asphalt outside, and follow it along a large circular path that was "easy." If the advanced rider wished, they could enter the off-asphalt trails to experience some real mountain biking. 

He looked at his watch, 1:12 PM. 

"We close at 5 -- but (as he sized us up), you should have enough time to get there and back!"

Adam suggested I select the electric bike. 

"Why?" I asked. 

"Because... it will help you on the inclines." 

"I'll take the standard mountain bike," I replied to both him and the observant employee. 

Adam chuckled at my bruised ego and I decided then and there I would complete this endeavor come hell or high water and I would do it with style. Whatever that means.

Off we went, 10.5 miles deep. We passed a deer grazing on grass alongside the trail. She looked up, monitored our progress, and didn't move an inch as we glided past her. Once we arrived at the circular drive, we tried one of the off-beaten paths. Almost immediately, the grounds asked the unthinkable of us: cruise your bike down a slippery rock face of sorts and land on the dirt below. 

Absolutely not. I have to live to raise my kids. Begrudgingly, I peeled off my saddle and shuffled down the stones. I glared at my husband and inquired as to the intensity level of this trail, again? Green, apparently. (These bike trails were graded like ski slopes. Green is easiest, then blue, then black.) I spent the remainder of the circular trail experience on the outer perimeter as Adam explored a few more "greens." On the way back to the bike shop, at approximately mile 15, my dogs started barking. No. More like, my pack of wolves really started howling. The entirety of my legs began this deep, spiritual ache I don't believe I have ever before experienced in my life. Thoughts went dark.

"Oh boy," I thought, "I've got another 5-6 miles to go." 

We made it back. I was so stiff and so scared to move, I barely deployed off the bike without falling. My legs were stuck in some sort of cowgirl riding position as I shimmied my way into the bike shop to return my helmet prior to the 5 PM mark. 

"How was the ride?" asked the cheerful helper. 

"Great," I grimaced. I wanted to cuss something fierce in French but I didn't know the words. We thanked him for the experience and left, my husband chuckling at my dramatized pain all the while. A couple beers later and I had forgotten what was so wrong with my body...for a short time. We were also fabulously distracted by a French-speaking Canadian man, wearing a guitar and a large posse of friends stage left, that led us in a hilarious rendition of Britney Spears’ "Hit Me Baby One More Time." 

Overnight, I awoke multiple times to an intense throb throughout both of my quadriceps. It was a sensation like each of my legs were birthing a baby. There wasn't any position in bed I could maneuver to alleviate it. 

That morning, after we awoke from our slumber, I rolled my old bones down to the conference. Later, I received a text inquiring as to what we should do that afternoon. 

"Light tennis/pool hang, kayak, or a moderate hike?" 

Being the middle child, go-with-the-flow personality that I am, I answered "kayak preferred, but I could do either B or C," while I silently prayed we were headed for an upper body workout ONLY. Thankfully, my husband is also a second born and sensed my strong opinion hidden amongst vaguery. 

Following the conference, we headed to the water equipment rental site and checked in with the reservation desk. After a brief attempt at the French language, the woman realized we knew not a lick. In English: 

"Ah yes, Bells? A two person kayak, correct?"

My eyes widened. I looked over at Adam. 

"Two people, one micro-craft? Oh... this must be a team-building exercise." 

"Yes,” he smiled. 

I began a quick internal review of my limited experience in a kayak and did not recall sharing the small vessel with another human being. Last year, I went on a soccer mom adventure to the intercostal near where we live. We all rented separate kayaks with paddles. There was a lot of laughing, near-tipping, and some venturing off/loss of control to the outer banks of the water by one or two. But, everyone was able to control their own boat. In a two-person kayak, one must work with another human to row in synchronization to propel forward and steer in such a way to keep the kayak from veering too far right or left. 

I sat in the front, him in the back. We launched into the Rivière-Rouge without incident and began our 12 kilometer (7.45 miles) journey. River two person kayaking is a funny endeavor. You have to figure out how to steer the dang thing semi-straight to make any sort of progress. The first few kilometers (I'm being kind to ourselves here), we just couldn't find our groove. We would veer towards the right bank, and in attempts to straighten our course, turn ourselves too far to the left, in essence, zig-zagging back and forth across the Rouge like a couple of drunk alligators. I kept glancing backwards to see what the hell Adam was doing. It seemed like whenever I attempted to sync up with his rows, he would pause or do a triple row on one side, throwing me/us off. Exasperated, I commented:

"It's sort of impossible to follow you." 

He said "...I'm sort of realizing that. But I'm trying to straighten out your over-corrections." 

"...I think it's both of us doing the overcorrecting." 

We left it at that -- or he did, wisely so. We continued on. About seven kilometers in, we made it to a sandy beach where we decided to debark, munch on a handful of pistachios, and watch the world go by. I looked at my hands, which had clearly been grasping the rower intensely, stained a rustic bronze. Tried to wash it off in the river. We saw a woman kayak past us. A kid was in a water tube, being towed behind her via a rope. There was a German Shepherd standing up on a paddleboard alongside their human. 

It was time to get back in the kayak to finish the additional five kilometers. This time, I sat in the back, Adam in front. It was unclear whether it was the break with reflection time for each party, or the change in seating that did it, but something shifted. We seemed to find our groove. Seemingly effortlessly, we found ourselves cruising along the mainstream of the river with very few episodes of correction needed. There were times we began to fall off course a tad, but this was easily corrected with me abstaining a row on one side, and resuming the flow from there. Adam, for his part, was increasingly methodic and predictable with his strokes, making it easier for me to course-correct as needed. 

We discussed this phenomenon as it unfolded in front of us. 

"Well, look at this. It's reminiscent of life, isn't it? If we overreact, we find ourselves shored up on the riverbank. But with gentle corrections, giving the vessel its own due time to adjust, it works. It balances. Look at us, doing it together," I jokingly gushed. 

Adam: "There ya go...life's a kayak!" 

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