Failing to Succeed

Last summer, Susan and I decided to ride the Selkirk Loop, on account of the Wow Factor, and to spend a week practicing in microcosm our Final Hurrah.

In the event, her right knee wasn't feeling up to the task, so I headed off for the test run, but solo.

And failed.  Epically.  As in completely, without even the slightest hint of evasion or mental reservation.

After dealing with ebike mechanical issues, I had neither reassembled the bike properly, nor test driven it.  (My bike needed too much post-consumer attention, including an improperly routed wiring harness that ultimately resulted in electrical failure, two weeks before it would have been really inconvenient.   I finally had to hang my head in shame and take it back to the shop, where they got it well and truly sorted.  It is time to face facts:  having all the tools and skills to use them with are two entirely different things. Now that the pros have had their way with it, this thing, about which at the outset I wasn't completely impressed, is brilliant.)

My packing could only be described as with neither goal nor plan.  Well, that is not quite accurate.  I did make a detailed checklist.  Then forgot all about it.

And while my legs and lungs, due to a nearly complete absence of anything resembling preparation, weren't as deficient as they well deserved to be, within a few days my nether regions were putting up the kind of protest that would leave Columbia College students rapt in admiration.  

Right place, wrong bike

Failure, on the Kootenay Bay Ferry.  At least it didn't sink.

Some lessons are so obvious one wouldn't think they'd need learning:  packing shouldn't resemble the resumption of above ground nuclear testing; forgetting checklists tends to go badly; check your work; nether regions, without training up, will get very ungreat very quickly.

A more macro level lesson, painful as it often is: success needs failure.

If we abandon, it won't be because I failed insufficiently.