One of the personalities on the streets of Victoria, who lends an air of refinement to the tourist shops of Government St., is chalk artist Ian Morris.

As I pedal up Government I will look over and find Morris on most dry days, dressed all in black with a black porkpie on his head,
Ian Morris astounds the tourists hunched over on his knees on the bricks outside the storefronts. He wears an orange button pinned on his shirt with his City of Victoria busker permit number. His hands are black with the chalk dust and street dirt. His head is down, concentrating on his work as passerby stop, snap a picture or watch with interest.

He says very little. Sometime he doesn’t even lift his head, intent on his work. Some passersby throw money in his basket, others remark and pass by without a contribution, even if they take a shot as proof of the fabulous sights they saw in their travels on the West Coast.

Pedicabbers like Tom B. routinely stop and throw a toonie in his basket. “Thanks brother,” says Tom. That’s because Morris takes what we all are doing – trying to entertain the tourist while earning a living – and gives it a touch of class. Elevates it.

Morris’s work is extraordinary.

These are not simple chalk sketches. His renderings are full scale reproductions of major artworks. He specializes in Renaissance art, particularly Ducth and Flemish masters such as Rembrandt, Rogier van der Weyden, Lucas van Leyden. Sometimes he does his own original creations – one fabulous colourful lady of his graced the street for two dry weeks earlier this summer. But he doesn’t like tourists snapping pictures of his originals, stealing his images - he tends to save those for oil canvases at home. 

Old masters in chalk and brick by MorrisSo he reproduces great works of art on the red bricks of Government St. He must start at the top of the painting and work his way down, lest his knees and hands erase the fragile strokes. Somehow he captures the light and texture of oil using only chalk or pastel on brick. By delicately rubbing the colours he can recreate a luminous patina. His skin tones are frankly astonishing. He will write across the top the name of the painting and its original painter, but he doesn't sign his name.

"I am not into the ego thing," he says.

Nor is he allowed by the city to have any outward solicitation, not even a sign that says; "If you enjoy this work, please contribute." Instead he has his little plastic basket in front of a happy face he has sketched on the sidewalk and the words: "Thank you."

He is considering adding another message. "If you wish to take pictures please ask permission first." He is irritated by those who stop, snap and remark without a word to him. He doesn't care so much about pictures snapped without a contribution to his basket. (But he does find it odd that his work might be worthy of a photo but not a recognition of the artist who has taken sometimes two or three days to create it.)  But  photos without asking him makes him feel akin to some tribes' belief that a photo steals one's soul.  

"Some people always ask, "Excuse me Sir, do you mind?" Particularly people from the Southern US. They are so polite. I really appreciate that," he says.

Others asks questions about how he does it, whether he preserves the work with a fixative (he doesn't), whether he takes pictures of the works himself to record for posterity (he doesn't.) or whether he uses the lines of the bricks to aid the proportioning of reproduction (he doesn't.)   But he prefers not to talk much about his work or himself. He would rather just concentrate on drawing.

Besides, who knows how long he has. As he works on a Rogier van der Weyden portrait of a woman he says: "The forecast is for three days of rain. This might all be gone by tomorrow."

Sure enough, that night the rains start. And the hours of his devotion run in colours down the gutter.

You can surmise a lot about the state of peoples' relationships watching them interact on vacation.

I've seen umpteen couples sitting on benches in the Inner Harbour, or walking down the Causeway, separated by a foot or more, staring straight ahead not speaking to each other nor touching. The frisson between them is palpable, the separation a gulf that won't be bridged by a Victoria vacation. If one stops to ask me about my tours and rates, the other will likely stand back, arms crossed over the chest, irritated and impatient. They walk on and I am relieved they don't get in my cab- they never do.

Some have outward appearance of happiness but a crack will reveal the undercurrent of tension or life-long patterns of dominance and submission. One day a handsome, well-dressed 60-ish couple stops outside the Empress, right in front of my cab. She is taking a picture  of him with their digital camera. I offer to snap a shot of the two of them together. They both smile at me.

"Oh, thank you. How nice," she says and hands me the camera. They stand back, put their arms around each other, pose and grin. I take the shot and then view the image in the digital screen. It looks a bit dark.

"Did I get it? I ask.

The husband takes the camera, presses a few buttons. Black scowl. Lips purse. He then erupts at her.

"Goddammit, how many times do I have to tell you!? Don't put it on that setting! Are you stupid?

"I thought I had it right," she almost whispers, head bowed. 

"One more time and I won't let you use it. Do you understand? Do you?" He mutters and scolds her in a condescending tone as he fiddles with the buttons. She keeps her head down.

Then he hands the camera back to me with a friendly smile as if nothing untoward has occurred. "Can you try again please?"   The 180 degree turn is bizarre -- friendly to me, contempt for her.

The two stand back, put their arms around each other and smile. I take the shot. The picture in the screen looks like a long-married couple happily on vacation. "Thanks" they say and walk on. I know from this tiny snapshot this pattern of communication is the norm for them.

Truly happy people togther - families, lovers, friends - radiate their pleasure in each other's company like heat from a stove. You can't help smiling when you see them  Two beaming Newfoundland sisters , so happy at being reunited after a a year apart, warmed up one of my earliest rides and started turning my pedicab experience around, from humiliation to fun. I love it when happy couples ascend into my cab. Their joy is contagious.

Sometimes, if the couple is a man and a woman, I assume them to be lovers. One early evening I spy a couple walking with smiles, engaged in happy heartfelt conversation down the causeway.  She is no doubt older than the man, but I cannot discern the age gap - 10 years? 12? Maybe even 15?

They smile at me.

"A romantic ride for two in my pedicab?" I pose.

"He's my SON!" she says aghast. We all laugh.

But it is a compliment, both for her youthful look and their happy countenance. He puts his arm around her and kisses her cheek pretending to be romantic and they laugh all the way down the Causeway. My slip has made their day.

For more than a month now, other pedicab drivers have been asking me: "Are you going to do a bar shift?"

I hem and haw. I am not sure I want to be on Victoria's downtown streets until 3 am.

"You've got to do a night shift," everyone says. "It's a completely different scene."

"It is like night and day!" jokes another.

Some veteran riders, like Tom B., no longer do nights. "I don't like it," says Tom. "You are hauling drunks around."
Glynis diva of the night streets

Others, like Glynis MacDonald, riding for five years, almost exclusively do nights. "It's good money," says Glynis. "And it's fun. You gotta try it before the summer's over."

Glynis is confident and savvy, admired as one of the best riders in the barn, a woman who holds her own with the guys. She frequently works as a relief dispatcher for Randy, running the operation at night, keeping everyone in line. When she rides she wears a signature black fedora, with her long strawberry blonde hair flowing behind.

It is Glynis's perspective as a woman that most interests me. I have learned in my life, after a few scary and unpleasant experiences mostly in my 20s, to be wary of being out alone at night. As a feminist I firmly believe women the world over should feel as safe as men on dark streets. But as a rationalist and mother I accept the unpleasant reality and make my daughters accept it. Take back the night? Yah, but when was the night ever ours?

Besides, in my first week cabbing I had heard that a young female rider named Michelle (whom I've never met nor seen), had been robbed late on a Friday night by her ride when giving him back his change. He grabbed all her money and ran.

"What about Michelle -- aren't you worried?" I ask Glynis.

"No, not really. We all watch out for each other. And you develop a radar for it. If you don't feel comfortable don't do the ride, " said Glynis, adding, "And you know, Michelle held her own. She chased him down. He lost one of his expensive shoes running away. And she pitched it into the Inner Harbour. So he didn't come out ahead."

Glynis offers to show me the ropes, let me follow her around at night anytime I want to come out.

This week, I put aside my trepidation and sign up for a Friday night bar shift, 8 pm to 3 am.

I am slightly nervous all day -- butterflies. Yet I can see why others, who have day jobs or who are in school like Glynis, who is at the West Coast School of Massage Therapy in the spa program, like working nights. I put in a full day of writing work, have dinner with the family and then take our car to the barn for my shift.

I am yawning as I drive downtown and I have at least 8 hours ahead of me. I am not sure how I will last beyond my usual 11 pm bedtime.

Glynis is already out on the street, but other night riders who are doing their cab inspections at the barn are surprised to see me pull in. "Hey! Are you coming out tonight?! Awesome!'

Adam, nicknamed "Jesus" for his flowing hair and beard that gives him an uncanny resemblance to 19th Century biblical illustrations, reassures me and exchanges cellphone numbers. "Call me anytime. You'll be fine," he says. (How can I be nervous with Jesus on my side?) We all pack sweat shirts for ourselves and cozy blankets for our rides for the night air off the ocean.

Dusk is beautiful over the Inner Harbour. The Parliament buidlings have a pinkish hue, the Sooke Hills are glowing purple as the sun sets behind them. At the top of Wharf St. looking out over the harbour, the upper decks of the two cruise ships poke out over the tree tops, a few kilometres away at Ogden Point, like instant apartment blocks reflecting the brilliant yellow and red rays of the sun. The air is fresh, envigorating.

The streets feel more energized than during the days. The festive glow of the sunset lends a party atmosphere. That
Lights illuminate the legislature energy transfers to us riders. No worries about yawns or sleepiness. I feel pumped and strong. I don't even seem to breathe heavily going up the hills. Everything seems a bit easier. As the light fades, more than 3,000 lights outline the legislature facade, giving a magical quality to the vista. People stop to take pictures.

Some 4,000 visitors from the two cruise ships are milling about for a few hours. By 9 pm I start doing runs back to the cruise ship, $20 a pop. As soon as I drop off one and rush back to the Inner Harbour, I pick up another. I do three in a row -- everyone loves the ride --and returning from my third, by Fisherman's Wharf, pick up a fourth for another $10. It is just 10 pm, pitch black with no moon, and I have paid off my $70 lease.

"If you've made lease by this time of night, you're set up well for the bar runs," Glynis tells me.

But despite 16 years in Victoria, I don't really know where all the popular bars are.

"Follow me," says Glynis.

She takes me around her bar trolling route. She shows me how to negotiate the pilons into Bastion Square to hang out by Darcy's Pub. She points out the gay bar, the hard core rocker bar, the strip club, the young crowd's "Plan B" nightclub, and the old standby the Sticky Wicket (that one I know as my choir hangout) and the more up scale Hugos in the Magnolia Hotel. She tells me about the bar Evolution, way down past Chinatown, in a semi-deserted area. "But I try not to go down there too often. It is off the beaten track," she says.

Glynis is effortlessly outgoing. She talks to everyone. "Hey ladies, want a ride?" she will say. Or,"Hey fellas, where you heading?" She speaks to absolutely everyone in an assertive, positive tone.

Waiting outside the Irish TimesBetween 10:30 pm and 11:30 pm is typically a lull in rides, Glynis tells me. The cruise ship passengers have all gone back to the boats, but the bar crowd is not yet coming out. So all the pedicabs tend to congregate around in the flat entrance to Bastion Squares outside the popular Irish Times Pub.

At 10:50 pm, six of us are sitting there, talking and comparing the evening so far. I am saying something like , "I really like nights. It's fun!," when a group of six rowdy young men and women stumble out of the pub and jump in the nearest cabs - mine, Jeeves's and Evert P.'s.

"Take us to the cruise ships," they slur. "We're crew. We have to be there by 11 pm."

We have 10 minutes to do a typical 20 minute ride. Evert leads down Bastion Square at a fast clip. I follow. My passengers, a blonde-haired nurse from Britain and a dark haired Italian engineer, snuggle under the blanket in the back.

"Let's put up the canopy," the engineer says. He is struggling to put the black cover up. I hear Jeeves yelling behind us, but I am concentrating on keeping up to Evert and ignore the commotion behind me. I take off down the street.

"Stop! Stop! Stop!," Jeeves is yelling. "Don't put up the canopy. There is stuff in it!!!

Oh %$#@! I have forgotten that I store all my stuff -- my guest book, water, snack and maps folder -- in the folds of my canopy for fast access. Jeeves has rescued the guest book. All the other stuff has presumably flown off somewhere over the street. I don't have time to search for it now.

In a convoy of three we roar down past the Tourist Centre. On the downhill I have no trouble keeping up to the guys. But as we round the corner in front of the legislature on the flats leading to an incline, they quickly begin to out pace me.

"Keep up to them!" my passengers demand.

"Look at his legs go," the nurse marvels at Jeeves' blur of rapid revolutions.

There is no way I can keep up. I can feel my legs aching already and I have at least 15 minutes to go. The guys get further and further ahead.

"We picked a dud," says the engineer.

I try to humour them. "Hey, you are lucky. (Pant, pant!). You have the oldest female (pant, pant) pedicab driver in Victoria history."(Pant pant)

"What's your name oldest driver?"

I say Anne, but it comes out more as a grunt, AHHHHNNN. They laugh uproariously and imitate my name, almost as if vomiting. AHHHNNNN!

Man these guys are obnoxious.

Jeeves and Evert are out of sight. We can't even see their distant tail lights. I am on the waterside route; they must have taken a residential street. Now my passengers heckle me for not only being slow but for not knowing the fastest route. The engineer pretends to whip me like old mare. "Faster, AHHNNN, faster." They are laughing, alternating between encouraging me - "You are doing great AHHNNN!" and wisecracking "You better be able to put us up in a hotel. We are staying at AHHNNN's house if we miss the ship."

I have never cycled as fast as this, but as we approach the cruise ships, gliding down the final stretch, I suddenly notice my left knee is throbbing. Oh, crap. I have struggled with a left knee problem off and on the last few years and last fall, after blowing out my knee during a 10 k trail run, I had to go through four months of physio. I have the sinking feeling that on this one stupid ride I may have set my knee back months.

I see Evert and Jeeves pulling out of the cruise ship roundabout as I pull up to the pier. It is 11:06, I have done the ride in 16 minutes, arriving maybe two minutes behind the guys. They give me a knowing thumbs up as if their rides have been just as boorish despite their faster pace.

"You did great! We are only a few minutes late.Way to go," says the nurse.

Enlightened Evert PaterThe nurse and engineer both pull out $20 bills to pay. The nurse gives me hers first, and then the engineer still holds his out. I contemplate taking both -- the ride was brutal, my knee aches, but I decline his $20, telling them to work it out. They look at me as if I am an idiot. (Evert scolds me later back at the barn: "You should have taken $40. Steve and I both took $40!!! They were obnoxious. Obnoxious people pay extra!" )

I cycle back slowly into the downtown core, testing the strength of my knee. Some rotations it feels fine, then it seems to catch and stick with a stab of pain, like a hinge without oil. Dang! I go along Wharf St. to Courtenay, trying to retrace our earliest blocks to see if I can find my missing stuff dropped from the canopy. I find my water bottle and snack Ziplock of almonds and goji berries in the gutter near Fort St. and Langley.

I pull in front of the Irish Times, pissed at myself for not controlling the situation better, for injurying my knee to placate passengers I should have instead told to button up or take a hike. Glynis rolls up. She saw my maps pack fly off in the first block and retrieved it. At least I have all my gear back.

Over the next hour I do a bunch of short rides between bars. Where daytime rides are all about knowledgable slow tours,  night rides are all about speed. All passengers are in their cups but relatively manageable, even the guy who is singing at the top of his lungs. He wants to stand up as we coast down Douglas St. and I tell him no and he pouts. "At least I asked first," he says. My knee twinges in pain off and on.

Glynis has told me night drivers work for tips not time -- it is too dark to see the numbers on my stop watch. anyway. This "pay what you want" policy tends to skew in our favour. Rides give me $10 for a 5 minute ride, $20 for a 10 minute ride. The exception is three young girls, barely looking of legal drinking age despite blatant displays of ripe young cleavage. (If I were a bouncer, I would card them, but my passenger giggles, telling me their experience that night at Plan B: "There was a great big line, but the bouncer just let us walk right in." Giggle giggle.) They give Glynis and me each a single loonie for a five block ride between bars. "Sorry, that is all we have," they say disingeniously as they enter the bar. No money as they go clubbing? Well, I guess their plan is to use their impressive decolletage get drinks and a ride home.

It is 1:15 am. I have made at least $130 so far and I am trolling Glynis's route, rolling past Hugo's bar. A middle-aged man, tanned, blond, black open-neck shirt, black crisp seamed pants is standing on the sidewalk. He smiles when he sees me and waves. I slow. He is mid-40s and looks like Rod Stewart circa 1990 without the mullet. He runs across the street and jumps in the back. Almost immediately he seems way too friendly, leaning forward, putting his hands on my back as if to steady himself. My radar goes off, but he is already in my cab. I act as if everything is cool. I am cool.

"Where do you want to go?"

"Where do you want to take me?" he oozes. "I'm all yours." He is totally sloshed.

He wants a bar, a happening place, but not too young a crowd. A place where he will feel comfortable. Irish Times is now closed. I have no idea. I pedal up Government. Spy Evert and Glynis. I yell across the street, describe my passenger's needs. "Where should I take him?"

"Swans!" they respond in unision.

I pedal down Government to Pandora. The streets are more dark and deserted here.

"You've got the cutest little bum," he says. This guy is really hammered.

He stands up and leaning forward around to the side, out over the street, peers at my face, assessing the crinkles around my eyes, the softening of my neck.

"But hey, you are not young!" he says, seemingly delighted. " What are you? 43? 45? I am 45!," he says as if this gives us an instant bond.

"Sit down! " I order. He obeys. Then I give my standard line, with as much authority and stern voice as possible: "I am the oldest female pedicab driver in Victoria history. I am five months away from my 50th birthday!"

"No shit! You look fantastic. You have a fantastic bum! "

To my astonishment he put his hands out and squeezes my bottom, then runs his hands up and down my back.

"Get your hands off of me," I order.

I stand up and cycle, putting more distance between us. We arrive at Swans.

"Here we are." I say. "Out you go, now!"

"But I want to keep riding with you!" he says. " Let's go somewhere else."

"No. Here you are. Out you go! Pay what you want."

"I think that was only worth $10," he says, snarkily.

"Fine," I say.

I am turning around to cycle back to the Irish Times, when a young couple flags me.

"Take us to Evolution."

Ugh. I want to head back to civilization but instead we pedal past boarded-up buildings, the homeless shelter, the dark and deserted Capital Iron , vacant parking lots. Street lighting is dismal.

A crowd is outside, but my couple is embarassed to be seen dropped off by a pedicab. I drop them off down the block, far enough away, they think, from judgemental eyes. He gives me $10 for a $5 ride.

I ride back over dark deserted streets. The emptiness makes me apprehensive. I have about $150 around my waist. It is 1:35 am. My knee at one moment feels fine, and then for multiple revolutions aches. I try to stretch it out. For an entire block it seizes, as if the knee cap is caught. Extreme pain. Then it releases.

I am half a block from the barn. I can see its warm light spilling out onto the parking lot. I contemplate lasting out the night. But my knee and the knowledge that rides are apt to be as drunk or drunker than my lecherous man, heads me to the barn.

Mike, the night dispatcher, and Cole,19, a young keener from Alberta,  are sitting in the office. Cole rides at least five days a week, often double shifts in a day. Cole is the front runner for Randy's annual Rookie of the Year Prize. Randy has even allowed him to have his own tandem cab that Cole has customized with blue lights and a stereo system. But tonight in an extremely rare event, Cole 's brakes on his tandem have malfunctioned with a full four person tour from the cruise ships, forcing him to unload his passengers and call it a night. Otherwise he would still be out there.

I get a beer from the fridge and sit and tell them my night shift adventures, including the bum grab.
Cole's Kabuki thigh

"You mean that crap happens to you at your age, too?" says an incredulous Mike. And when I laugh, yah, he says. "Oh sorry."

Cole describes the knee injury that sidelined him for more than a week earlier in the season. "Your thigh muscles are getting so strong so fast that the ligaments can't accommodate and you can pull your kneecap our of alignment," he explains. Then he rolls up the leg of his long shorts and shows me the bulging, enormous vastus lateralis muscle on the outside of his thigh. "We call that the tandem bulge."

We sit chatting about cabbing and how to avoid injury. "Make sure to alternate your power leg that pushes off from a stop. That evens out the stress on your knees," advises Cole.

My cellphone rings. It is my teenager daughter who has woken up to find that I am not yet home. "Where are you? What are you doing out so late? When are you coming home?" she says groggily. I file this table-turned experience for a future teaching moment.

It is 3 am. Other drivers start rolling into the barn. Everyone takes a beer from the fridge and lounges in the back of the cabs, telling funny stories of cabbing adventures. The easy camaraderie is one of the best parts of the night. It reminds me of the late night hanging around with friends in my single 20s. I am tempted to stay longer, but I have a family and a full Saturday ahead. At 3:30 am I say goodnight and head home.

The house is quiet. Even the dog doesn't rouse. I slip in beside my husband and fall asleep by 4 am with an ice pack wrapped around my knee.

As I roll the streets of Victoria lately, I have been reflecting on the life of early modern humans 40,000 years ago. Not the nasty, damp, cave-dwelling stuff, but rather the diet and movement part of life.

Pedicabbing, I've found, is remarkably akin to a hunter-gatherer existence. We troll for rides at least six to eight hours a day, constantly moving, aerobic activity mixed with short bursts of huff and puff anerobic hill climbing, like setting traps and chasing down game. I must nibble all day or I get lightheaded and dizzy -- nuts and berries, trail mix -- washing it down with water.

I have no appetite for a midday meal. Something heavy digesting in my stomach and I'll feel sick climbing Government St. with a load. Go out, however, without some breakfast of protein and fat in my belly and I won't last out the day. Eggs and bacon start my day now.

When I come home, I am ravenous, particularly for vitamin-rich fruit and especially for animal protein. I crave oranges, grilled meat, fish or chicken. I can almost picture myself gnawing on a roast leg of lamb around a firepit, like Ayla in Clan of the Cave Bear.

And then there are the positive endorphins from physical exertion. It is as if our bodies have been designed to reward ourselves with pleasurable, happy feelings when we have been physically working hard, out on the hunt all day -- even if our catch is lean.

Yesterday I made just $3 over lease. I rode almost constantly over eight hours, I talked to a lot of people, gave six rides earning a total of $48. Intellectually I was disappointed. Rationally I worried about finances should days like that continue. But inside I still felt calm, relaxed and optimistic. I ate and slept well. The positive endorphins, despite the lean catch, seem designed to help me feel pumped to go back out on the hunt another day in the hope of better gains.

On days where the returns are good and the physical exertion hard, I have felt close to euphoric. If I were Ayla, I can picture myself whooping and hollering, dancing around the firepit in celebration of my recent bounty and the work it took to bring it home. This natural high, without alcohol or stimulants, is almost scary in its mania-like similarities, but it comes with no bipolar crash.

In short, I seem to be thriving -- both mentally and physically -- on a lifestyle that mimics aspects of Cro-magnon life.

As a health writer for 25 years I've reportied on disturbing trends in obesity, diabetes, heart disease and cancer. And at the same time I've chronicled how nutritional research is finding foods like blueberries and pomegranates, walnuts and almonds, leafy green or colourful vegetables all confer health benefits or how omega-3 rich food, like fatty fish or flax, need to be added back into our diet. Or how removing refined and processed foods, especially refined carbohydrates, can eliminate some health ills, like irritable bowel syndrome or in increasing numbers, celiac disease from wheat products.

And now as a pedicabber I can see disparate elements of diet, exercise, disease and disability all coming together. Others are saying it, but to me it is ringing ever more true: we all would be healthier and happier if we could more closely emulate the food and physicality of our paleolithic past.

Evidence is everywhere that our genetic heritage hasn't caught up to the conveniences of modern life. These machines we call our bodies were engineered to optimally function in a different, distant age.

Take obesity. It is hard to ignore the obesity epidemic as a pedicab driver. Its ominous foot falls are shaking all Western nations, even the streets of Victoria. Obesity trends have alarmed me as a health writer reporting on children as young as 10 years old with indicators of heart disease. As a pedicab driver, it is even scarier. I am embarrassed that I don't have the strength to serve them, which embarrasses us both.

"Each year, they get bigger and bigger," groaned Chico, riding for 14 years, of the people disembarking off the cruise ships. Drivers all tell stories of rides who were simply too big to get into our cabs. Or struggling with those who did.

Sometimes I see a big couple coming towards me, engaging my eye, and I put my head down and think, "Oh please no. Please don't pick me." I don't want to embarrass them nor me by not being able to pull the load.

Travel writer Bill Bryson, in his 1989 book, The Lost Continent, wrote what was deemed then as scathingly funny commentary on the burgeoning obesity epidemic in the US midwest, where it first became noticeable two decades ago. I now know it was in fact cruel and dehumanizing.

Back then, I laughed at Bryson's observations. But I can't write humorously or laugh about fat these days. It is a cheap shot. And I know too many people now struggling with their weight in endless yo-yo cycles, trying everything to lose a few pounds, nibbling celery and carrot sticks. We are out of whack. The more one diets, the more one gains weight when eating "normally" again.

That's because starving ourselves in effort to lose weight only tricks our prehistoric bodies into believing food is scarce and calories must be conserved. Those struggling with obesity today carry genes from ancestors who survived the famines of the past. Eating unrestrained is not the answer, either. With all the abundant food around us, eating the wrong food without regular vigourous exercise, without building muscle and stoking our metabolism, simply packs on the pounds.

Part of a paleolithic palateSo to me, the potential solution to obesity, and perhaps to a lot of other modern ills like chronic disease, depression and anxiety, is to eat and move, as much as practicable, like a caveman. Eat whole, unprocessed foods that have been around for eons. Ask, could Ayla have eaten this? Would Ayla have moved like this? Surprisingly, pedicabbing makes that ancient life come just a little bit more naturally.

Observes Randy: "Over the years, I've seen alot of pudgy drivers come into the barn in the spring, but if they last until September, they've dropped those pounds and are lean and muscular machines."

So move over Bob Green and Dean Ornish: I can see my paleolithic pedicabbing diet book soon gracing Oprahs' bedside table.

Each year. some 100 to 150 riders come through the barn on Herald St. hoping for a fun summer of big bucks.  Some last only a few days, others only a few weeks - it is tough work and some days end in the red.

But many persist and excel, some returning to be pedicab guides year after year. As a journalist I have met many diverse people in my 25-year career, but the cast of characters populating Victoria's pedicab world rank among the most unusual in one place. Every one has a story.

Over the next month, I'll introduce you to a sampling of this pedal power labour pool. Here today are just two:

Powerhouse from Peru 

Josee - a jill of all tradesJosee Galipeau, 31. Last home, Cusco Peru. Born and raised in Quebec. Fluent in French, English and Spanish and conversant in Inuktitut. I first met Josee on the training tour of Beacon Hill Park and like me she was taking copious notes. A keener. Her questions and comments revealed her to be one smart and observant gal, with a quick sense of humour -- and man was she buff! She didn't seem to even break a sweat going up Government St. with a load.

I gush, but Josee it seems can do anything -- while pedicabbing she was also working as a drywaller, carpenter and painter for a maintenance firm and also selling high end ladies fashion at one of Victoria's most posh women's clothing stores. And doing all of it well. People love her.

Josee's real training, however, is as a conservation biologist and from 2000 to 2005 she lived and worked in Nunavut, rising to be acting director of the Nunavut Wildlife Management Board, working in part in land claims issues. 

How did she end up in Peru? On a hiking trip in the Andes she fell in love and married her Peruvian mountain guide. Together they built a home among  the Inca ruins in a historic site outside Cusco. Her house walls are made of stones cut hundreds of years ago. From that base the two have run a mountain guide touring company for the last few years catering to European and North American tourists.

Three months ago she came to Victoria in the hope of landing a government job in the area of First Nation Treaty negotiations and to sponsor her husband to immigrate to Canada  to run a mountain guide business from here. This week she returned home to Peru.  Missing her husband and dogs too much, unable to land the initial interview to get her foot in the door in the government, she was tired of $15 an hour jobs.

"If I am going to be poor, I may was well be poor in Peru -- it goes a lot further there," she said. Although she loved pedicabbing, it wasn't a consistent enough income to sustain her. She'll be back, she says, hopefully as early as winter or spring if her husband's papers come through.

I am going to miss her. She only did a few pedicabbing shifts with me but we had our best tour together --  our first big tip from the California dad who called us terrific.  She was fun and knowledgeable. She was always laughing. A bien tot Josee. 

Resourceful Rider

Nigel Woodward, 25, was also on that first Beacon Hill training tour and showed an aptitude for plant names, plant genetics and natural history. Another person with obvious smarts. He didn't say much about himself then, but he did reveal during the year he is a science student at Camosun with a speciality in biochemistry. 

Over the last month he's told me a bit more about his current life: he's homeless. To save money for school he is living under a tree.  Not just any tree, mind you, a weeping Cypress tree on a small  traffic island in a Victoria neighborhood.
Nigel looking clean, carefree and confident

I won't reveal the location of Nigel's summer home lest authorities kick him out, but let's just say this traffic island is a small triangle no more than 10 feet across at its widest and at the juncture of two rather busy Victoria streets. It is all rather ingenious -- no one would even think to look under the sweeping branches that form a natural, protected den on this little patch of space.

Each morning Nigel rises with the sun, goes to a local rec centre that opens at 5:30 am to shower, work out in the gym, and have a soak in the hot tub. Then he comes in for his pedicab shift. sometimes two back to back. He is working part time at a local pizza joint where he gets all his meals - pizza - for free. He takes his laundry to a local laundromat. When it is dark, he crawls back into his little bower bedroom.

"Do I look okay? Like clean?" he asked me in the cruise ship line up, where he told me the story of his unique living arrangements.

"Yeah, you look great, everything considered," I told him.

"Sometimes I think I must emit an air of desperation," he confessed. "People don't like desperation, it makes them uncomfortable. I am trying to work on being a bit more carefree."

Why be a pedicab driver in this climate of labour shortages? Help wanted signs are everywhere.

"It is all minimum wage - nothing more than $12 hour." says Nigel. "Pedicabbing I can make $20 to $25 an hour on a good day. Besides I like the freedom and being my own boss. I don't like people telling me what to do."

I was worried about Nigel during the week of unrelenting rain. Randy lost four or five drivers that week -- people who couldn't last out the slowdown and had to take on other jobs. But then when the sun returned, I saw Nigel, smile on his face, gliding down around suicide corners by the tourist information centre , looking free and happy as he swooped down to position his cab on the Causeway.

And the other night I happened to be driving by his traffic island near midnight and saw a tiny patch of orange poking through the branches, like  a part of t-shirt on someone's reclining back. No one would have even noticed it if they didn't know to look for it.