MARIO BARTEL

I’ve been a journalist for more than 34 years, a cyclist a little longer.
At some level, the two pursuits have always intertwined.
It was during summer break after my first year of journalism school I bought my first real road bike, a Raleigh.
After graduating and landing a job, I upgraded to a beautiful Italian roadster with Campagnolo components.
When I headed west and got another gig, I rewarded myself with another road bike customized with components I selected myself.
Over the years, I’ve done many cycling stories, from ride-alongs with the bike squads of various police departments and an outreach worker for a homeless shelter, to training with a peloton of first responders preparing for a week-long fundraising ride. I rode the track at the Burnaby Velodrome after doing a story about its fight for survival.
I’ve written and photographed stories about cyclists using their passion to try to change the world, cyclists who commute, cyclists who pedal to seemingly impossible destinations like the far North in the middle of winter.
I’ve covered stories about local pros and some who want to get there. I’ve covered bike races and trike races and even — for a time — a local bike festival that’s since morphed to a community street party.

I’ve helped countless cyclists get the word out about their charitable efforts, riding to raise money for cancer research, Parkinson’s, a friend or group in need.

One afternoon, I got a call about an elderly gentleman whose bike was stolen from his garage, a bike he’d possessed for years and had actually ridden across the country to visit his daughter. Of course I’ll tell his story and maybe help get his bike back. He did.
Even when I’m not telling stories about cyclists, I like to think my own passion for cycling has aided and abetted my storytelling.
Knowing local roads as a cyclist has gotten me closer to newsworthy scenes than some of my media colleagues.

And I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve seen something on a ride, like a new store, an unusual sign, or even a notice taped to light standard, that later became fodder for a story or a photo op, either by myself or passed on to a colleague.

Cycling forces you to look at the world at a slower pace. Riding with your head up allows you to notice things you might not otherwise see speeding past in a car or loping nearby with your head down looking at your feet.
Cycling enables your curiosity, allows you the luxury of thought. Many a lede — and sometimes the arc of whole stories — have been written in my head while on a bike.
But there is one thing cycling has not facilitated in my career as a journalist; lugging camera gear and the need to get to breaking news scenes quickly, or assignments on the far side of town efficiently, means I need a car for work.

It was a bit of a bittersweet experience attending my first BCYNA Awards banquet in years on Saturday. I used to eschew these kinds of events because, well, they’re mostly about management patting itself on the back and handing a few tchotchkes to the peons.

But having returned to the biz almost exactly a year ago, I thought it might be fun to throw a little shade at some of those managers who’d tried to excise me a few years back and here I was, getting a Silver Quill certificate for having survived 25 years in community newspapers (actually, I started full time in 1985, but they haven’t figured out a precious metal for 33 years yet). Plus I was also nominated for a couple of awards for photos I’d shot in my resurrection year.

Alas, most of the cohort of reporters and photographers I’d worked alongside and against for so many years have moved on, mostly not by their choice. Familiar faces are becoming fewer and fewer and suddenly I felt like the outlier. There was nobody to share war stories with or mutually rail against the injustices of an industry that’s lost its way.

So as I sat chewing my giant piece of goulash that was presented as our $150 per plate meal, I reflected on being back in the biz, how I got here, and some of the people who helped me get to that table on Saturday night. Like:

Ron Kuzyk, a former steelworker in Hamilton and the one-time weekend photographer at the Burlington Post, who showed me what it takes to get a good sports photo, where to find the human element in a story, how to get across town in five minutes.

Walter Passarella, the chief photographer at Oshawa This Week, who took a chance on a skinny kid just a year out of journalism school with an even skinnier portfolio.

Craig Hodge, who dangled the prospect of work in the lively and competitive community newspaper scene of Metro Vancouver when the economy tanked in Southern Ontario and took a lot of newspaper jobs with it.

The publisher of the Cape Breton Post, whose boastful story during my job interview with him of how he saved money by acceding an important local story to the wire service sent up a red flag and sent me about as far away from his paper I could get .

All the photographers I worked alongside and against when I got here — Simone Ponne, Doug Shanks, Brian Giebelhaus, Evan Seal, Arlen Redekop, Paul VanPeenan, Greg Kinch, Ward Perin, Marcus Oleniuk, Dave Buzzard, Chung Chow, Chuck Russell, Craig Sleik, Rick Collins, John Gordon, Brian Langdeau, John Van Putten, Steve Ray, Steve Kidd, Rebecca Blissett, Dan Toulgoet, Larry Wright, Colleen Flanagan, Jennifer Gauthier, Mark Patrick. Whenever our assignments crossed we kibbitzed and kvetched, but more importantly we pushed each other to make our papers look great, to create images and tell stories that invited readers to pick our papers up with the assurance their time was being spent with a quality product that could delight, enthrall or challenge them with every turn of the page.

I can’t not mention Richard Dal Monte, my current editor at the Tri-City News, who a year ago figured I’d done enough damage producing digital content for a realtor and brought me back into the newspaper world, for however much longer it lasts. Plus, I could be his instrument of subterfuge to fulfill his evil scheme to bring more cycling stories to the masses (so far so good; am fulfilling my monthly quota).

And, of course, my wife, Katie, a former partner in storytelling who’s had the good sense to get out of this racket because goodness knows, a bank is going to look sideways at a mortgage application when both paycheques are coming from the newspaper industry. For nearly 13 years now, she’s been my sounding board, allowing me to vent my many frustrations, sharing my occasional triumphs and pushing me to stay true to my talents, however difficult it can sometimes be to convince others of their value.