Chilliwack'ed Ep. 2

Ep. 2: A Mission to Mission...

It is a long way between Port Coquitlam and Mission. A distance made perceptively longer by the absence of civilization and abundance of foliage. A seemingly endless expanse of concrete which at times one can see about 5 km ahead and other times can barely see 50m ahead.
The time taken to cross this beautiful God-given creation (complete with man-made asphalt and sawmills) allows for much time for contemplation. Even with my iPod plugged in (and, as my father would say, myself being consequently 'tuned out'), I began to think. Actually, a better word would be doubt. I began to doubt many things.... How far could I really get? Do I truly have enough energy? What does this say about my sanity? Of course, I really couldn't answer any of these and, being accustomed to a certain degree of doubt in my life, decided they were better left a mystery to be handled at a later time. After all, aren't "Our doubts... traitors, mak[ing] us lose the good we oft might win By fearing to attempt." (Shakespeare, Measure for Measure, 1.4.87-9)?
Now, the most interesting moment of my journey to Mission: eating a Clif bar. While biking. Oh, and while maintaining a decent speed... Yeah, it was not my most graceful moment in life. I had decided before that I would eat a Clif bar (amazing energy bar) after 1.75hrs of biking. Having reached this milestone, I pulled out one of the two Clif bars I had put in my pockets, a Crunchy Peanut Butter Bar. Having only one hand to open it with (the other required to keep my bike both upright and on course), improvisation was needed. Using my teeth/tongue to maneuver the wrapper, I opened it after much wobbling around in a very non-dexterous show of grace in motion. Now came the point of consumption. Without using more higher-functioning areas of my brain, I took one large mouthful in one bite, taking about 2/3 of the bar into my mouth at one time. Those who are lovers of peanut butter will attest to what happens when you get too much in your mouth at one time. To say the least, breathing became a trial. So there I was, a wonky, misshapen Lance Armstrong wannabe desperately sucking in air while attempting to avoid the multi-ton chariots of death which were still screaming by me without a thought as to what this strange man might be doing in such a precarious situation as biking beside a semi-major highway. To say the least, smaller bites were taken after this event.
Having already nearly killing myself with what should have provided more energy, I realized that there are worse things that could happen. When I got to Mission, some of them did.