Graham Herbert is riding his bicycle across Canada. 

Except he just wants to do it from here, he tells me. So he rides all over our small, beautiful island, clocking the miles. He is not going to stop until he reaches Nova Scotia.

I see him nearly every time I go out, flying along the shoulder of the road on his old ten-speed with curled handlebars. Today I saw him on my way to take my daughter to the ferry. He was wearing all tie-dye—and I do mean ALL tie-dye. His white ZZ Top beard goes down past his collarbones, and when he’s biking fast, the end of it flies out beside him like a scarf. He must be in his 70s now. I love him. He is a painter, and everything he paints is done in vibrant, multicoloured acrylics. Today he looked like one of his own paintings.

There are so many people here on this island who live their lives as if they are a character in their own movie. It seems to me this is the only way I could stand to get old, if I reinvented myself and became eccentric in some way: a palm reader with wild silver hair; a gardener who clips back her roses while dressed in exquisite ball gowns and singing opera to the birds; a seaside cafe owner with long, white braids who, on slow afternoons, plays banjo to the seagulls.

On my way home, I passed Graham again, headed the other way. The road had begun to dip down and he was going so fast he was nothing but a single blurred streak of colour and light.