Kabuki Kabs is up for sale

After 24 years at the leading edge of the North American pedicab  business, Randal Phipps put the word out earlier this summer that he is looking for a change and the right new owner to take over the successful operation.

"It is time for me to move on and find some new challenges and experiences. I have been doing this a long time," he said.

I told him I was writing this entry, and he asked that instead of calling him Randy – as he is known around the barn – that I use his real name, Randal. I keep wanting to call him Randy throughout, but for him, I will do it.

For me, after 3 months in the barn, I find it hard to imagine the place being run by anyone else but him. Funny, relaxed, and experienced, he truly cares about his drivers and does what he can to help them have prosperous days Randal has been the heart and soul of the operation since he was a 23-year-old ambitious entrepreneur with a bright new idea.

Yet I understand, perhaps better than others, the need to keep things fresh, exciting and challenging as middle age dawns. After all, it was that desire for novelty and challenge that brought me walking into the barn last June in the first place.

He has priced his business at $160,000 for a cash buyer; that's two times '06 earnings with assets included, with the
intent to have this very reasonable price attract the right person who can take the spirit of Kabuki Kabs and make it their own. Randal can provide full details for you via coolopp4u@gmail.com

One of the pleasures of the summer was getting to know Randal. Our bantering conversations were short, usually carried on over the business of paying the lease at the start of the shift or submitting the shift report at the end. We'd talk about our kids, or the news, the crappy weather or our mutual admiration for the interview style of Charlie Rose.

But one day last month I sat and talked with him to get the story of how he started Kabuki Kabs. Sitting with us was his delightful mother, Lee, a former Edmonton high school school principal , a spry and young 80. She pops by the barn now and again to say hi, show off a new hair cut or catch up. The mutual affection and respect - and pure enjoyment of each other's company -- that flows effortlessly between them is a pleasure to observe.

"My mom is a great lady. As an school principal she made an huge impact on a lot of young people growing up in Edmonton. She has really strong values that she has personally infused in me."

Back in 1984, Randal was just 23 and in Slavonic studies at the University of Victoria. ("I wanted to be a spy," he laughs.) He had worked as executive assistant to the UVic student council and been tasked with creating a job data base, linking students with potential employment.

"My mind was really on how to create good, high paying, flexible jobs for young people that would link with their student life."

He saw an item in People magazine about a rickshaw business in some US city - he can't remember where -- but the idea took hold. Victoria's staid city council turned up its nose at rickshaws - too third world. Randal began investigating pedicabs. With start up cash from his mother, the first summer he ran 7 pedicabs in Vancouver's Gastown in 1984. When Victoria saw the successful business model working in a rival city, they gave him license to operate his 15 cabs here in 1985. The rest is history.

Over the last 24 years, many thousands of young people (and not so young) have come through Kabuki Kabs, making good money and having a good time.  In the boom years of the late 1990s and early 2000s, Randal has so many applicants he had to turn them away. The twenty pedicabs were booked solid on the lucrative weekend shifts with a waitlist of drivers eager to get on.

Stories abound about rides and drivers, but one of Randal's favorites is the time a group of celebrating fishermen paid a young female Aussie driver to take a large sockeye salmon (dead) on a tour around Victoria - a beautiful fish's last hoorah before being consumed.

The common denominators among drivers are self-motivation, a love of being active, a sense of humour, and outgoing personality. "It is the people that have made it one of the best jobs in the world," says Randal.

For years one of Kabuki Kab's selling lines to applicants was getting "buns of steel." Many a Kabuki driver has come in the spring a little soft and pudgy only to leave in the fall a lean, muscular machine.

So I have an idea: I've been telling Randal he could make a killing promoting Kabuki Kabs as a new kind of fitness and weight-loss program. Boot camps and spa clinics charge upwards of $4,000 a week to those trying to lose weight and change their figures. Create a program linking a personal trainer using pedicab driving drills, five days a week, seven hours a day with a proven, whole foods diet program, like the South Beach diet. Middle-aged women and men wanting to shed pounds and get fit in a beautiful place like Victoria could come flocking!  

"Great idea Anne. Why don't you buy the business and do it? “ says Randall who has always joked that I had a fear of large couples getting into my cab. (Too true. My forte was the frail elderly.)

“You could solve your phobia: you could sit back there instead and be their personal motivator!" he said.

Hmm, we might be onto somthing. Any investors out there who want to back me?

Meanwhile, Randal is weighing his options and interests. "I didn't complete my underdergrad degree so it's difficult to actually get well paying employment in the area where I have a long history of proven talent -- human resource managment -- so I may go be a ski bum till my knees give out," he says.

But Randal is foremost a responsible Dad. "Considering I have care and custody of two fine teenaged boys I'll likely take a pragmatic path and put my CSC designation into play and become a stock broker," he says.

Victoria's Craigdarroch Castle sits atop Rockland, a tony neighborhood dating
Craigdarroch's roof line on top of Rocklandfrom the late 19th century that looks out over the city and the Inner Harbour.

The red granite, four-storey mansion, all peaked roofs and chimney stacks, is a monument to the money and ego of 19th Century coal and railroad baron Robert Dunsmuir. Dunsmuir is a bonafide Canadian "robber baron." Born in Scotland in 1825, he came to Victoria with his wife Joan and three children in 1851  as an indentured Hudson's Bay Company coalminer, earning $5 a week. When he crossed a picket line a few years later he caught the eye of his bosses who began to promote him up through the ranks. By his death, 38 years later, he had amassed a fortune of more than $15 million and was the richest man in BC. 

For some, he is an admired pioneer of both Victoria and the young province and its most successful self-made industrialist. For others he is a ruthless exploiter, who built his fortune on the backs of impoverished miners and immigrant Chinese workers. He was known for his brutal strike breaking, his unsafe mining conditions that led to many deaths, and for cutting wages to less than half the going rate to punish any workers who tried to form a union. He built his mansion for his wife and 11 kids, but he himself never lived in it, dying in 1889, a year before it was finished.

When we moved to Victoria in 1991,  my BC-born husband, of blue-collar lineage, refused to tour the castle, sitting outside on the wall as I, very pregnant with our first child, waddled through. "I won't support any of the Dunsmuir legacy," he said, showing how feelings about the man run deep even 100 years after his death. When my young kids were growing up whenever we passed by the mansion or saw its jagged roof line rising over the tree tops they would parrot their father: "That's a monument to a man with lots of money but no heart."

Monument to moneyDunsmuir's son James became Premier of BC, but many of his other children and grandchildren had lives of unrestrained excess and tragedy.  Shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves, it seems, in three generations. 

But Craigdarroch is certainly a popular Victoria tourist attraction. Tour buses go hourly from the Inner Harbour. Vistors line up to walk through the 39 rooms furnished in opulent Victorian-era design, a window on a long-ago, rarefied world. Our pedicab signs say: "Tour the Castle!"  -- but I always tried to cover that part over. For the last three months, I have been unsure of whether I could do the 15 block almost steady climb with two passengers. I refered all enquiries about the trip to the veteran guys, but even some of them were cool on the junket. "Unless they want a full 90 minute tour, the money for a taxi ride to the top is kinda not worth the effort," said Jeeves.

All summer, Craigdarroch has been my mini-Everest. Having struggled taking passengers up much smaller hills like Government St and the entrance to Beacon Hill Park, I could not fathom succeeding on the 40 minute climb to Craigdarroch. But how could I end the season without at least attempting a summit? I knew I must try, even if I had to bail.

For the last four days I have asked around: who will be my Sandy Pittman to come along for the ride? (As you may recall, Ms. Pittman was the wealthy New York socialite who paid her way to the top of Everest on the doomed May 1996 ascent, chronicled so brilliantly bv Jon Krakauer's "Into Thin Air.")

Not surprisingly, my husband passed (he is too big anyway -- I wanted lighter fare.) I tried convincing my skinny 14 year old daughter Maddy and her even skinnier friend Dylan to be my cargo, but they, too, declined. But my girlfriend Jennifer, who I haven't had a good visit with all summer, happily agreed.
Jennifer game for the ride

"Fun for Jennifer; Toil for Anne" was the subject line of her email saying yes. We were to meet at the barn on Herald St. around noon and I would take out a cab for one last time. Jennifer's only obligations were to record the event on my digital camera, keep talking if I was too winded to keep up my end of the conversation and happily get out and walk a few steps if needed. "It's a deal," she said.

Randy knew I was coming for this final trip but forgot I had a superstitious fixation with Cab #1. He let my trusty mount go out with a rookie that morning. "How could you?" I scolded him.  What cab would I ride? What if I picked a dud?

Randy, obviously guilt-ridden,  searched around the barn, hopped on #5 and rode it out into the parking lot, testing it.

"This one will be great. You will like this one. It's really reliable and light," he said, pointing out that its stripped down design, with less fibreglass, would be at a at least 10 pounds less than #1.

I wasn't sure. It didn't feel the same. The gear lever was on the opposite side and reversed from high to low, the power bar of turn lights and hazards completely different. And the sweat of umpteen rider's hands had eroded the rubber around the handlebars.

"What's wrong with it?" he said. 

"The handle bar grips are scuzzy," I pouted.

"Get over it," said Randy.

I did the cab run down, fixed my blanket for the final time, loaded in my water, snack and comment book and rode off the lot, picking up Jennifer at the corner of Herald St. We rode south from the barn down Government St. stopping so she could get lox and cream cheese on a bagel to eat in the cab as I struggled away for the next 40 minutes.  We rode past Bastion Square along Langley Street. I turned east onto Brougton and the steady climb began.

With Jennifer happily munching and lounging in the back I felt no pressure to go fast. We caught up on each other's lives while I moseyed slowly along, me in the lightest gears. Pedestrians on the side walk were walking faster than I was moving.

Steep pitch to Government HouseSoon we were on Rockland St., with its canopy of arching trees providing cool shade on this Indian Summer day. Crossing Cook St, the real climb began. I alternated standing and sitting.

"You are really working hard there Anne," said Jennifer. 

At times I would bend very low over the handle bars, like a racing cyclist with dropped, curled handle bars because this position seemed to engage my abdomenal muscles and give me more power and stamina.  At one point near the beginning of the climb, zooming down from the top came a pedicab with an empty bucket driven by Ian of Victoria Pedicab Tours. "Hey Anne's doing the castle!" he yelled in encouragement.

Three blocks up, by Linden, my heart rate was racing well over my 80 per cent maximum and the steepest part was still to come. I pulled onto the sidewalk in the shade for a drink of water and to get my heart rate down.

After a few minutes we got back in and tackled the next section, two very steep blocks passing over Moss St. In all, the climb from sea level is probably less than 500 feet, but it comes in a series of sharp inclines.

"Man, you are getting a good workout," marvelled Jennifer as she leisurely munched her sandwich in the back.
Hill #1 conquered!

Again, about 100 metres past Moss, I had to pull over to rest my legs and get my heart rate down to a more comfortable pace. I took a minute or so rest and set off on the next steep stretch to Government House, the official Lieutenant Governor of BC mansion, with its beautiful public gardens. When I reached that summit, still able to talk, I felt elated. I honestly didn't think I would make it this far without having to get Jennifer to walk or push. She snapped my picture at the Government House gates just before we rolled through the manicured gardens.

I exited on to Joan Crescent and the last four blocks remained of the final stretch. Here the pictures tell the story.

The last few feet, I couldn't help but grin. I knew my legs would be sore the next day, but I did it! It seemed the perfect way to end my summer of pedicabbing.  While Jennifer is lighter than most typical fares, and had no problems with my two stops to catch my breath, I could even imagine doing it again with real tourists, rather than a sympathetic girlfriend.

In all it took at least 40 minutes to make the climb, and less than 15 minutes to come down. If I were charging it would be a $60 trip. The descent was beautiful, breezy, refreshing and fast.  Wheee! The zippy ride back down was almost worth the struggle going up.

What did Jennifer think? Did my struggle make her feel uncomfortable lounging behind? 

"Nope, it was great," said Jennifer.

As I rolled back into the barn I was glowing with satisfaction (and exertion). But I couldn't help but feel some sadness and nostalgia that is was my last, victorious, pedicab ride.  

To say it takes a certain amount of physical fitness and stamina to be a good pedicab driver is rather banal - well, duh! But equally important, if not more so, I've learned, is mental attitude. One's state of mind on any given day marks the difference between success or failure, good interactions or bad, rides or no rides.
Channeling positive energy

In the barn, talk sometimes turns to the necessary mindset of successful pedicabbing. "If you are having a bad day, it is not the day, man," said Adam (aka Jesus), " It's you!"

Tom B. often waxes passionately on how to nuture the right attitude, the right positive energy field that attracts others to you. For him it is other-directed service and helpfulness. He'll talk about how some people are surrounded by negative energy that you can feel and  almost see. "They're like black holes, they'll suck the energy from you," he says. Sensitive to their pull, he tries to avoid all negative people - whether tourists on the street, locals, or even other more gloomy pedicab drivers. 

Tom is the kind of naturally wired guy who seems to vibrate at a higher frequency than other more laid back types and to ring with the vibrations of others. US writer Anna Quindlen, in one memorable 1980s column for the New York Times, coined the term "tuning fork people", describing herself and people like Tom.

And for years I have known that I, too, am a tuning fork person. I can emit an almost perceptible tone that speaks to my mental state. At times it can draw people to me; at times it can drive them away. My husband calls it my high pitch dog whistle.

Tom awaiting his next faresIt has taken me almost 50 years, but I have learned ways to control this tone, to help shift it to the positive side of the spectrum. Regular exercise, meaningful relationships, and good sleep are key. Yoga is a new addition to my arsenal of mind control powers. Seven years ago I ventured into a new age store looking for a relaxation tape to help my then seven-year-old daugther (another tuning fork) settle at night. I was inexplicably drawn to a book on the shelf, Eckhart Tolle's The Power of Now -- (this before Oprah had made it a best seller and confessed that it has a permanent spot on her bedside table.) I picked it up and read the jacket. The clerk saw me and said: "Everyone is raving about that one." 

So, along with leaving the store with a tape of nature sounds set to etheral music that could  loop in any spa, I left with a book that has given me a way to understand and control the tape of thoughts, negative or positive, that can loop repeatedly in my head.  I have become a strong believer in cultivating mindfulness and attention to the present moment.

As Tolle notes, a mind that is looping too much attention on the past tends to depression; one looping thoughts of an uncontrollable future, anxiety. I have been practising the Power of Now for years, at times with more success than at others. (I.e. February RRSP season: its ability to whip up fear of future financial woes inherent in the precarious work life of a freelance writer calls upon every drop of my Power of Now --"PON" -- skills .)

I had no idea,  however, when I started driving a Kabuki cab, how this would all come together. I simply thought I was embarking on a kinda cool summer fling that would keep me fit and give me something new to write about. But I have discovered  it has given me a physical and tangible reality in which to ground my understanding of the importance of effective thought control. 

Paying attention to the present moment, on a pedicab, is not just good mental hygiene -- it is life saving. If you are not completely alert to the here and now you are apt to get smucked by a tour bus or crash into a taxi cab.

The result is that six to eight hours of riding around in complete mindfulness - alert to the traffic, the people, the sights and sounds -- has been a recipe for happiness and stress reduction. The endorphins helped create that positive mood, but even on days without a heavy workout, I would come home anxiety-free, my tuning fork ringing a positive tone. La-di-dah. To-do list? What to do list! Let's eat.

The bonus has been that the more positive my vibe, the more it seemed I drew others of positive ilk to me. Like attracts like they say.

That thesis -- what you put out in thoughts comes back to you in tangible results-- is the basis of another new age dogma now making books fly off the shelves: the Law of Attraction.  One of the most hyped best-sellers touting this law is "The Secret," which also comes with a DVD. I rented the DVD this summer (almost embarassed to be seen doing so at my local video store, Victoria's amazing Pic-a-flic.) Frankly, I was appalled at the Secret's manipulative take on this universal truth, twisting it  to material ends. Use positive thoughts, it touted, and you will obtain financial success! a nice house! a fancy car! a fat bank account! 

But an ember glows in all this - fanned into a true spiritual path by Tolle, into the flames of rampant commercialism and pursuit of the American dream by the Secret: our thoughts by and large do create our reality.

And therefore, I realized sadly yesterday, my thoughts have turned to trepidation about rides again. Instead of riding three times a week, I am now riding just once a week. Three times a week was perfect - fitness kept building, and my muscles  had time to rest and heal in between. I could feel I was getting stronger and stronger.

Randy laughed three weeks ago when I told him to put me down for once a week. "It is not enough," he said. "You ll be hurting. Wait 'til you get a couple of big people up Government..."

He is right. It is not enough. My last three shifts have been painful, hard.  I am rapidly getting weaker - a shocking finding that function-specific fitness can wan so fast when I still bike to work, walk everywhere, work out at the Y.

A week ago I had a lovely (but rather portly) couple from Australia hop in my cab at the museum  wanting to go to Bastion Square. I had to ask them to get out in the second block of the Government street incline. I couldn't continue. It was a horrible feeling, for me and I think for them, too. I saw them later and gave them a free ride (all downhill) to their hotel. We laughed about aging; they gave me a nice tip. But I realized then it is not fair to rides to pick them up and not be able to do the job. And it sure is hard on my ego.

 So yesterday, the first time since June, my tuning fork was emiting a don't ride with me tone to all but the slenderest clients. And as a result I only did three rides -- and one was a business ride with my friend, conductor Simon Capet , who stepped into my rolling "office"  so we could talk details  about our up coming October performance of Dvorak's Spectre's Bride. (It will be awesome, see www.simoncapet.com.) My work and home life is now just too busy to go back to three times a week. So, with sadness, I realize it is time to draw my pedicabbing summer to a close.

But there is one more thing I must do. I must attempt the castle.  I can't call it a season without at least once trying that ascent. Now all I need is a lightweight, sympathetic cargo to come along for the ride -- two small people who won't be offended if I have to ask them to walk a block or two. My girls?...

Fall in the airA fall chill hangs in the morning air and September is just a day away. Anyone indoctrinated by the school system -- i.e. all of us -- can't help but associate September as the true start of the New Year. I have felt anxious and stresed all week, both preparing my kids for their return to classes and myself for the gearing up of my professional life once again. I've been tying up loose ends, getting to nagging duties I've let slide over the summer,  writing story proposals for editors and, ramping up on a radio documentary I am doing for CBC Ideas this fall.

I had planned to ride the pedicab two or three times this week -- enjoying my last few days of freedom and summer --  but as one item was tackled on my to do list a new one took its place. Cabbing would have released my stress, but my conscience nagged: okay now Annie dear, fun is over. Enough of this pedicabbing shenanigans, back to real life.

But I don't want to stop just yet. I still plan to ride Saturdays now until at least the end of September. I love the workout, I love the time away from my desk and computer, I love the fresh air and the human interaction.

Over the last three months some memorable incidents have occured that I haven't told. Here are a few highligts.

Most surreal ride 

Brent Gleason and I, one weekday morning in early August, picked up a well dressed, handsome family of four outside the Empress. Originally from an Asian country, they consisted of the dad, mom, 5-year old daughter, all now living in Vancouver,  and the petite aunt, sister of the mom, visiting from their former country. (The reason for my vagueness will soon to be revealed... read on.) All was run of the mill as we took them to Fisherman's Wharf, where they delighted in feeding Sammy the seal. We then "up sold" them on a longer, hour tour, to Beacon Hill Park.

But it was standing outside the goat petting corral of Beacon Hill Childrens Zoo that things got decidedly interesting. Brent, the dad, and I stood by the fence waiting while the tiny perfect daughter and aunt were brushing the comical pygmie goats and the mom was wandering the little zoo grounds. "What brought you to Canada?" I asked.

And so began, in a slow, rambling and non-chalant delivery, the most bizarre and jaw dropping story of his former life a decade ago as a high placed government official close to the seat of power. Around him included a murderous raging despot who killed with impunity, others being blackmailed and framed or enduring rigged trials and false imprisonment on "morality" issues that would nary raise an eyebrow in Canada.  He told stories of a mileau marked by lusts for power and corruption.  Brent and I said repeatedly through all this:  "You're kidding? No way!"

Yet we knew he was serious. The upshot was that, as an innocent, his life had been in danger. He came to Canada under something akin to an international witness protection program, with a new life and a new career. ("So I guess you don't want me blogging all the details, huh?" I said. To which he blanched: "What? You have a blog. Oh God, no details.")

Now all the turmoil had settled in his former country and he had been invited to return home, perhaps to take up political office or the role of an ambassador to another country, but he had declined. He had built a successful business, his kids and wife were happy. "Canada, relatively, is very boring," he said. "But this is the place to raise your kids, get them  a good education. I don't need that kind of excitement any more. I'll take boring anyday."

Sun was streaming in dappled light through the pines. Children were squealing and laughing at the antics of the tiny goats. All was serene; the picture of peace order and good government. 

Back outside the Empress he took out a huge wad of bills and paid Brent and I $140 each, gave us his phone number and offered to help us if we ever needed anything, and even said he could give Brent a job when pedicab season ended if he wanted. "I'm always looking for good hard workers, self starters," he said.

Brent and I regaled the other drivers with our story over a beer back at the barn. "He was having you on. It can't be true," some said. But Brent and I shook our heads. "No, we believe him."

"In fact, I think I'm going to call him for a job," said Brent. 

( One detail: when we rode, strong and strapping Brent, who usually pulls a big tandem cab, somehow took the tiny kid and the stick-figure aunt, while I hauled the 6'2" dad and healthy-sized mom. The trip to Fisherman's Wharf was easy, but the long gruelling hill into the park was brutal. As I panted I felt deflated: two months of riding and I am still struggling on this dang hill. I even made  the dad get out and walk the final, excrutiating stretch. Finally, I yelled to Brent: "Hey! You gotta give me the kid!! I'm dying! I'm 20 years older than you!! Have mercy!" We did the switch and the rest of the ride, for me, was a breeze. And Brent hardly noticed the difference.)

Most recurring irritation

That's easy: aggressive,  time-strapped drivers.

Anyone who has lived in Victoria for more than a week will know that the Inner Harbour, particularly in summer, is a swamp of slow moving traffic. Gawking lost tourists in rental cars try to find their hotels; slow trodding clip-clopping horse carriages plod at 3 miles an hour; heavy breathing pedicab drivers grunt up Government at 4 miles an hour (at least we are slightly faster than the horses); hop-on-and-off tour buses belch exhaust and stop every block;  more lost, disoriented tourists in cars stream off the Coho Ferry from Port Angeles, Wash. twice a day.

So why, in god's name, do some locals try to zoom through the Inner Harbour, and get warped with tension and
Horse carriage backlog vein-throbbing rage when they meet the predictable congestion? Yet, routinely, day after day, they do. They gun their engines,  yell out open windows "get off the road! They ride their horns, or give the finger to those impeding their progress. They refuse to let pedicabs into traffic or yell at us when we take up a full lane, such as we are required to do rounding Suicide Corners, to ensure we don't get pinched or killed by yahoos like them.

I don't want to dwell on this -- too negative -- and in the scheme of things only a tiny fraction of the hundreds we interact with daily. But here are two stories of lost souls.

One busy touristy day, I was stopped at the light at the start of the Government St. incline among a group of cars. More than 40 tourists were crossing the wide intersection from the Tourist Centre to the corner of the Empress Hotel. One  elderly woman was mincing with a walker and when the light changed to green was still in the middle of the intersection. We all waited patiently, except for one driver who put his hand on the horn and held it there, as if somehow that respectful considerate gesture would speed up the walk of an aging woman with mobility issues. All eyes turned: who is the offensive jerk?

I expected to see a young man in a souped up car, but, astonishingly, it was an elderly man, looking almost as old as the shuffling woman,  who held his hand on the horn so viciously. Everyone around stared and yelled: "Hey! Stop it! Get a life!" One fellow on the sidewalk beside the car slapped the man's car hood with his hand. "Hey, a**h***!  knock it off!." But, undeterred, the old man kept his hand on the horn until the shaken woman cleared the intersection. (I'll bet that's one enchanted tourist who will return to friendly Victoria!)

Twice I was aggressively cut off --almost to the point of injury -- by drivers who were angered that I was taking the whole lane in the area of Yates and Wharf streets -- a place where pedicabs have to turn or race across a bad narrow intersection at the same time many cars are rushing to get on or off the blue bridge to Esquimalt, a busy commuter route. Both times in that locale, drivers pulled around me and slammed on their brakes in front of me, both times forcing me to veer and brake suddenly to avoid smashing into their bumper. I lookedup to see them giving me the finger in the mirror. Both times I burst into tears  (unfortunately that's my too common reaction to feelings of anger and dismay - damn being a woman of a certain age.) How could someone be so twisted as to want to cause physical harm to another because they were delayed four or five seconds or missed a light?

My first instinct was to lash back - ram their car with my cab -- but only one reaction was right and would really do: I breathed in deeply and tried to find a well of compassion that said: "Man, do I ever feel sorry for you and your rage at minor transgressions! It must be awful being you." And I would hold my head high, (despite adrenalin-racing pulse) and ride on.

Most feel good ride

 The long rides with the big tips always made me puffed with glee, many, many rides were with lovely enchanting people the world over, but the most enduringly satisfying moments were my gifts of free rides. I've written about a few of them in this blog, but one favourite was my hour-long James Bay Heritage Home Tour that I gave to a dear girlfriend, Sandy, on her 50th birthday.

Sandy and I had our first babies on the same day a few hours apart in the same hospital -- we joke they cleaned the operating room from my C-section and then wheeled her in. My daughter and her son were fast friends in the early years (when kids made no distinct among sexes) and we carpooled everyday to pre-school.

I will never forget the day 10 years ago, when our postnatal group of about 7 mothers who had hung together for almost five years, all met at her house for morning coffee. Most of us had two kids each by then, some breastfeeding babes in arms. There was laughter and talk, mothers all in the living room, older kids playing in the den while the  younger ones toddled or crawled around us.

And then Sandy, who we all noted had lost a lot of weight from her always slender frame the last few months, cleared her throat and dropped a bombshell: "I have incurable non-Hodgkins lymphoma," she said. We all spent the rest of the morning crying, hugging, sobbing, trying to wrestle with the  injustice that a young beautiful talented and gracious women, with two kids under five, should be dealt such a bitter, unfair hand. 

A few months later, all the moms got together again at a community kitchen and cooked a months' worth of meals all at once to help her through the  rigours of chemotheraphy. With Sandy sitting as guest of honor in the middle of this big industrial kitchen, we drank wine, danced to tunes on the boom box and worked in teams chopping onions, dicing vegetabes, stirring pots of lasagna noodles or simmering soups and sauces to make four or five dishes of what we hoped would be easy eating comfort food. It was a raucous cooking party. (One of the meals we made, however, we all thought was a yummy pureed curry squash apple soup. Alas, now it is so associated with that difficult time that Sandy can't even smell something vaguely like it without feeling nauseated.)

Back then, she was told she might have 7 good years if she was lucky.  But now she has had 10 and looks to have many more. She lives and loves full and well. She is physically active and strong. She was able to go back to work as a nurse part time, and  now heads an important program to help deter teenagers from drinking and driving and making other stupid choices. She has been by her husband's side as his medical career has advanced, been a loving and attentive mother to her two sons and watched them grow. And she, more than many I know these days, understands and values the preciousness of the moment.

And that is one of the reasons I always like spending time with Sandy. She is real and deep and grounded. So this sunny, warm Friday afternoon of her 50th birthday, we met outside the parkade on Yates St with a hug. She climbed into my cab and I gave her a thermos of non-alcoholic sparkling wine and poured it into a wine glass I produced from my hold. She sat back and sipped as I pedalled slowly and leisurely through the Inner Harbour and onto the James Bay streets. We ohhed and awed at gingerbread barge boards, Queen Anne turrets, Italianate roof lines, and enchanting paint schemes. We chatted and caught up with the doings of our lives. It was one of the most relaxing and pleasurable hours I had all summer on a pedicab seat (and petite Sandy was easy to pull.) 

I didn't make lease that day, but I didn't care. Some days it really strikes home that some things are much more important than money.

The summer days are waning. Some of the pedicabbing crew are already calling it a season. Here are a few more of the dozens of people who have come through the barn this summer.

Beauty and the budding tycoon 

I first glimpsed sight of Katherine Porter as she swooped around Suicide Corners on her pedicab early one morning in
Katherine off to tackle the castleJune. It is safe to say all heads in the Inner Harbour turned to look at her. Just 21, she is one of those lucky young women graced with natural beauty whose presence draws all eyes towards her. Tall, slender, brown hair pulled back, big wide smile revealing perfect teeth, flawless skin-- not a feature out of place. Even my husband casually remarked one night over dinner. "So, erhm," he asked. "Who is the really gorgeous girl who drives a pedicab?"

"You mean Katherine? You've seen her?" I asked.

"She's kinda hard to miss."

I didn't know her well, at all --  and she has now returned to London to attend the University of Western Ontario -- but the few times I talked to her as we stood by our cabs on the Causeway she seemed to have a kind, sunny and engaging personality that complemented her looks.  Men would flirt openly with her and she would give a saucy, confident reply back.  It was easy to engage the strolling tourists with Katherine standing by, kind of like high school when the guys would talk to the clutch of regular girls due to the one knockout in our midst. Yet, it was a bit disconcerting for me, too,  standing next to young Katherine trying to sell my kabuki rides. So fresh and dewy, with life all before her, she was like the ripe peach and I the wilted produce past its best before date. 

One day in mid July a couple approached us asking to be taken to Craigdarroch Castle. So far I've refered all castle-goers to the stronger guys, but Katherine said, "Sure, hop in." She had never done the trip before but was game to try. I admired her confidence and spirit as she pulled away. I am much more timid. I learned later she had taken the lower road, Richardson, that skirts the hill and had the clients walk up the final brutal pitch. But she said yes to the castle and did it her way. That to me says spunk.  

Garratt at the readyHer boyfriend, Garratt Wootton, also 21 (and also now returned to the east), was among the most eager and focused drivers on the street. In commerce at UWO, Garratt  seemed to make money no matter what the day. He always made lease. He would be out on the rainy days cleaning up while the rest of us stayed home. Not one to lounge in the back of the cab, he seemed to always stand at the ready, on the balls of his feet, scouting for rides. He looked for ways to earn extra cash, referring people to restaurants that would give a kickback or earning commissions and free dinners for dropping clients at the new condo developments or time share outfits  that resulted in a sale. The one time we did a Chinatown/Oldtowne tour together with four 60-ish women, he somehow earned a generous tip from his duo while I came away with a loonie gratuity.  I still don't know how he did it. But there is something about Garratt and Katherine, should their union persist, that tells me they could be a Canadian power couple of the 2020s.

Bashful Buff Brit

Another young couple going through the barn this summer is Rich and Deborah, from Southern England via the Rockies where they worked and skied this past winter. Both 25, they met at a UK university where they both earned science-based degrees. Deborah doesn't ride but works in a bakery a few blocks away from the barn; Rich rides four or five days a week, sometimes double shifts. He attaches a British flag to the standard rising from his pedicab bumper, which sometimes draws the UK tourist to his cab. (But it is amazing and a bit distressing, says Rich, how many passersby don't know the flag. "Is that New Zealand?" they will ask him.)

Rich is another driver with natural good looks and a tall, muscular physique that could
Rich and Deborah at a barn BBQhave him grace any month of a fireman's calendar. Yet he is really quite shy and modest. He is embarrassed that some female rides oogle him and ask to commemorate their rides with a picture with him and his muscles. When I told him my story of night cabbing,  he told me his tales of sloshed women and their rather shocking invasions of his personal space. He doesn't like to trade on his masculine cache to sell his rides but Deborah laughs and says if women want to get into his cab because of the way he looks, she is fine with it. 

They will soon leave for further travels in the US, by way of San Francisco, making their way  back home to England to settle and be married in March of 2008. 

Kiwi kutie

Michelle Watson, 25, is another world traveller stopping by Victoria for a summer of kabbing to help pay her way to Europe this fall. One of at least four antipodeans in the barn this year -(the others work nights) she is a wee slip of a thing, no more than 5'2" and 115 pounds.  (And she is not the Michelle who was robbed. Oddly, at my count, there are at least three Michelles around the barn this year. )

Michelle getting ready to rollThis Michelle seems to swim in her Kabuki tee-shirt and long shorts. Her blonde hair is always pulled back into a pony tail that pokes out of the back of a bright red baseball cap. She rides three days a week, working the other days at a fitness club 45 minutes up Island in the community of Duncan. She always has a big smile on her face. Her perky, Kiwi-inflected "Hi there, how's your day going?" to the passing tourists  is often enough to stop the curious who ask, 'What is a tiny traveller like you doing driving a pedicab in Victoria?'

When I am struggling to cart a big load up Victoria hills, I find sustanence in the knowledge that if someone as small as Michelle can have the fitness and strength to do this job,  damn it,  I can too.

Philosopher king

Tom B., 37, was the very first driver I met my very first shift. He was checking over his blue tandem cab and we exchanged historical trivia driven by the fact it was the 250th anniversary of Captain George Vancouver's birth. It was obvious that Tom knows his Victoria and British Columbia history-- better than me (and I thought I was pretty good.)  He is a raconteur who brings Victoria's past to vivid life. He is the only driver whom I have seen open fan mail in the Kabuki office,  from a family from South Africa who sent a thank you note for being the highlight of their recent trip.

Tom is a 3-year Kabuki veteran and part time student working slowly toward a PhD (in math, I think-- he told me he likes to write math theorems in his spare time.) Tom has done more than any other in the barn (save Randy) to help me hone the skills, stories and attitude to be successful as a driver.

"If you just keep thinking, 'I am here to do a service. My goal is to help people whether they get in my cab or not,' then you have the right attitude," he counsels.

His service has included, particularly in his first year, routinely checking out the stock and sales at women's clothing and
Tom in front of gloat squares he won't fillshoe stores so he could advise his female rides. "What are you looking for? What price range? What colour?"  he would ask and then direct the woman to the best stores to potentially satisfy her need. He taught me to advise all passing families on the best things to do in Victoria with kids. His helpful stance routinely translates into others getting into his cab who have witnessed his  altruistic interactions.

No wonder I so often see wiry Tom with a full tandem cab (often hauling more than a tonne of weight that he pedals over Victoria streets), "up selling" from a short taxi ride to a one to two hour tour. He will ride full-time until mid-October, he thinks, then perhaps travel or go back to school.

And while Tom seems to have umpteen high earning days, he keeps his grosses to himself and never writes his totals in magic marker in the squares of the office boast wall.

"That would be giving in to the "gloat monster," he says.

Update on the night shift

To my relief, my tender left knee seems to have healed with no apparent weakness, but I am treating it gingerly. I tried another late shift last Friday, but Glynis wasn't riding due to a school commitment and it wasn't much fun without a familiar female companion so I stopped by midnight. My parents are relieved: "Don't do any more night shifts, please dear," they said via phone from Ontario.

Terry Weins, of Victoria Pedicab Tours and a frequent commenter on my blogs, stopped me on the street the other day and said, "Hey Anne, I read your night shift one...  And I couldn't quite figure...were you complaining or boasting?" he laughs.

A bit of both, Terry.  A bit of both.