Some Background

The cure for boredom is curiousity.
There is no cure for curiosity.

Ellen Parr

A little bit more about who I am and what I do, this time presented not in the form of esoteric questions but old pictures. One set of picture is from horsebackriding, the great love of my life. As Will puts it in the movie Good Will Hunting, "It's not that I know, it's that I understand. I can't tell you what or why, but I understand."

The second set is from bicycle touring. I've done several tours for a total of about 10 000 miles, almost all of them alone. I only carried a camera on the England/Scotland tour; in subsequent tours I decided that a camera distracted me from really looking at the scenery and living the experience. No, I don't take pictures so as to share them with other people: that's what postcards are for. Nothing is more stultifying than having to look at picture after picture of a friend's voyage.


Five years old and I already had dreams of the Olympics! I was into my sixth or seventh month of riding when these pictures were taken, although I hadn't improved a lot because my legs were too short. Twenty years and a lot of championships later with my horse, Casanova....




A few days after landing in London on my first solo bike tour (1991). This was a field somewhere in Wiltshire.
About five weeks later on the English-Scottish border, a day also memorable because I logged my 1000th mile of the trip sometime that morning. By now my faithful bike had acquired character as well as a name (Cyril).

For seven years in a row I biked from Montreal to Fredericton in September before school started (except the seventh year when I was working: then I took a holiday to do this trip!). The third year Dad decided to come along. This is the Irving Gas Station in Woodstock NB. By the last year, the employees knew me by name and were expecting my arrival.

In 1981, Michael and I, then ages 7 and 9 respectively, wrote our usual "Dear Santa" letters. We folded them up, sealed them in an envelope, and passed them to Dad, who told us he would mail them when he went to work. In 1999, Michael and I opened up one of our Christmas gifts and found little pink letters inside. Dad had not in fact sent the letters to Santa; instead, he had put them in his briefcase and carried them with him for the next eighteen years until he decided to return them to us. This was mine.



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Last updated January 16, 2002 by Helen Rooney