This isn't the article I thought I'd be writing. When my buddy Keith invited me out for the Cowichan Valley 8, a 190-kilometre gravel loop through South Vancouver Island, I was nervous. I'd done the route before, but only spread out over a mellow bikepacking overnighter. Doing it in one go had always been on my radar, just never on my calendar. A couple days before we set out, I almost bailed. I was stressed about work, and honestly a little intimidated by the idea of knocking out 200 kilometres in a single day.
We headed out at 6 a.m. on Wednesday and got rolling. The morning was lovely, and the weather was as good as we could ask for. We rode the first 90 kilometres to Lake Cowichan, stopped for lunch, loaded up on coffee, and carried on toward Duncan with spirits high. Coming south from Duncan, we reconnected with the Cowichan Valley Trail. By that point, we were about 140 kilometres in. Then came the only real stretch of tarmac on the whole route, about 10 or 12 kilometres linking the Kinsol Trestle to the Mill Bay ferry, which would eventually bring us home to Victoria.
Seconds That Changed Everything
About three kilometres into that stretch, we approached an intersection with Keith in the lead. My cycling spidey-sense was firing. There was something about it... the layout, the timing... that felt off. Confusion hung over the whole intersection like a blanket. Keith was almost all the way through when a huge F-350 turning left, suddenly gunned it straight us, cutting the corner.
I looked up and time bent. It slowed down and sped up at the same time. The truck was hurtling directly at Keith, and he hadn't seen it. I yelled. A micro-second later, the truck T-boned him. He flew maybe twelve feet into the air and fifteen feet forward before hitting the pavement.
I either jumped off my bike or hit the truck. I honestly can't recall. The adrenaline must've kicked in because everything from that moment is a blur. All I know is I ended up on the ground too, unhurt. I came around the back of the truck expecting the worst. I was sure my buddy was dead.
But his eyes were open. I scanned him for blood, for broken limbs when he said, “I can't feel my legs.” My heart fell straight through me. I thought he'd snapped his spine. People started crowding around, saying they had first aid training and were better equipped than I was for the situation. I backed off and let them in.
Eventually, Keith started wiggling his toes. He asked about his bike. The fire department arrived. Then the police. Then the ambulance. To go from watching a friend die in front of you, to thinking he'll never walk again, to realizing it's “just” a couple of fractures… that's a lot to process.
I've never been that scared in my life.
Keith Survived. I Still Can't Believe It.
Keith, somehow, is going to be okay. The guy is apparently made out of solid brick. He's stable in the hospital with a broken hip and a busted ankle. This weekend he's getting a few new titanium bits installed, which, ironically, is the same material his bike was made from. (Hey 22 Bikes, potential sponsorship opportunity here.)
But even now, my brain is still struggling to catch up with the fact that he survived. What I saw just doesn't compute. To be clear, we had the right of way. There was no fault on our part. Keith couldn't have done anything differently.
This morning I asked Keith if it was okay to write and publish this, even though he's still in a hospital bed. He had a calm, grounded take on it. “Sure,” he said. “This is a learning moment for everyone.” He pointed out that most cyclists are drivers too, and that when you drive with cycling vision, you actually notice the riders out there. A reminder, he said, couldn't hurt. I love that. And I give him full credit for his optimism and the way he's handling all of this, even after what he went through.
The Bigger Problem
I, on the other hand, do not share that optimism. I can't help but reflect on the larger picture, and the systems that helped enable this moment. It boils down to this: I'm fucking fed up with how this world works.
I'm fed up with distracted drivers who think their “freedom” matters more than our ability to live. I'm fed up with a system that keeps building bigger trucks capable of killing anyone that gets in their way. I'm fed up with the idea that you need a car to do literally anything and that we design our entire society around it. I'm fed up with neighbors and friends who think bike lanes are somehow the real danger. I'm fed up with corporate-funded governments that don't do a goddamn thing to protect anyone from any of it.
There's that famous quote from Henry Ford: “If I had asked people what they wanted, they would have said a faster horse.” In my old design career, we used to repeat this quote like gospel, a justification for the power of invention and forward thinking. But now I see it differently. It's a rationale for engineering over nature in the service of capital.
I remember my dad trying to sell me on the “freedom” of owning a car when I was young. The idea that you can go anywhere, do anything. It's the dream we've all been sold from birth. But all I see is a machine that makes you lazy, makes you poor, and locks you into a system that doesn't care about you. A system built on pyramid insurance schemes, fossil fuels, endless debt, and a dependence that's hard to shake. One that pollutes our air, props up colonialism, and feeds global conflict. I won't even start on the health and environmental costs of making the things in the first place. These vehicles were never made for us. They were made to extract money.
It's simple. Cars suck. And these breeds of oversized trucks do not need to exist in daily life.
What Comes Next
Lately I've been thinking that maybe I need a mission. Sites like Bike Gear Database and Mixed Terrain Biking have always promoted a certain kind of lifestyle rooted in movement, health, self-reliance, and the joy of being outside. But maybe that's not enough anymore. Maybe it's time to dig deeper.
This experience lit something in me that goes beyond just telling stories about gear or gravel. I think I'm going to fight for something simple, something overdue. A bike lane. Just one. On the stretch of road where this happened. A few painted lines that could keep someone else from going through what Keith went through. That road connects a major cycling route and one of the only ferry options home for people riding south from the Cowichan Valley. And right now, it's a death trap.
Keith survived. But not everyone does. That's why I'm not letting this go. Everyone walks around thinking, “That would never happen to me.” I thought that too. But it can. It does. And it will keep happening until we make it stop.
