Dear Razz
There’s a photo of you and me at the
top of Big White,
best hill climb in the Okanagan.
My hair is dandelion clocks around my
helmet
and your spokes magnify the sun. I adopted
you
with my first paycheck after grad
school. Aluminum frame,
red paint, drop bars, road slicks for speed.
You are the tooth-chatter descent from
Big White,
the final switchback of Knox Mountain,
the embodiment
of the Okanagan in my twenties – alive,
alive,
alive. We careen the gravel washboard
of Kettle Valley Railway, Mission Creek
Greenway,
dodging the strollers, dog-walkers,
whoever.
You carry me to work over the skillet
asphalt of July,
the rain-washed treachery of January. In
my twenties,
I stabled you in the open garage of my
rental house,
where Debbie, our upstairs neighbour, banged
the floor – my ceiling – whenever a man
stayed over too late.
BBQ, laughter, whatever. I never locked
you up, never
shut things down. Here’s a photo of the
two of us
at Gyro Beach, me wearing only a towel.
You have sand in your gears.
Chain grease, summer apples, seasonal
workers
whistling as we sailed past
on East Kelowna Road, the cherry
orchards.
Razz, do you remember those all-night
raves
where I straddled strangers in the
backs of Westphalias,
Volkswagen Beetles, a trailer in Lake
Country where one guy lived
with three Rottweilers and a basket of
oregano? You waited outside.
I shoed you with gravel tires and we churned
up Chute Lake Trail to the decommissioned
tunnel
overlooking the valley, above the falcon
nests.
I bailed on the descent, ripped my knee
to the bone,
and chugged vodka in the parking lot
before scraping out the detritus.
Razz, you watched over me, then carried
me home – fresh scabs and everything.
Me and Razz in the Okanagan
Man, your bike is well-used.
Did he mean your paint job, Friend?
Once dazzle-red and now matte
from years on the Rail Trail,
shoreline gravel of Kalamalka Lake,
winters chewing salt.
Your handlebar tape, once black, then
red,
is now the soft brown of well-milked
coffee
or the belly of a teddy bear.
Your fender chafes and your panier rack
rattles.
You shed screws the way I shed panties.
I owe you a new derailleur and brake
pads.
I owe you another churn up Big White
before winter digs in its teeth.
But Razz, does any of this matter
as we speed down Lakeshore Road,
the autumn sun a gold regalia?
Past the volleyball courts of Gyro
Beach,
the glass towers of the Yacht Club.
Up into the ridgeline, chewing
switchbacks,
passing cars on the wild descents.
I tether you at our favourite overlook
so you can savour the snaking mirror
of Lake Okanagan, while I run up into
the hills.
Later, we’ll sail home. We’ll pause
for the last cherries of the season,
then sit together
on the balcony, all our own.
Danielle Hubbard lives in Kelowna, BC, where she works as the CEO of the Okanagan Regional Library. Her poetry has appeared in The New Quarterly, Prairie Fire, and Best Canadian Poetry, among other places. When not writing or working, Danielle spends much of her time cycling and exploring the Okanagan.