I have followed my best friend to the near ends of the earth. Or so it has often felt.
Ange and I have been bff’s since the age of seven. We grew up able to walk to one another’s house in 5 minutes – or, meet halfway in 3. We still remark that Castor has to be one of the best places to be a kid.
The town is small. Fewer than 900 people call the place home. There is no movie theatre. No mall. Not a single traffic light in town. But there’s also no lack of things to do when you’re a kid.
Our playground was expansive. We had acres of open space; an endless grid of gravel roads fit for riding bikes; a creek that ran through town and an old canoe that we could hardly wait to get in the water each spring.
While we were both sensation seekers, I credit Ange as being the more inquisitive of the two of us. Every few weeks she would discover some new ‘thing’ that she couldn’t wait to rush in to, and I would happily tag along.
For a year or so, it was pig farming. Yep, pigs. There was a farm just outside of town; close enough we could pedal there after school, and the family that owned it happily let us stomp around in rubber boots and explore. I don’t actually remember what we did while we there. I just remember a lot of fat sows laying in the mud and the sound of squealing pigs. Aside from the cute baby pigs, I hated it. I really did. I can still feel the sweet, poignant smell of pig shit meeting my nostrils (pig shit is the worst of all animal excrements – this is the mark of growing up on the prairie, you can differentiate, and create a preferential order, of horse, cow, and lastly, pig shit). I would prepare myself for the wave of air that would hit as we got closer; but I was never ready. Never. I tried a number of techniques to keep from smelling the stuff - breathing through my mouth, breathing through my shirt, not breathing at all. None of them worked. But while I continued to hate it, Ange loved it, she really loved it, and that was reason enough to tag along.
Twenty years into our friendship, I still tag along.
I think the reason the two of us continue to be such incredible friends is that we are both fanatics. We share this obsessive nature about whatever thing it is we’re interested in at the time. Our individual interests differ now and then, but we continue to share this manic intern makeup.
I remember reading Donald Miller’s words years ago,
“I never liked jazz music because jazz music doesn’t resolve. But I was outside Bagdad Theatre in Portland one night when I saw a man playing the saxophone. I stood there for fifteen minutes, and he never opened his eyes.
After that, I liked jazz music.
Sometimes you have to watch somebody love something before you can love it yourself. It is as if they are showing you the way.”
While I am still not that fond of pigs, Ange has shown me the way to loving many things. Her latest infatuation is cycling. I never quite understood how a bike could be ‘sexy’, her choice word, when showing me the latest frame that she was drooling over in a bike catalogue. But I’m starting to get it.
About a year ago, she walked me through the steps of selecting a bike; made a detailed list of all the gear I would need; and eventually, introduced me to the road.
Ange and her partner, Sarah, are finely tuned athletic machines. The first time they took me out, I was aching – and, totally in love. I don’t remember how long we rode for, but I remember my body hurting in the absolute, best kind of way. I was hooked.
In the last few weeks we’ve managed to get out for some incredible rides. The island roads continually leave me jaw-dropped; one minute we’re weaving through thick greens of forest, the next, alongside a lake, a farm, the sea. It’s spectacular.
Ange and I have been bff’s since the age of seven. We grew up able to walk to one another’s house in 5 minutes – or, meet halfway in 3. We still remark that Castor has to be one of the best places to be a kid.
The town is small. Fewer than 900 people call the place home. There is no movie theatre. No mall. Not a single traffic light in town. But there’s also no lack of things to do when you’re a kid.
Our playground was expansive. We had acres of open space; an endless grid of gravel roads fit for riding bikes; a creek that ran through town and an old canoe that we could hardly wait to get in the water each spring.
While we were both sensation seekers, I credit Ange as being the more inquisitive of the two of us. Every few weeks she would discover some new ‘thing’ that she couldn’t wait to rush in to, and I would happily tag along.
For a year or so, it was pig farming. Yep, pigs. There was a farm just outside of town; close enough we could pedal there after school, and the family that owned it happily let us stomp around in rubber boots and explore. I don’t actually remember what we did while we there. I just remember a lot of fat sows laying in the mud and the sound of squealing pigs. Aside from the cute baby pigs, I hated it. I really did. I can still feel the sweet, poignant smell of pig shit meeting my nostrils (pig shit is the worst of all animal excrements – this is the mark of growing up on the prairie, you can differentiate, and create a preferential order, of horse, cow, and lastly, pig shit). I would prepare myself for the wave of air that would hit as we got closer; but I was never ready. Never. I tried a number of techniques to keep from smelling the stuff - breathing through my mouth, breathing through my shirt, not breathing at all. None of them worked. But while I continued to hate it, Ange loved it, she really loved it, and that was reason enough to tag along.
Twenty years into our friendship, I still tag along.
I think the reason the two of us continue to be such incredible friends is that we are both fanatics. We share this obsessive nature about whatever thing it is we’re interested in at the time. Our individual interests differ now and then, but we continue to share this manic intern makeup.
I remember reading Donald Miller’s words years ago,
“I never liked jazz music because jazz music doesn’t resolve. But I was outside Bagdad Theatre in Portland one night when I saw a man playing the saxophone. I stood there for fifteen minutes, and he never opened his eyes.
After that, I liked jazz music.
Sometimes you have to watch somebody love something before you can love it yourself. It is as if they are showing you the way.”
While I am still not that fond of pigs, Ange has shown me the way to loving many things. Her latest infatuation is cycling. I never quite understood how a bike could be ‘sexy’, her choice word, when showing me the latest frame that she was drooling over in a bike catalogue. But I’m starting to get it.
About a year ago, she walked me through the steps of selecting a bike; made a detailed list of all the gear I would need; and eventually, introduced me to the road.
Ange and her partner, Sarah, are finely tuned athletic machines. The first time they took me out, I was aching – and, totally in love. I don’t remember how long we rode for, but I remember my body hurting in the absolute, best kind of way. I was hooked.
In the last few weeks we’ve managed to get out for some incredible rides. The island roads continually leave me jaw-dropped; one minute we’re weaving through thick greens of forest, the next, alongside a lake, a farm, the sea. It’s spectacular.
Yesterday was gorgeous, we were itching to get out for a ride since the morning. About an hour in, we were outside the city on a quiet road, and we were climbing! The incline was steep, the road wrapping slowly - and painfully - up the mountain. Legs heavy, breath heavy, the road teasing us at every turn as we thought, this has to be the final ascent, but nope, there’s another, and another, and ...
That was the worst taste I’ve had in my mouth since getting on my bike. Which brings me to the second reason why Ange and I are likely best friends – we both love pain and discomfort. Well, not all pain and discomfort, just the type that precedes the feeling of being at the top, of finishing the climb, the hike, the swim. It’s a juicy, delicious pain. And it also means something good is coming – the descent.
Without effort, we were flying down the other side of the mountain, intensely aware of every gesture of the road, and of our own, our bikes tracing the lines on the asphalt, leaning into every curve, feeling the road, appreciating it. It was as gracious and euphoric as I imagine flying to feel.
For every pig barn experience, Ange has given me a hundred or more of these.
And she sits through my ‘pig barn’ spasms as well, attending public events that I care SO MUCH ABOUT, when she’d rather be at home; listening to me ramble my face off about some new book I’m reading, a lecture on transitional justice, or... whatever other thing I care about fanatically at the time.
It's amazing how much one person can expand our world. Thanks Ange, you continue to grow mine.
That was the worst taste I’ve had in my mouth since getting on my bike. Which brings me to the second reason why Ange and I are likely best friends – we both love pain and discomfort. Well, not all pain and discomfort, just the type that precedes the feeling of being at the top, of finishing the climb, the hike, the swim. It’s a juicy, delicious pain. And it also means something good is coming – the descent.
Without effort, we were flying down the other side of the mountain, intensely aware of every gesture of the road, and of our own, our bikes tracing the lines on the asphalt, leaning into every curve, feeling the road, appreciating it. It was as gracious and euphoric as I imagine flying to feel.
For every pig barn experience, Ange has given me a hundred or more of these.
And she sits through my ‘pig barn’ spasms as well, attending public events that I care SO MUCH ABOUT, when she’d rather be at home; listening to me ramble my face off about some new book I’m reading, a lecture on transitional justice, or... whatever other thing I care about fanatically at the time.
It's amazing how much one person can expand our world. Thanks Ange, you continue to grow mine.