My wife and I, on the first day of a 6 day bicycle tour in British Columbia, sighed with relief as we neared the town that was that day's goal. One had only to view our bicycles and gear to see why we were struggling so; we were riding two-wheeled elephants on our safari of survival. We only had a few miles more before the treasures of a long hot shower, a glass of wine, a good meal, and night's sleep would consummate a formidable first day.

There is a universal rule of bicycle touring: If you bring it, you won't need it; if you forget something, it will soon become essential. It is based upon this rule that we packed in self- defense. Extensive rain gear to prevent precipitation, a vast tool kit to preclude mechanical problems, cold weather gear to insure temperate climes, insect repellant to avoid mosquitoes, cooking gear to attract fine restaurants and a tent and sleeping bags to guarantee excellence in accommodations.

Usually the only negative side effect of such planning is that the final luggage is enormous, both in bulk and poundage.

Prudence was victorious over convenience as we decided to laden our bicycles. Often I wished, particularly after a long up hill grind, that prudence was pedaling instead of lounging in the heavy packs that I hauled.

Funny things happen to the mind when you spend all day spinning a chain wheel. We had skipped lunch in our push for mileage, leaving me to spend the last hour of the ride thinking of dinner. I soon became inescapably focused upon the prospect of a pork chop, dreaming of a gourmet dinner that would cap an ambitious day.

We entered a grocery and almost immediately I espied the object of my pedaling petition: the leanest, most abundant pork chop I have ever seen. It called out to me, reminding me not to forget the potatoes, apple sauce and a bottle of red wine.

It was at that moment that I overheard a conversation regarding a Government Employee's Strike that was, I was soon to learn, affecting all of British Columbia. They spoke of difficulty buying liquor, leading me to ask these locals where I could purchase wine. I was directed next door.

The liquor stores in B.C. are run by the Government. Accordingly, there were several picketers in front of the locked doors, reminding all of the power of the Union. I inquired if wine could be procured without incurring the wrath of Picketers and was directed to a small store on the road to our campsite. "Hurry, it closes in 10 minutes"; chirped a helpful local.

We discovered that we were a little late as the store had sold its last bottle of wine some hours before. Well, at least a hot shower, meal and a restful night's sleep still awaited us.

We encountered more picketers at the government run campground. The choice of this particular stopover and how it fit into our itinerary was the result of careful research and planning. The park was adjacent to a picturesque inlet, had hot showers, rustic campsites and was only a few miles off the main road. The picketers sat in their cars near the entrance, yet did not approach us as we rode slowly in to find a spot.

After scouting the area we set up the tent, unpacked the bikes and headed for the showers. My legs and back were aching from the trials of the day and the hot water would be an angelic analgesic. The restrooms and showers were locked and upon the main door was the sign:

"Closed due to water leak(and the Strike!!)"

Well, at least a good meal and a night's sleep could not be wrested from us. I set up the stove while groceries were being placed on the bench. Since all the water was shut off we were restricted to the contents of our water bottles, which seemed sufficient. I scanned the table top and asked: "Honey, where are the chops?"

My wife reminded me that I was the one who was eating meat and that she had not known my secret diner desire. The chop was back at the shop. We settled down to a vegetable stew which, though not the answer to my day's dream was tasty and satisfying. We ate out of stainless steel cups that once were intended for beverage, trying to minimize on the dirty dishes that we could not, for the lack of water, wash.

We spent some time watching the sunset: the panorama of the inlet, the gaggle of Canadian geese that fed intrepidly on the shore some 20 feet away and the landing of a pontoon plane a 100 yards off shore. These were moments of reflection and amazement over a day of exertion and the unexpected. We made some tea, read by flashlight until drifting off into the peace of deep slumber.

We were awaken suddenly by the unmistakable sound of a backhoe operating nearby. I looked at my watch: Midnight. I would never accuse anyone of intentionally trying to drive us from the park, yet Mr. Backhoe tore away for the next 3 hours on the other side of the fence, 75 feet from the tent. We laughed, feeling that it was the most appropriate response, and agreed to sleep in and make up the robbed sleep.

When next you pick an overnight spot keep an eye open for the obvious. At daybreak the insufferable roar from the full- throttled engine of plane straining to rotate shook us awake: The very same picturesque inlet also served as a runway for numerous amphibian planes. The sweet embrace of sound sleep was exchanged for the ragged reality of a day on the road.

While packing up the gear I looked into my dinner cup and shrugged: a pork chop would not have fit in there anyhow.

(Lance is a travel writer and humorist, unless he is glued to the seat of a bike, at which time he becomes a pragmatist and a lab rat for pain control. His cyber-office is to be found at: lance@journalist.com)