Glenn Kubish

I was a bit late for the 8:15 am team meeting this morning. I blame the sun. I was quite on time as I pedalled across the 142 St bridge over the MacKinnon Ravine Bridge, the bars of which, as you can see, were painted with faint brushstrokes of delicate pink. Off and above to the right, the sun appeared through the spruce trees like a teenager sneaking home dazed in the morning, trying a little too hard to not attract attention. But there it was. The sun. 93 million miles never felt so close. I kept my eyes on it as I rode toward the end of bridge, and then looked ahead again as I got ready to turn right onto Ravine Drive. Then I felt the brakes bite. I stopped, got off my bike and walked back 20 paces along the bridge. This was the river of traffic my bike saw while I headed back against the flow: This is what I saw: I stood there amazed. Back on my bike, I spun onto Ravine Drive and was greeted by the sun between two spruce trees where last week there was ...

At the Winter Bike Congress in Calgary earlier this month, I said, in a convoluted manner that took six minutes and 40 seconds... I said, in 20 slides some of which were painful to relive, some nostalgic...I said, in words I tried to get right for the one shot I had in front of some of the very people who I most wanted to say the word to...I said: thanks. Here's my Pecha Kucha called We Winter Together. This was me. Making a heartfelt point about Russia at last year's Pecha Kucha night in Moscow. I fell in with a stellar band of winter bike riders and storytellers that night. It would take me another month, though, to fully appreciate what I was doing in this picture. I mean, look! I was lifting my left arm. This was a month later. This was my left arm. My shoulder was fractured and dislocated. I fell off my bike. Like Caesar, I did not beware the ice of March. But I was aware of how beautiful the ride was on the decline before the fall! Loo...

There is a refrain among city bicycle riders you will recognize. One of the marvels of bicycle riding, it goes, is the openness of the vehicle itself, the windshieldlessness of the vehicle itself that encourages and reminds the rider to connect with strangers and places that are right there. Right there in a way more real than they are when experienced from the cockpit of a car. I sing this refrain every time I live a ride like today's back home down the Oliverbahn. First, there was time to stop and consider the textures of elm bark and boa constrictor skin. A few blocks on, it was easy to get off my bike and offer an arm of help, accepted, to this friendly stranger walking warily from curb to snowy curb. Then a quick hello and muffled conversation through neck warmers with an Oliverbahn rider who said he appreciated the bare-ish bike lane and how they (the pronoun of choice for the City of Edmonton) hit a sweet spot with de-icer applications this season. ...

At the Winter Bike Congress in Calgary earlier this month, I said, in a kind of convoluted manner that took six minutes and 40 seconds to spit out...I said, in 20 slides, some of which were painful to relive, some nostalgic...I said, in words I tried to get right in the one shot I had in front of some of the very people who I most wanted to say the word to...I said: thanks. Here's my Pecha Kucha called We Winter Together. This was me. Making a heartfelt point about Russia at last year's Pecha Kucha night in Moscow. I fell in with a stellar band of winter bike riders and storytellers that night. It would take me another month to fully appreciate what I'm doing in this picture. I mean, look! I am lifting my left arm. This was a month later. This was my left arm. My shoulder is fractured and dislocated. I fell off my bike. Like Caesar, I did not beware the ice of March. But I was aware of how beautiful the ride was on the decline before the fall! ...