Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood and looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim, because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that, the passing there had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I

I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

I have always loved this piece written by Robert Frost, specifically the last four lines because until now, those were the only ones I really understood! But having read it over again and in context, I understand it a little more, and the line that pops out for me the most is: “…. but having begun, he knew that way leads onto way, and he doubted if he should ever come back.”

I read in a book recently about a guy. No one special, just an average, out of shape, Joe (can’t remember his name) who went on to become a competitive and successful Marathon runner. During an interview he was asked how he went from being a couch potato to winning multiple marathons and his answer was simple and not one you would expect: “One day,” he said ” I just tied my laces!”. The interviewer was noticeably puzzled by his response and asked him to reiterate.”Of course” he said: “I just tied the laces on my running shoes one day, and started to jog. Then I joined up for a series of entry level running events, which then lead to other, more competitive events until eventually I did my first full marathon and the rest…well, the rest is history“

I can relate to someone just getting up and tying their laces. More so then the super athlete who was born with the anatomy of a Mayan hunter, and so one day in early April of this year, I put on my really old Champion Polyester joggers, a pair of Rockport XCS hiking boots and began walking. I looked ridiculous, and felt it too, but I began walking nonetheless and now, here I am, a few kilometres shy of completing the first leg of my virtual Quadrathalon (if there is such thing?). I have walked close to 76 kilometres since April 6. The distance, roughly, of Bristol to Swindon, England. My walks were slow and sporadic at first as I was caught up with the tumultuous flow of a changing world, which then led into a steady trail of household derailments such as my sewer line backing up, a large limb from my tree fell onto my roof and I struggled with trying to find things for all three boys to do during lock down.

Eventually, by May, I caught my stride and began putting in longer walks and to make it even more challenging, I strapped a five pound weight to my back. On the bouts where I didn’t need to cut my journey short because I had to return home and relieve myself ( all public washrooms are locked up thanks to Covid-19), my walks were both refreshing and rewarding and I have ended the last two weeks with a pair of solid twenties. Today I tied on a brand new pair of North Face trail runners and put them to the test in anticipation of my next leg: A jog/run/ride, spanning the distance of Swindon to London UK; 131 km. It’s been too long since I have run, and I was a bit worried my legs wouldn’t work as well, but the shoes have proven me wrong. They are lightweight, well molded for my feet and comfy as heck! London here we come!

Changing gears a little, perhaps now is a good time to back up and offer a short historical profile: I was born in Bristol, England. Thirtieth of July 1963; almost in the back seat of a taxi, from what I understand. I was a plump little English boy with bright blue eyes which have maintained their blue appeal even up to today. I was one of those kids who could harness the world, simply by entrancing adults with my wavy blonde hair and seductive glare and it worked well for a time, until eventually I grew up and my two endearing features were slowly overshadowed by teenage acne and an impudent attitude, which carried me nicely into a very rocky adolescence. I shunned any institution that challenged my agenda and upheld my rebellion with a rock solid stubbornness that never quit. I am not proud of the way I behaved as a teenager, but I soon snapped out of it and, lucky for me, had a set of devoted parents with a lot of patience and a strong moral compass.

But that’s all old news and although it provides a necessary preface to the stories which I will eventually share, the important thing is I am here, I have my own kids and every wrong doing I have exuded into the world has come back to me in droves. Multiplied in accordance to the laws of exponential interest and delivered to me like a residual paycheck; reminding me very regularly of my past misgivings and the effect I had on those that were close to me. But I am here, I am well and I have arrived, as a virtual tourist, in Swindon, England, which must be a city I missed during my fledgling travels of many years ago. I know of it, only because it is on the map located almost halfway between Bristol and London and doing a little Google research on the area here is what I know:

The roughly, two hundred thousand Swindonians that reside here are a relatively youthful working class people with a quarter of it’s population under the age of twenty five. The city employs a fair amount in manufacturing automobiles, aircraft and pharmaceuticals, to name a few, and also a number of well established corporate head offices such as WH Smith, Intel and National Trust. The town has a third division football club, a number of annual festivals including a beer festival held in the steam museum and, if I were a resident of England, once again, this might very well be a likely candidate to settle for a time. I could see myself spending a day at the “Robins” watching a football game, and then lingering at the Weighbridge Brew Pub, feasting on a ten ounce “Dukesmore” Beef striploin with watercress and caramelized onions, sipping on a Hop Kettle pale ale. To paint a more tangible picture, In honor of my “passing through” this old railway town, I have taken part of my day and indulged in the closest thing I could replicate to a day in Swindon…

In lieu of a day at the “Robins” watching football, I took my son just up the street to the field at McNicholl park and worked on some net-minding drills. We worked on his ball handling, (throwing in random shots from variable points on the field), some net positioning and also his ball distribution. All of this advised by his older brother Dylan, of course, via text, whom is currently in the running for a first or second string position between the Spartans pipes this upcoming season, if it ever gets underway. Later, I grilled up a ten ounce piece of Black Angus strip, which I stood in line for at the grocery store, and served it up with some caramelized sweet onions, Cremini mushrooms and, replacing the Watercress with grilled sweet potatoes and a tuft of Garlic alfalfa, I finished it with a drizzle of Backyard Farm “Apple-Caramelized onion” vinaigrette, and because of the recent stagnation in UK imports, I settled on a local Pale Ale made by Cannery brewing right here in Penticton. My dinner was gone in a matter of minutes, as was the Ale, and it was the most satisfyingly delicious thing I have consumed in quite some time, right down to the combination of fuzzy raw sprouts and the perfectly cooked steak.

My personal story, as cool as it has been at times, is not the most interesting. But, like anyone’s story, it can be told “interestingly”. As an artist takes a dull piece of canvass and creates a masterpiece, a developer can take a section of parched, lifeless land and build a “Taj Mahal”. I too, can alter my story by seeing it for what it can be, and not for what it is. By imagining myself in a town I know nothing about, I can pay tribute by painting myself into the picture, just as Robert Frosts subject chose a road, not because of the terrain he could see, but because of what lay beyond the invisible bend, to a place he could NOT see.

I am currently not working, and have not been for a couple of months and as we begin to see life return to normal where, only a few weeks ago, our community seemed dark and lifeless, I get asked all the time: “Are you back to work yet”? As if I should have no purpose other then the job I worked to pay my bills. I feel like I have been granted this time to look at things differently, not because my life was mediocre, as any life, especially with children ,can never be mediocre but I suppose, if anything, my life was safe. Whenever I was confronted with a choice, I thought I was honoring my family by taking the careful road. But what I realized was this: the best thing I could do for my children is not necessarily to keep them out of harms way, but to show them that it’s okay to step out into the unknown, to exercise my freedom to fail and to attempt something great. If I failed, my kids would get to see how I rebound which, hopefully, would be gracious, but if I succeeded, then there is no greater lesson then to inspire your kids to take chances and to shoot for the stars, even if they can’t see beyond the earths stratosphere.

Is it time to shoot for the stars? Most likely this should have been on my agenda some time ago, and perhaps it was, only I couldn’t see beyond the immediate tasks that were in front of me. Well, as it stands, currently those tasks are no longer, but the clouds have lifted and now, more then ever, I can see a sky full of stars, as well as, perhaps a new way to reach them.

Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I

I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

Cheers!!

Simon Kelly