My 16-year-old, Kate, has been at a teen party. A handsome young man, Rory, 17, chats her up.

"What are you doing this summer?, " Kate asks.

"Pedicabbing" he says.

She groans: "Oh No! My Mom is pedicabbing!"

I ask Randy on my next shift: "What operator number is Rory? Have I met him?"

"Why do you ask?" says Randy.

'Because he's text-messaging my daughter, trying to hit her up."

"He's my son," says Randy.

MP Hedy Fry and EA PaulSunday July 8^th. Gay Pride Day parade in Victoria. Veteran rider Tom B., a master pedicabber who seems to land all rides, is dispatcher. He calls me at home, an hour before my shift. "Just want to warn you," says Tom. "The Inner Harbour streets are closed off for the parade for at least two hours."

We talk about the pros and cons of pedicabbing on Gay Pride Day. "Last year the young women riders cleaned up," says Tom. He has no data, however, on how a perimenopausal female rider might do. I decide to show up anyway. Even a bad day is good copy.

I spend the first 90 minutes at the barn helping two new francophone riders do the cab inspection run down. What two weeks ago took me 45 minutes is much faster and easier. I understand the arcane language. I explain "inside and outside bead" to them. There is no equivalent word in French.  For helping the francophones, Tom discounts my lease $15.

I ride out along the streets just after they open from the parade and pick up a handsome, 60-ish couple called Marilyn and Jack. Marilyn is a Victoria native, well groomed and animated. She is showing debonair Jack, visiting from Bellingham, Washington, around the city. They say this is the first time they have met. (Online romance? They are not forthcoming.) He is interested in architecture. We decide to visit the stunning, 19th century Christ Church Cathedral. It is a steady climb, first up Government and then right on Broughton. It is not easy but I don't die! My exertion is enough to earn a good tip but not so much as to discomfit my passengers. They are impressed but not guilt-ridden. Victory!

The rest of the day flies by. I do at least four taxi-rides from the Inner Harbour to the Gay Pride beer garden at Fisherman's Wharf. I give two free rides, one to an elderly woman bent over with osteoporosis. I see her struggling with a walker over rough Victoria streets. Can I help?

"Oh my dear," she says. "I don't have the money for you!"

It doesn't matter, I say. I fix her walker to the back of my cab and take her two blocks to her apartment in James Bay. Time cost to me: less than 2 minutes. "You are an angle of mercy, darling," she says.

I'm still revelling in the glow of my generosity outside the Empress. An impish 7-year old comes up and says: "That looks like a lot of fun."

She has twinkling eyes, a big smile.

"It is fun!" I say.

"Can I try sitting in the seat?"

Her mother, 30-ish, takes her arm and tries to continue down the causeway.

The little girl keeps talking to me. "Can I?""

"Sure" I say. The daughter comes back and jumps in the cab. The mom wanly follows. "I'm so sorry. We don't have the money for a ride."  The daughter is beaming, sitting in my cab. I figure the best sales job is a happy family going for a ride.

Making Wilde's day - Terry Wiens photo"Shhh," I say. "Don't tell anyone. I will give you a two block ride for free. " I do an up-and-back stretch, u-turning in front of the Empress, rounding the corner on Humboldt to let them out. Cost to me, 5 minutes. The little girl is ecstatic. Her name is Wilde. She pretends to pay me in front of a line up of tourists waiting to board a tour bus. The mom, Bowen Island artist Tatania Michniewicz (see www.titania.ca) says: "You have made our day."

I feel noble. I contemplate simply riding around Victoria streets giving rides for free. Well... for like two seconds.  At minimum I'd be lynched by fellow entreprenuering pedicabbers.

I ride back to the Gay Pride beer garden. A familiar visage, dressed in a striking lime green jacket and hot pink boots is standing at the edge of the park. It is Federal Liberal Member of Parliament Dr. Hedy Fry, from Vancouver Centre. Twenty years ago, when I was the medical reporter at the Vancouver Sun, I interviewed her a few times. Her then-husband, Jim Gilmore, was public relations for the BC Medical Association. I talked to him at least monthly for a half-dozen years.

"Hedy Fry!" I yell, "You need a ride downtown!" She is with her executive assistant. They eye me, befuddled.
"It's Anne Mullens," I say. "I used to write for the Vancouver Sun."

"What??"

She is aghast. She and her EA, Paul, were waiting for a real taxi cab, but her hot pink boots are killing her. She cancels the real cab and gets in. "Anne, what the hell are you doing?"

I explain the narrative allure of a summer getting fit pedicabbing.

"I am going to phone Jim right away. He won't believe you are doing this," she says.

On the ride downtown she explains she is the lead on the new Federal Liberal arts platform and that she and liberal leader Stéphane Dion recently met with leading Canadian writers, including Margaret Atwood, from the Canadian Writer's Union. I have 10 uninterrupted minutes to talk about federal arts policy with a government official.

"Did they talk about income averaging for artists?" I say, describing my three years in the mid-1990s in which I won a $60,000 fellowship to write my book, Timely Death. I was taxed the first year on $60,000 (at almost 50 per cent) but had two subsequent years of zero income. If I had been able to apply $20,000 to each year, the tax hit, and life, would have been a hell of a lot easier.

"I hear yah," said Hedy as I drop her and Paul off at a Wharf St. restaurant for a late lunch.

I close the day hauling an elegant Texan couple, from Houston, and their luggage from the Seattle Clipper to their Marriot Hotel. The man is dubious. He thinks $1 a minute is steep, but the wife (lovely impractical shoes) doesn't want to walk nor wait for a real taxi. I glide them through the angled sunshine of a late afternoon, trying my best to spin Victorian stories of history and intrigue. I drop them off at their hotel for a $10 fee.  "That was surprisingly pleasant and informative," he says.

I trike back to the barn, then bike home for dinner, elated, $50 over lease, positive interactions all around. I phone my parents at their Ontario cottage, 11 pm their time,  rambling on with stories of my new pedicabbing life. I am sure they think I'm manic. I feel tired and good. I eat a thick steak, fried mushrooms, baked potato and sour cream and a bowl of mango gelato. I sleep more than 8 solid hours without rousing.

Saturday  July 7th. It has been almost a week since my last pedicab shift. Dental surgery for my 16-year old, Kate, has kept me at home. I have done hot yoga, stretching,  but nothing else. I show up at the barn at 8:30 am.  Andrew Johnston, the resident pedicab repair man, is the dispatcher. I explain my previous cab selection woes. I need a good cab. One that is a reliable,  smooth, beautiful, well-functioning machine.

"Try cab #1," he says. "It's my favourite. It never breaks down." 

I take cab #1 out for a trial spin on Herald Street. It rides like a dream. Have I found my pedicab?

With #1,  I am faster at my pedicab inspection - in 15 minutes I have done the preshift 47-point check list. It is a $30 lease day. I pay and leave.

It is hot and sunny. I am wearing for the first time the skimpy pink Kabuki Kab singlet. I may as well use whatever assets I have to secure rides. I ride out not worried about landing clients. I concentrate on getting stronger.  I am practicising going up Government Street in high gear, building my legs. A young man crosses the street, waving at me, almost blocking my path. What? You want me? He and his pal are going to the Clipper ship to Seattle with big heavy luggage. Can I help them get there? Well sure!

Their names are Daniel Stone and Adam Gerber. They are both visiting from California.  I pull over and attach their heavy
Daniel and Adam duffel bags to my cab with the pedicab seat belt. They hop in. They are fit, slim young men, but together, with their big luggage, I must be hauling close to 500 pounds. To my amazement I go up Government Street , my nemesis, with no problem. For the first time in three weeks I am not panting.  I turn left on Broughton,  and coast down to Wharf, going  past the Inner Harbour and along Belleville to the Clipper loading dock. I can talk easily.We stop in front of the Empress  briefly for a commemorative photo -- for me as much as them. Daniel is a writer, too, now editing for Current  magazine. A few weeks earlier he has interviewed California Governor Arnold Schwarzeneggar. He is intrigued by my summer story, my struggle and today's apparent ease. I am elated. Has three weeks of cycling 3x a week, pushing my heart rate past 200 bpm, brought on improved cardiovascular fitness? Am I over the hump?

At the Clipper they write a great comment in my guest book, the first glowing comment in 3 weeks of pedicabbing agony: "Anne, a perfect end to our Canadian vacation. Thanks for your energy and your stories. We hope our paths will cross again!"  I  AM over the  hump. I have gotten fitter. It feels not easy, but okay.

I land another ride, a couple celebrating their 4th anniversary. I take them up Government St. then along Wharf, telling them ghost stories and dropping them at a popular bar, Darcys. She writes in my book: "Thank you for this wonderful experience."  Yes!

For the first time since I began in mid June  I am feeling fitter and stronger. It feels easier. I get a few more taxi rides during the day. As the shift ends I am $2 shy of making my lease.  I don't care. I have reached a watershed. I CAN do this.

Sunday July 1, Canada's 140th birthday. Victoria's downtown streets are full of revellers and the crowds will build all day. I am out on the streets by 9 am, first ride by 9:05 --a woman with her elderly father limping with a cane.  A two block flat ride to a whale watching outlet and I've made $5.

I have just pulled up in front of the Empress when a handsome young man, Dave, and his young daughter Lauren, hail me. "Take us to Molé for breakfast," he says. Only locals know that trendy Pandora St.  restaurant. He is a Vancouver-based financier, the kind of guy who exudes the confidence of always knowing the best places to go. He is moored in the harbour on his 40 foot power boat. We cycle up Government Street. I am trying my darndest to make it look smooth and easy but  I am dying two blocks up the hill. Like a godsend, Dave says: "Pull over and stop here. Keep the metre running. We're going to do some Canada Day shopping" adding with a wink, "And you can catch your breath."  I would hug him if I weren't so sweaty.

They disappear into a tourist shop for a good 10 minutes. When they emerge, wearing matching Canada hockey sweaters and hats, carrying Canadian flags and a Canada teddy bear,  I am once again composed and cool. The rest of Government Street is easy in comparison. I tell him about my journalist past and my blogging of pedicab adventures for the summer. And for the first time I don't feel like an idiot. "Cool!" he says. We drop some BC journalist names and it turns out he is good friends with one of my husband's favourite colleagues. "Hey, why don't you two come down to my boat tonight and watch the fireworks! It'll be great!" Hmm, I am tempted to ditch the dinner party plans with old friends and accept... Ahhh on second thought, I may have lost my mind pedicabbing, but I haven't lost my social graces. A rain check. He warmly shakes my hand, wishes me luck with my writing and overpays me $20.

Feeding the seal at Fisherman's WharfShort taxi rides continue. At 12:30 pm I hear my name being called outside the Empress. Fellow female cabber Josee Galipeau is hailing me from across the street, jumping up and down waving her arms. She has secured a tour with a Californian family of four. Josee, a delightful Quebecois, 31, is full of energy and fascinating stories and as an accomplished mountain climber is as fit as they come. She has been cabbing two days. She kindly gives me the two tiny kids and takes the adults. We ride to feed the seals at Fisherman's Wharf, a guaranteed hit with children and parents alike.  The dad, Drew, tells us to wait because when they are finished they will do the Beacon Hill tour. Yahoo. Josee and I lounge in our cab seats, enjoying the rest.

When they come up from the dock, the kids hop into Josee's cab and rather than move them, Josee and I switch trikes. Her's is remarkably smooth, the gears switch so beautifully. No gear noise. I realize #11 I  have been riding is a dud. "Anne, your cab is awful," says Josee. As we ride up the hill into Beacon Hill park, I can hear #11 make more and more noise, then a clunking. A bearing has blown. Josee slips further and further behind. "Anne!," she yells. "I must take the kids in this cab!." The adults switch over to me in my smooth cab, and suddenly an easy ride is now hard. Josee sails by me with the kids in the clunking cab. I struggle as we enter Beacon Hill and on the final pitch come to a halt. "You are going to have to walk 10 feet," I say, unapologetically. By now they know my story. We all laugh. They happily oblige.

The mom, Helen, is a year younger than me and we hit it off, comparing tales of workout tortures to stay fit over the years. I tell the story of Victoria's 1860s brides ships to populate the gold rush colony with women of good character, like the early 1970s TV show "Here Comes the Brides." We both squeal: Bobby Sherman! and compare notes on the posters that adorned our pre-teen walls. (Update: I googled the late 60s teen heart throb and pop star who was young "Jeremy" on Here Come the Brides tonight. Sherman is now a 64-year old paramedic in Southern California.)  Josee and I  together give a grand park tour and drop the family off at the putting green. Everyone is happy. The family has been with us for a total of 52 minutes, a combined fee of $104 for Josee and me. Drew hands us each $US 100, waving away change saying, "Thanks, you gals are terrific."

Despite the blown bearing and clunking #11, Josee and I sail over the roads back to the barn, hooping and hollering in glee. We have each netted more than $100 over our lease. My best day yet.

Saturday June 30th

Randy said it would get worse before it gets better. The shift today stunk.

All week I have been putting my heart into becoming a truly knowledgeable tour guide. I have read more history books,  gone on three more training tours. A ghost tour with Steve Craik delved into the city's rich lore of haunting spectres and
Garry Oaks inspired Disney weird spiritual energy fields. The Beacon Hill park tour, also led by Steve, pointed out some of the most unusual of the 500+ species of flowers and trees in the 134 acre park and relayed interesting stories, i.e. how a young Walt Disney sketched the craggy Garry Oaks for inspiration for his haunted Snow White forests.  The park is lush and beautiful, an hour respite from the hurly burly, but that name, Beacon Hill -- I won't be eagerly pushing this tour, yet.

Then on Thursday veteran cabber Evert Pater leads a learning tour through the Heritage Homes of James Bay. Hallejuah! Relatively flat, quiet streets, beautiful old homes, rich history, an hour-long meander with doable hills. This tour is my tour. That and Fisherman's Wharf - another rather flat, easy ride to the float homes and feedable seals at the entrance to the harbour. I'll push these tours, make them my own. I can do this.

All day yesterday I concentrated on emitting, a happy 'ride with me' to Fisherman's Wharf vibe. An elderly couple hail me from across the street at the Wax Museum. The man has a cane and a limp. "Take us to Fisherman's Wharf."  I can't believe it. The couple is from Gold River, retirees who come to Victoria often. The ride to the wharf is a breeze. They have fun, seem to like my stories.  They give me $10 for a $5 ride, but don't want me to wait for the return as they are lunching at the famous Barb's Fish& Chips on the dock. I ride around for an hour, get no rides and on a hunch go back to the wharf. Sure enough the elderly couple are just walking up from the dock. They greet me with warm smiles. "Why don't you give us that Heritage Home tour you were telling us about," says the man and I beam.

But I have made a fatal error. I know the best route from the Inner Harbour, but I haven't scoped one out from Fisherman's Wharf. I take a random street - new infill houses, ugly apartment buildings -- and lots of dips and swells. "We'll get to the good streets soon," I say. (Pant, Pant). I am not sure where I am. I pick another street, another hill, ugly new houses. And I realize my panting -- and the lack of nice heritage homes  -- is
Fisherman's Wharf making my clients feel unfulfilled.  The couple spies a familiar street name. "On second thought, why don't you just take us to our hotel. We are rather tired," they say. Instead of a lovely 60 minute heritage tour, I've given a $10 ugly  taxi ride.  No tip. "Come back at the end of the summer and see how fit I am," I joke (pant, pant.) "We'll do the heritage tour then." They laugh as if to say:  As if!

At the end of my shift I have given only three rides. I am $10 short of making my lease.

This morning, I didn't want to come in at all. I show up late, disorganized. I spend 45 minutes doing the checklist rundown on cab #3 only to learn when I go to pay  that the first thing Randy said to me, after good morning, was "#3 has been prepaid by another rider." I have to go through the whole cab-selection inspection again. Arrghh. I do it too quickly and pick a random cab, don't test it fully on the street. I hurriedly switch my gear from #3 to #14, pay my lease and leave.

In the first block it is clear: I've picked a lemon. Ugly rubbing sounds, gears don't shift smoothly. I should go back and change but I won't don't want to do the long check list yet again. It's good enough, I think. Outside Swan's Hotel, at the  busy corner of Pandora and Store St. I ring my bell to attract tourists. The bell goes flying off the handbars, skittering through the traffic. I pull my bike over to the side and scurry after it,  ducking between cars, praying I don't get hit. Horns honk.

The day gets worse. An hour into my shift another pedicabber asks whether I have sunscreen. I go into my storage hold only to realize no sunscreen nor wallet. I have left both in the hold of #3. I race back to the barn (rubbing and clunking sound in my cab all the way). To my relief #3 is still in the barn, my wallet untouched.  It is noon when I get back out on the street, no rides yet today, shift almost over.

I must change my vibe. I spy a mother I know from my daughters' school, Hassina, and her 10-year old daughter Rama. They are walking holding hands in the Inner Harbour.  They are Muslim Ethiopian refugees and I know they would never have the money to ride a pedicab. I pull up alongside them. Hassina does a double take, trying to place me. "Anne?" She is incredulous. "Hop in," I say. "I will give you a ride for free." Rama's eyes widen in delight. I may as well practice my skills and make some 10-year-old's day. I take them along Wharf street, telling them about the ghosts, the history. My benevolence makes me happy.

I give another free ride that day - one to my daughter Maddy and her oldest friend Chya, who is like a second daughter to me. Maddy is embarrased as only a 14-year-old can be of her mother but Chya is complimentary. "You're really good," Chya says, "You know so much about the city." At least I can impress someone else's 14-year-old.

I come back to the barn at 2 pm without a single paying ride all day, out $30 for lease. To date, including lease payments, deposit, equipment purchases, I am $300 in the hole with this pedicab adventure. And my daughter is cringing at her mother.

Saturday June 23

Awake at 6:30 – read the paper. Big feature about happiness today. Don’t need money it says – human relationships, sense of purpose, physical activity.

I am very, very nervous – upset stomach. Worried more about getting rides than not getting rides – big couples and the hills. It takes me 30 minutes to check over cab and get off the lot.

As I leave the barn and pass the Street Link homeless shelter two male drug addicts are in a fight, spitting and yelling at each other. Yesterday two hard bitten bleach blonde women were in a fight outside the shelter. Rich tourists and the downtrodden separated by only a few short blocks.

I park across from the Empress Hotel on the causeway and by accident discover that offering to take a photo of couples together with the Empress or legislature in the background is a great way to break the ice.

I take a shot of a couple from New York. It is easy to get a conversation going. He is a retired cop. They live in New Jersey. We have a nice chat about what to see and do in Victoria. I am not trying to sell, just to give them good information. I tell them about the wonderful museum. He says: "How much for a ride to the totem poles?" It is less than two flat blocks –  2 minutes I say. They hop in. It is an easy ride of 1:58. He gives me $5. "Keep the change."

The day continues on this easy note. I tell two women who have big smiles outside the Empress how happy they look and they say, "We are sisters and we haven't seen each other for a year." Again, a flowing conversation ensues, they grew up together in Newfoundland and while one remained the other has been living in Edmonton for 20 years. They relish the time when they can get together.  I simply talk to them about Victoria. "Can you take us to the James Bay Tea Room?" they ask.

Honesty is my new policy. "We can try - it is uphill and I am horrible on hills, but let's give it a shot." They pant with me on the grade and continually ask, "Are you okay? Do you want us to get out? " But we get there and all laugh at the arduous process. I give them maps and flyers and point out other spots, catching my breath outside the tearoom. It is a $5 ride but they give me $10. "That was fun. Thanks!" they saying wishing me heartfelt good luck. I realize authenticity is my sales pitch. I won't try to pull off the confident role. I suck, but I am fun. Ride with me and tell your friends about your pathetic pedicabber in Victoria.

For the rest of my shift I give short hop rides around the Inner Harbour to four more couples. I die on the hills, but they don't have to get out. I pant and groan and can't talk while I pedal, but I do it. I come back to the barn at 2 pm, with $50, paying off my $30 lease with $20 profit." I feel like hell but I made it through the day. It works out to about $3 an hour ( I made more per hour babysitting in the 1970s!) but I feel close to elated.