Redemption on the Kettle Valley Rail Trail

Last year I rode part of the Kettle Valley Rail Trail (KVRT) in British Columbia. Toward the end of the ride, I crashed while crossing the final trestle, ending my day—and my riding season—for more than two months.

This past weekend, I went back for redemption.

And, because misery loves company, I convinced my friend Jean to come with me.

We left Seattle shortly after 7:00 a.m. on Saturday, July 4, 2026. While people back home were getting ready to celebrate our country’s 250th anniversary, we were heading north into Canada. The drive took more than five hours, but it’s a beautiful route and the scenery helped pass the time.

Before checking into our hotel, we stopped at the Penticton Convention Centre to pick up our event packets and drop off our bikes. With temperatures already in the upper 80s, we sweated our way through lifting our heavy e-bikes off Jean’s hitch rack. Her rack sits about chest-high on me, which meant wrestling 60-pound bikes over my head. My own rack is barely a foot off the ground, so this was quite the workout before the ride had even started.

One of the perks of the Okanagan Trestles Tour is that they transport all of the bikes to the top of Myra Canyon near Kelowna, saving riders a long uphill climb.

After checking into our hotel, we escaped into the air conditioning for a couple of hours before heading out for dinner. I found a Noodlebox, where we ordered bowls with our choice of protein and sauce. The protein portions were a little skimpy, but my blood sugar stayed steady and I left feeling full, so I considered it a win.

Sleep, however, was another story.

Instead of fireworks keeping us awake, our upstairs neighbors spent hours stomping around their room. It was well after midnight before they finally settled down, leaving both of us with barely four or five hours of sleep.

Oddly enough, I woke up at 5:15 a.m. without an alarm.

After getting dressed, we grabbed coffee from the McDonald’s next door and headed back to the convention center.

School buses were waiting to shuttle riders to the top of Myra Canyon, where our bikes had spent the night.

Jean was still getting organized at the car when I climbed aboard the first bus. As I wrestled my heavy pannier toward an empty seat in the back, I heard someone call my name.

It was Steve Moe from the Skagit Bicycle Club, one of the organizers of the Skagit Spring Classic. We’d worked together several times over the past couple of years, and it was fun discovering I wasn’t the only Skagit rider who had spent Independence Day crossing the border for a bike ride.

The bus ride took nearly two hours, but thankfully it was a cool morning.

Finding our bikes couldn’t have been easier since they were lined up in bib-number order.

The morning air was chilly enough that we layered up before rolling onto the trail. Even with my jacket, my bare legs were covered in goosebumps for the first hour until pedaling finally warmed me up. I told Jean it didn’t seem quite as cold as it had been the year before.

The first section of the KVRT is my favorite.

The trail is mostly smooth, hard-packed dirt with just enough gravel to keep things interesting, and the wooden trestles are a joy to ride across. It’s an easy, relaxing start that lulls you into thinking the whole ride will be this pleasant.

It won’t.

At the first rest stop, I pulled out an Uncrustable—a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—and settled in for a breakfast (finally). Before I could finish a bite, I heard my name again.

This time it was Therese Casper, whom I’d ridden with during a previous Tour de Lavender and who had also helped me stuff rider packets for Cascade Bicycle Club. She was there with her partner, and we spent a few minutes catching up before continuing on our way.

I couldn’t help but laugh. Here I was, hundreds of miles from Seattle, and I’d already run into three people I knew. The cycling world really is a small one.

Jean normally rides a little slower than I do, and throughout the day we joked that she was serving as my “brakes” to make sure I didn’t repeat last year’s crash. I have a well-earned reputation for enjoying speed a little too much.

Eventually we reached the rough section I’d almost managed to erase from my memory.

Huge potholes filled with loose rocks, deep sand, and washouts turned the trail into an obstacle course. Sometimes there were only inches between hazards. Whenever my tires hit the sand, my bike fishtailed just enough to get my attention.

We both kept death grips on our handlebars while our bikes bounced over the uneven surface. Every few miles we’d stop, climb off, and shake out our arms, shoulders, and backs before tackling the next stretch.

Our bodies definitely earned this ride.

At one point I slammed into a large rock that launched both of my feet off the pedals. My right shin came down hard against the pedal.

Apparently I am physically incapable of finishing a bike ride without collecting at least one scrape or bruise.

Ironically, my left shin had only recently healed from an almost identical encounter.

After cleaning the cut and applying a bandage, we climbed back on our bikes and kept going.

Somewhere along that miserable stretch, I realized I had completely forgotten just how rough it really was. I also started feeling guilty for dragging Jean along. She was only 18 months removed from spinal surgery, and every bump was taking its toll.

Eventually the potholes became less frequent, although the sand continued to keep us on high alert.

The closer we got to Penticton, the smoother the trail became. The final miles were much like the opening section—hard-packed and enjoyable—but with less shade. By then the afternoon sun had become relentless.

Then I saw it.

The trestle.

The one where I crashed last year.

You can probably guess that I crossed it at the speed of a cautious turtle.

No heroics.

No unnecessary speed.

Just a slow, steady ride to the other side.

Mission accomplished.

Four miles later, we rolled across the finish line.

Our first priority was food.

The event included burgers, sides, and drinks at a nearby resort while a live band entertained everyone. We couldn’t find a table in the shade until another rider’s wife invited us to share theirs beneath a tree.

We had never met.

Yet another reminder that the cycling community really does take care of its own.

The burger was mediocre.

The band was enthusiastic…if not especially talented.

We didn’t care.

We had survived a difficult ride, and that was reason enough to celebrate.

Before facing the long drive home, we desperately wanted showers.

Although my sunscreen had done an excellent job preventing sunburn, it had also turned me into a human dust magnet. Every bit of dirt kicked up by passing bikes had glued itself to my arms and legs. I looked like I’d taken a bath in powdered dirt.

Fortunately, I’d done a little research before leaving Seattle and discovered there was a 24-hour gym inside the resort. For $20 Canadian (about $15 U.S.), we bought day passes and enjoyed glorious hot showers.

Standing under the water while tiny soap sheets somehow managed to create enough lather to wash away an entire day’s worth of trail dust, I thought about everything we’d accomplished.

It had been a good day.

The weather cooperated.

It didn’t rain.

It never became unbearably hot until we were finished.

Most importantly, neither of us crashed.

Even though the ride was mostly downhill, there was nothing easy about those 50 miles. We had earned every single one of them.

After our showers, we collected our bikes and rode the few blocks back to the convention center where Jean’s car was parked.

Now came another challenge.

We still had to lift our heavy e-bikes onto that sky-high hitch rack. After 50 miles on a rough trail, our bodies ached just thinking about it.

As I looked around the parking lot, I spotted a sturdy-looking man getting ready to climb into his pickup and head home.

“Excuse me,” I called. “Would you mind helping us? We just finished a grueling 50-mile ride, and we still have to lift these heavy e-bikes onto the rack. We’d really appreciate it.”

Without hesitation, he smiled, walked over, and lifted both bikes into place. He made it look so darn easy!

I thanked him several times before he climbed into his truck and drove away.

It was another reminder that there are still plenty of kind people in the world. Throughout the weekend, I’d run into old friends, been offered a shady seat by complete strangers, and now received help from someone who didn’t know us at all.

Sometimes all you have to do is ask.

Now came the part we had both been dreading: the five-plus-hour drive back to Seattle.

We were exhausted.

We hurt.

Neither of us wanted to spend another minute in the car.

Taking turns behind the wheel so neither of us would fall asleep, we finally made it back shortly after midnight. Well…I made it home. Jean still had another 20-minute drive ahead of her.

After unloading my bike and gear, I hugged Jean, thanked her for sharing another adventure with me, quietly slipped into my pajamas, and crawled into bed beside my sleeping husband.

The next morning I forced myself out of bed a little after 8:00.

Everything hurt.

Part of my brain was screaming, “Why in the world did you ride that brutal trail again and then drive all the way home?”

The other half answered immediately.

“Because you love a challenge…and this won’t be the last one.”

I smiled.

Oh, Anita…

You’re absolutely right.