Wed July 25th. I have now passed the four week mark Kabuki kabbing, 12 shifts in total, averaging three a week.

At the London Drugs Do-it-yourself (DIY) blood pressure monitor on Monday, BP was 105/54 (still good) and heart rate 62 (much better than the previous month's 72.)

At the YM/YWCA scale (I haven't owned a scale for 20 years) not surprisingly, my weight hasn't budged. I have been eating like an Amish farmer -- steak, ribs, big hamburgers, baked potatoes with sour cream, big cobb salads with rich blue cheese dressing, ice cream and other desserts. Even when I am not cabbing I feel constantly hungry. I crave salt. At times I can feel myself burning fuel like a well-stoked engine. (Or, gulp, is it my first hot flashes?) 

Me September first?My physique is definitely changing. I've lost an inch from my waist and an inch from my hips, but begun to put them on my thighs -- each when tensed has increased by half an inch.

Last night, as I unpacked my panniers after an 8-hour shift, Keith said my legs are beginning to remind him of the double-muscled whippet in Saanich now getting world attention for its bizarre gene mutation. I searched the web for a good downloadable pic of the freakish dog named Wendy but liked this one, right, of the freakish female weightlifter. No it is not me! But might it be me in a month's time? Stop me please, if I begin to look like that. (As an aside, she looks like she is hiking on misty green Pacific North West trail in that silly little dress. Although, with muscles like that, she might be handy to meet on some of the more rugged portions of the West Coast Trail.)

Other noticeable differences: horrible tan lines. I have a sock tan that even self tanners can't disguise. Strappy sandals or sleek slingbacks look ridiculous. Arms and neck, despite 60 SPF, are turning deep brown, but chest, back and belly are still lily white.

The best change: I feel much stronger - legs and lungs.  I still huff up Government St. There are times on slopes when big rides feel guilty and walk a few paces when my momentum slows to a crawl but I swear I could do it if they didn't get out. My increasing leg strength and improved cardio are definitely making pedicabbing easier - that combined with better tour guide strategy.

Terry to the rescueTerry Wiens, a veteran pedicabber for Victoria Pedicab Tours, has been my saviour in that. Terry, an avid photographer and self-described aging ex-hippie, has been pedicabbing for five seasons and will turn 60 in January when I turn 50. (Check out his website and blog at http://360.yahoo.com/twiens.) One day on the causeway I was lamenting to him how I struggle to give a tour while pedicabbing up Government St.

"We all struggle: here's the trick," he said, "You stop at the first block, catch your breath and tell the story of how the old Windsor Hotel exploded when the guy searched for a gas leak with a candle. Next block you stop outside Rogers Chocolates and go in for free samples. Then you stop in the next block and point out the bricks marking the walls of the old Fort."

Wiens gave me places to catch my breath and get my heart rate down for every block up Government while making it simply look like a good informative tour.

"What do you do about that last hill on the entrance to Beacon Hill Park?"

"That's easy," said Terry. "Show'em the Golden Cedar and tell them First Nations consider it good luck to rub its leaves. While they are over touching the tree, you ride over the hump."

One day, not long after these handy tips, I am standing on the causeway with a few other young Kabuki drivers. Terry comes zooming past and yells: "Hey, Anne, come with me. I've got us a tour!"

Other drivers' eyerbrows raise: What is Anne doing giving a tour with the competition?

I pedal behind him over to the museum to pick up a a family of five. Terry gives me the three little girls. We take them to Fisherman's Wharf to feed the seals.

"Terry, thanks so much for this," I tell him after we've dropped the family off. "But why me?"

"We old guys gotta stick together," says Terry.

Friday July 20th.

It has been cold and rainy all week. I didn't show for my 12 to 8 pm shift on Wednesday, rationalizing: Who would want a tour in an unrelenting downpour? And, besides, what would I wear? (A question bedevilling many a woman facing new circumstances.)  Many riders haven't shown this week.

On Thursday, Randy calls me on my cellphone.

"Hey Annie-baby, got some news for you."

Chico in the rain He is trying to sound upbeat.

"I'm discounting all leases 50 per cent through to Sunday on account of the weather. There's good money to be made.  Lots of tourists out there."

Randy signs off: "Can't talk now, darlin' -- got at least 20 more calls to make."

The lucrative Friday afternoon shift, with two big cruise ships scheduled, is now only $35. What the hell. Outfit decision: quickdry kayak pants, Kabuki T-shirt, Kabuki sweatshirt, and 100% waterproof sailing rain jacket. I pack other options in my hold should the weather change.

I am so overheated in my weatherproof gear that within in a couple of blocks of pedalling I soon strip to kayak pants, t-shirt and light, breathable (but not waterproof) cycling shell.  Exertion makes dampness evaporate like water on a griddle. After a few rides I put the shell away for bare arms.

"Tell me you are not freezing?" says one women as I sit outside the Empress completely comfortable in my t-shirt. From Southern  California, she is bundled in a fluffy ski jacket , her husband swathed in gortex, umbrellas over their heads. "We find this awfully chilly," she says.

I haven't had time to get cold. Amazingly, this dreary, dark wet day is shaping up to be my best day yet. (Sorry readers, no pictures by me - didn't want to ruin my digital camera in the rain. Visualize it: dark brooding skies, intermittent cloud bursts,  with new squalls of rain always on the horizon, black umbrellas opening and closing repeatedly on the causeway. Thanks to Terry Wiens, of Victoria Pedicab Tours, for sharing his photos with me. )

Terry's ride outside the EmpressI do one ride after another, and not just taxi rides but Fisherman's Wharf tours and Old Town/Chinatown tours. Clients hail from Florida,  South Carolina, Boston, Atlanta, Houston, San Jose, Kelowna, Vancouver. Most of the other pedicab riders go out to meet the two cruise ships -- the Golden Princess and Oosterdam are docking again on their regular Friday night call.  I decide to stay in the Inner Harbour and practically have it all to myself for two hours. I am pedalled off my feet in short taxi rides.  And just after 7 pm,  I even get a tour with a cruise ship couple who flag me in the Inner Harbour. I make $120 over lease. It is the first time yet I have cleared more than $10 an hour.

But one problem: during my last few rides my bike gears seem to be failing. I suddenly have no light gear. Hills become a struggle again. "I am sorry," I tell my last cruise ship clients from Olympia Wash. "My gears don't seem to be working properly."  I take them the flatter Wharf St. route.

"My lightest gear quit near the end," I tell Andy Johnston, the repair whiz, as I fill out my shift report.

He chuckles. "You'd be surprised how many riders tell me that."
Andy in his repair corner

He checks over the gears on my cab. "Nope, the gears are fine. It's your legs."

No way! But when I get on my bike to ride home, I know he is right. My legs are shot. Cycling home, usually a breeze compared to cabbing, feels burdensome.  My muscles are wobbling in protest as I climb my house stairs. My butt aches. I can hardly stay awake for dinner. I take a hot bath in Epsom salts and fall asleep in the bath. When I finally get into bed it is 9:30 pm. So much for the exciting night life of a pedicab driver.

Sitting on my pedicab on the Inner Harbour causeway gives me a front row seat in the theatre of humanity.
Front row seat

Some couples scowl, arms swinging, not talking nor touching, marching by with a determination that seems to say: travelling is damned hard business with crooks at every turn. I say a cheery hello but they don't even acknowledge me. Or worse, put their hands up in front of their faces as if to shield themselves from any persuasive sales job penetrating through. They don't believe we pedicabbers, or anybody catering to tourists, can be helpful just on principal and rather must be motived solely to extract their hard earned dough. I remember adopting that scowl once surrounded by beggars in Southern Italy and I vow to never travel like that again.

Others stroll by laughing, holding hands. They greet my smile with a smile. We exchange pleasantries; they ask for directions or advice. They are not afraid of me trying to sell them something they don't want, but it is clear they are open to any and all experiences. Sometimes they get in the cab, more often they don't, ( some say "maybe we'll be back later") but we have a pleasant exchange all the same. I give them information on the city happily for free. And all leave the encounter smiling.

Shoe choice is a dead give away of ride potential. Couples wearing good fresh new runners are out to walk and they are not likely to get into a pedicab. Hiking boots, ditto; good sturdy walking shoes, nope. Any of those foot wear choices combined with a walking stick, binoculars and bird book, no bloody way. 

It is easy to spot the travellers heading for Vancouver Island's arduous and world-famous West Coast Trail. They come off the Seattle Clipper or the Port Angeles Coho - hiking boots, big heavy packs on their back, walking sticks, sleeping bag tied on their pack top, pots hanging from the pack strings. The only chance they will ride a pedicab is if they sprain their ankle on the hazardous footfall on the trail and need help getting from the bus station back to the Clipper for their return trip home.

Hey, love those shoes! I have come to adore, however, women in high fashion, impractical footware. Cute strappy summer sandals? They'll be cutting into the heel by mid-afternoon. High heels? Toes will be killing by 1 pm. A couple sitting on a bench, the woman massaging her feet, is a perfect opening for a: "Can I help you rest your feet and still see the town?"'   

I am developing the carny skill of watching the crowd, looking for clues to ease later interactions: a name on a sports jacket, an alumni t-shirt for a university I know. That team jacket, with "Brian" on the arm, once tucked into a bag later in the afternoon heat makes me look brilliant when I call out: "Hey Brian, would you and your lovely wife like a pedicab ride?" "How do you know my name?" is a sure conversation starter.

A man staying at the Empress Hotel on July 15 tells me that morning he is in town for a wedding: Mike, his cousin, and his fiance ,Mary. It's at the Laurel Point Inn later that afternoon. More than a hundred guests are in town.  Around 2:30 pm I see a nicely dressed couple (woman in impractical walking shoes, yes!) walking in the direction of Laurel Point, carrying a present. "Hey, you must be going to Mike and Mary's wedding! Let me help you arrive in style." They jump in.

You get to know familiar local faces, too. The guy selling the Mini-melts ice cream by the Wax Museum, the hostess holding the menu outside Wharfside Eatery and a few metres down, the competing Chandler's Restaurant hostess giving out smoked salmon and cream cheese tasters, the gals selling double decker tour rides and their drivers, the workers at the Legislature, Royal BC Museum and Empress. We all nod hellos each time we pass.

I am standing one morning on the causeway early in my days pedicabbing and a very old man comes up to me.
Causeway a popular stroll

"Hey, you are new. I've not seen you before," he says.

His name is Alfred Trueman and he is 96 years old. He tells me every morning he rides the bus from his James Bay apartment to the Bay Centre Mall, rides the elevator to the 5th floor to have a cup of coffee in little department store restaurant and flirt with the waitresses, then walks down Government Street back home, where he still lives on his own.

"Exercise! That's the key to a long happy life," he tells me.

 I nod in full agreement.

"I walk every day. Was a postman for more than 35 years. I had the first postal route in Langford," he says. He shakes my hand warmly and walks on his way.

I look for him on other shifts, hoping to take his picture for my blog but I keep missing him. I'll post his pic here when next I see him.

On Saturday June 30^th  one silent Inner Harbour drama moves me to tears. I see way down at the end of the causeway a man whose face jumps out because it is so jaundiced and sunken. It is impossible to tell his age. He shuffles as he walks, ever so slowly, down the causeway. As he gets closer I can see his belly is hugely distended but he has skinny, cachetic, arms and legs. End stage cancer with liver metatases. I have seen that doomed look too many times before.

A small coterie anxiously hovers around him- a wife or sister and brother, perhaps, in their early to mid 50s,  close beside
 him. A tall man, late 40s, behind him pushing an empty wheelchair. And beside the wheelchair guy, four or five hale and hearty middle-aged men -- looking like former rugby or hockey team mates, are walking slowly along, too. Some have cameras around their neck, as if they had travelled from afar to be here. All of them, except the sick man, seem unsure of how to behave during this slow painful stroll.

Yet the jaundice man walks, head high with immense dignity, unconcerned about anything but the beautiful day, his hand trailing for support along the stone causeway wall. He stops, bends over in pain. The coterie stops, too. The friend with the wheelchair comes forward motioning for him to sit, but he waves him off, gathers his strength, straightens up and continues. They all move with him. He walks this way for the entire length of the causeway, a final afternoon stroll to enjoy the warm sun and the fresh breeze coming off the ocean. 

Friday July 13th. I am working the 2pm to 8 pm shift. Lease is $65. Two cruise ships en route south from Alaska are due in between 6 pm and 7 pm, dumping close to 4,500 tourists for four short hours on Victoria's streets.

I've done all my training. I am now eligible to greet the ships.

By 4:30 pm, the top riders are leaving the downtown core, doing the 20 minute ride out to the Ogden Point Terminal to get into position. Early in my shift I've given an Old Town/Chinatown tour and a few taxi rides, but I am still $25 short of making lease. I follow them out,  hoping for a big payout.

Arriving in lineAbout four cruise ships a week make Victoria a brief Port-of-Call between April and November -- 163 calls are scheduled for 2007. It is down about 20 visits from 2006's high, but still a 300 percent growth from earlier in the decade. This season they will discharge some 324,000 visitors on the city for three to four hours and inject an estimated $28.5 million ($88 per person) into the Victoria economy.

We all want just a tiny little piece of it. 

It is more than 2 hours before the boats arrive but already the terminal's large parking lot is packed - more than 30 tour buses from various competing companies, a half-dozen stretch limos, a dozen 8-passenger touring vans, six or seven taxis, four shiny convertable classic cars with signs "Hire me to tour Victoria." Soon the horse-drawn Tally-Ho trolleys arrive and get into position. The heavy horses snort and stamp their feet,  harness bells jangling.

Everyone stands around and talks, eyeing the horizon for the first sign of the sun glinting off the ships' gleaming exteriors.

We are like a Third World port waiting and waiting for the chance to hawk our brand of beads and trinkets. 

Who's up first?Only 12 pedicabs are allowed on the lot at a time, eight from Kabuki Kabs and four from the competition, Victoria Pedicab Tours. The two companies alternate spots with first up determined by a coin toss. Randy has to buy permits for each of his eight spots. Numbers are policed by a kind but firm commissionaire. In previous years the pedicab line at the cruise ship terminal ran on a first-come, first-to-sell basis, but that meant riders would start deserting the downtown core at earlier and earlier times, vying for a good spot in the line up. This year a draw system has been put in place, but now riders are rushing out to ensure their cab number is one of the eight entered in the draw.

A debate breaks out among Kabuki riders about the draw timing - when the lot has the eight riders and is therefore closed or when the cruise ship's docking lines are tossed. Lot full! No, lines down! The draw is made when the lot is full, others grumble "That's not right."

"Call Brent," riders murmur. An emergency cell phone call is made to veteran rider Brent Gleason, a pedicabbing peacemaker, riding for four years, who swoops down into the lot in his tandem cab and tries to sort out the disagreements and impose some fair system.

"I am out of here. This is nuts," say a few veteran riders like Jeeves and Chico who ride off back to the city, planning to pick up their rides once the tourists hit the downtown core.

I am completely confused. I have no idea where I am supposed to be in the line and simply wait to do as I am told. I end up near the back, waiting my turn to get the nod to roll up to the loading zone.

It is about 6:15 pm when the first of the two ships, Holland America's Oosterdam, glinting like a diamond in the sun
Golden Princes pulling in, silently glides into port -- an 11-story, mammoth hotel complex sidling up to the pier. The Royal Princess's  Golden Princess, even bigger and shinier, soon backs in opposite her. The Golden Princess holds 2,600 passengers and has 15 decks, 17 bars, four pools, nine whirlpools, three dining rooms, five restaurants, a casino, a full theatre, a selection of stores, a paddle ball court, a photostudio, a multimedia teen centre, a fully equipped gym, a Wedding Chapel, a beauty salon and a spa. Why disembark?

The gang planks go down and for more than an hour passengers stream off both ships in a steady flow. They file out into the terminal lot, squinting in the sun, maps in hand, looking around them, trying to choose their options for the next four hours.

The three horse trolleys fill up first and flow out. A "Sold out for today" sandwich board is erected at the carriage loading zone. A $6 shuttle bus to the Inner Harbour also does a brisk business, filling up one after another and driving away. 

We are forbidden from yelling, aggressive solicitation or any untoward behaviour to attract attention to our  services. We all stand there and smile, one hand in the air sedately waving. The first rider up at  the pedicab loading zone can quietly sell the merits of his tour, but only when he fills his cab and rolls out can the next pedicab roll up. But we are not moving. Anxiety increasingly hangs in the air. The young, new driver, first up, is not getting anyone into his cab.  A new grumble goes down the pedicab line. "He can't sell!" All our income is dependant on the line moving briskly -- and the salesmanship skills of the riders in front of us.

Brent and another veteran driver jump in to help close deals. Their words do wonders selling other people's cabs. They start moving people into seats, rolling them off the lot. It is 7:15 by the time I roll up. I have to have the cab back by 8 pm or I am fined a $1 a minute. I won't have time to do a big lucrative tour. "Want me to sell you?" asks Brent. Sure! "Customized to suit your needs, best way to see Victoria in a short time," Brent is saying.

Two middle-aged woman, old friends from South Africa, get into my cab. They want the short form heritage home tour on their way into the Inner Harbour.
Zena and Carole in the Inner Harbour I will do it in 40 minutes I say. (I have no choice - cab must be returned by 8.) It is the women's first cruise tour and they are loving every minute of it. "The food is amazing," says Zena, who now lives in San Diego.

A strong head wind hits us along the waterfront Dallas Road but when we duck into the quaint James Bay Streets, it is calm and quiet. The women are enchanted by the Queen Anne cottages, Edwardian bungalows, and Italianate villas. "Look at that lovely porch," says Zena who 25 years ago moved to California. "What a stunning garden,' says Carole, her old friend, who still lives outside Johannesberg. I arrive in front of the Empress at 7:55 pm. I snap their photo and they write in my guest book, "Wow! What a ride with Anne on her kabuki kab -- ongoing commentary on the nooks and crannies of Victoria."   I emerge $25 over lease. We part with warm handshakes.

I race back to the barn, arriving five minutes late, but I am not fined. A whole new night shift is coming in, animating the barn. Since I've been riding days, most of the faces I have never seen - attractive fit young men and women, all in their 20s flirting, teasing, and laughing, gearing up to haul Friday-night bar goers between pubs. I am invisible. I complete my cab report, transfer my gear from #1's hold to my panniers, lift my bike off the hanging bike rack and quickly ride home.

Wednesday July 11. A heat wave is forecasted. I have the straddle shift, 12 noon to 8 pm.

“Be careful out there. If you feel at all dizzy come back in," says Randy. "Drink lots of water."

He gives me an aspirin.

"For headaches?" I ask.

"No, heart attack prevention," says Randy. 

Heat wave remedyHeat is rising in waves from the pavement. I troll slowly by the Clipper Terminal which runs between downtown Seattle and Victoria. I am flagged down by an elderly man on a motorized scooter. He has tubes feeding oxygen into his nose. "Help my wife get to our hotel with the bags," he says.

His wife comes out of the Clipper terminal door. I am speechless. The luggage is an enormousis 4'x 3' over-stuffed suitcase, but the wife is even bigger -- must be at least 300 lbs. Oh my God, what if I can't move her in the cab? It is only two flat blocks, I rationalize. Just try.

I attach the bag to the rack on the back of the cab. The husband zips away in his scooter. I get to flat ground and give the wife the curb and my arm, acting confident. But she can't  get up into the  cab. The two of us struggle and push. I even at one point put my shoulder into her bottom and tell her to use me as a brace. "I told him I was too big," she grumbles. We try and try but she indeed is too big to get up into the cab, turn around and sit down. "I'm too darned big for this silly thing. I told him that."

We decide instead I will take the luggage, her purse and her carry-on, on the seat. She walks beside, holding on to the arm of the cab seat. We go slowly the two  blocks to the hotel. 

The husband meets us there and gives me $5 and says, "So, are you still in school?"  Granted, he has thick glasses and is on oxygen supplementation, but pegging me as a university student when I am almost 50 makes working this heatwave almost worth it.

By 3 pm the mercury has hit 36.3 degrees Celsuis at Victoria International Airport, officially making it the hottest day in Victoria's history.

It is brutal for pedicabbers. We are all flushed and sweating. It is heat stroke hot on the causeway. I hang out in the shade by the Clipper Terminal. I put up my canopy to provide rides with respite from the sun.  The only people interested are very large, suffering so badly from the heat on account of their girth. Another woman wants a ride but is too big with knees too bad to lift her weight by stepping up into my cab.  Another large man, drenched in sweat, flags me down on Wharf St. "Where is a good seafood restaurant with air conditioning?" I take him two blocks to Nautical Nellies and get $10. My beloved, reliable #1 cab makes ominous rubbing noises after he alights.

It is 4:30 pm. I have consumed 3- 500 ml bottles of water and a Gatorade, haven't needed to pee all shift, and I am still thirsty. I am $4 short of making my lease but I can't bear the thought of any more hours exerting myself in this heat. It feels dangerous. I go back to the barn. A half dozen other pedicabbers have already packed it in. They sit drinking beer with their feet in a kiddie wading pool. I roll in over the lot. "Hey, smart move. Come join us."

I take a chair, remove my cycling shoes and my socks and stick my feet into the cold water. I can almost hear a cartoon sizzle. My core temperature immediately drops. Ahhhh. Some one cracks a beer and hands it to me. We compare ride stories and bad tan lines. Two more riders come in the lot, quitting early.