Back in January, I signed up to be a volunteer for an organization called Cycling Without Age. The opportunity seemed a perfect fit for me. I’m an avid cyclist and CWA’s primary intention is to get seniors outdoors, riding on trishaws, offering new experiences in the outdoors. There was one big glitch. There were five training sessions, including four that involved learning how to operate each of the trishaws which had been bought over a span of years so each one had its quirks for how to operate. I’m not a technical person. Anything mechanical quickly overwhelms. Still, I wanted this volunteer experience so much that I dug down and did all I could keep my anxiety in check. I passed training. (And, yes, each of us was formally evaluated.) I was happier—and more relieved—than when I got my driver’s license.
Something unexpected came along with my volunteering. It came with a gay twist. During the first training session—a PowerPoint about the organization and the commitment we were getting into—one of the veteran volunteers casually mentioned his boyfriend. I may have jolted in my seat.
Another gay! Hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t even turned on my gaydar.
To be sure, this volunteer adventure was primarily about connecting with seniors from seventy-something to ninety-one (my oldest and liveliest rider). Every time I’ve ridden, I’ve worried about messing up. My anxiety is always spinning in place, wondering how I will mess up. And, yes, that anxiety has had a rational basis. My trishaw’s bike chain broke on my second outing with an eighty-five-year-old woman and her daughter. We were in the thick of Stanley Park and I managed to conclude the incident was all my fault. (Maybe it was.) On two other occasions, despite the trishaws having e-assist, I have gotten stuck trying to get up a hill. Wrong gear to start with, wrong level of power. Definitely my fault. The errors happen just often enough that I can’t quell the worry about when the next one will occur.
It’s one thing to get, say, a flat tire when I’m out on my own bike. Then, it’s just myself that I have to worry about getting back home (sometimes after dark). With the trishaw, I have seniors I’m responsible for. I have to get them back to the nursing home or seniors’ centre at or around an expected time. Aside from the broken chain incident, everything has worked out in the end.
The good thing is I am never out alone as a solo volunteer. There are always one to three other trishaws with other volunteers and seniors. Quite often, at least one of the other volunteers just happens to be gay. There are times on each shift when seniors are not with us, such as when we have to do a thorough check of each trishaw before leaving the warehouse and when we have to go through a task routine upon returning them. As well, there is wait-time upon arriving at a seniors’ facility as the riders are often still getting ready and often need wheelchairs and walkers to reach the trishaws.
Last week’s ride involved two trishaws picking up senior riders at Qmunity in Vancouver’s West End near Coal Harbour and Stanley Park. Qmunity is an LGBTQ centre so I had the pleasure of taking Ben for a ride while Bob, the other volunteer (who happened to be gay), pedalled two women. We were a full queer contingent, darting through park spaces on a sunny afternoon. No rainbow flags were needed. We just had regular conversations as our regular selves.
My last volunteer gig was with AIDS Vancouver where I fully expected a lot of contact with queer people. As for Cycling With Age, the interactions with other gay men have been a pleasant, unexpected surprise. It’s particularly nice since my social anxiety has increased over the past two decades so it’s rare for me to meet new people.
I wouldn’t say I’ve gotten close with any of the volunteers—I’ve turned down attending CWA’s social events (again, anxiety)—but I’ve enjoyed casual conversations with other gay men, most of them in their fifties and sixties like me, a couple younger. All but one is partnered so there is none of the flirtiness that may occur at a gay bar or pub. Mostly, we talk about biking and travel.
It's all so normal—or as normal as it can be when it involves a guy like me who is terrible with chitchat.
I love my time with seniors, especially that ninety-one-year-old who waves her purple cane at everyone we pass and turns to me and jokes, “Next time, you sit; I pedal.” Yes, more rides with Agnes, please! But I’ve also loved the bonus of regular conversations with older gay men. It’s not what I signed up for, but I’ll gladly take it.
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