So there I was, not even halfway through a 97 kms journey on two wheels. Pedalling like mad into a NORTH headwind no less. (For those not in the know, and NOW, believe me, I know) a headwind is precisely that. Wind that blows into and onto your head, from above, in front, and underneath. But always in front of you. As my brother would say, it was "butt nasty". Only in my face. REAL special. So there I am cycling away, when we (the WE being in this instance, the eighty other cyclists on the trip with me) manage to hit an unforeseen detour on McLaughlin road just east of Brampton heading north. We started out from Kipling subway station that morning and headed roughly northeast, with the idea that we'd hit McLaughlin road and go straight north til we got to the smallish hamlet of Inglewood for luncheon and a break before we had to head back.Heading up McLaughlin was long, and fairly uneventful. Like being stuck in the suburbs on a loop. At one point I noticed a road we crossed called Petworth, which caught my eye, for the sheer oddity of it. Well, I thought it was odd, because at first glance, I thought it said Pilworth, and I immediately had the image of a cranky old dowager spinster in my head, Miss Pilworth, whose first name would be.......Agonia. Agonia Pillworth. She would wear a lot of indigo, and uncomfortable shoes, and oh, never mind.....you see how writers' minds work when they're not paying attention?
At any rate, we hit a detour on McLaughlin, and decided en masse to head east and then go north again on Highway 10, aka; Hurontario Street. Which goes through very flat, picturesque, quite lovely looking farmland. Much like the above picture, which is near King City, where I grew up. The scenery was lovely, the road was not. In the first place, it was festooned with very loud, very large trucks who obviously did not relish the idea of sharing a four-lane highway with a bunch of two wheeled upstarts! They roared past, close enough that I could taste the grade of exhaust and could feel the road quaking beneath my wheels (I may have gained a bit of weight in recent years darlings, but no number of cinnabons causes THAT much road rumbling!) but I soldiered faithfully on....until we hit, I believe it was, (where the hell's my map?) Victoria's Corners? I can't remember, it was something with royalty that's all I know, and I think there was a V in it. At any rate, we stopped there, a bunch of us, and Rodney said, "Its only another eight kms til the lunchbreak." So I thought, "Fine. I've got this far, 8 kms will be nothing."
Famous last words.
The headwind got worse, and I started to crash. My stomach was rumbling, and the half a protein shake I'd had that morning, and the two apple bars I'd eaten were no longer cutting the mustard. I was tiring, in short, I was what they call, bonking out, and worse still, the north headwind was picking up steam making every turn of the pedal sheer agony. And this was on FLAT terrain. Had it been uphill, it would have been impossible. As it was, it dawned on me that I might not have the strength to simply make it to Inglewood, a mere eight kms away. This was what my body was saying, whereas my brain was saying, "Don't be an eedjit, keep pedalling. What choice have you got, dumbass?" Point to note, when in a hopeless situation, keep going. So I did. In the distance I saw a Church steeple, which was the only tall landmark in the horizon. So I thought, that must be the place. I just have to make it there. So on I went, and eventually got within sight of the church, which turned out to be the "1st Presbyterian Church of......CLAUDE." I'm not lying. CLAUDE. I doublechecked the roadsign as I went past that said, "WELCOME TO CLAUDE."
Now I have to tell you, at this point, two or three things went through my head at once; the first thing was that the 1st Presbyterian Church of Claude was a rather redundant sign, since it was readily apparent that Claude only HAD one church, Presbyterian or otherwise. It also only appeared to have four other buildings at most. Claude that is, not the Presbyterian church, which of itself, was quite lovely to look at, and possessed a very impressive parking lot.
The second thing that went through my head was that it was sadly evident that the charming hamlet of Claude was not where I was supposed to be stopping for lunch. Apparently, THAT was further on down the road. So, feeling like Diana Ross with a bad perm, I eased further on down the aforementioned road, tiredly, but with the notion, that even if I felt like it, I couldn't stop right then, much less give up. It wasn't because there was nowhere to eat (there wasn't, at least insofar that I could see) but that the humiliation of expiring there would be too much. The idea of my compadres finding my disappointed and dessicated corpse lying unpicturesquely outside the 1st Presbyterian Church of Claude wasn't a picture I was willing to entertain. Its not that I had anything against the place itself, God knows, but it was just that the idea of people looking sad-eyed at my funeral, and delicately asking "Where did Trev pass on?" and some wit brutally answering, "He died in Claude." left me, well, cold.
So, I pedalled on and eventually got to Inglewood where I had a fantastic lunch, and with that, more than enough energy to make it back, which I did, WITH a tailwind I might add, thanks be to an undoubtedly Presbyterian God.
Having said all that, the fact remains that I learned a valuable lesson that day, and coined some words to live by in the process; make sure you EAT enough food when about to do anything strenuous in life, because you never know when and if you're ever going to be stuck in Claude.
And if THAT don't convince you darlins', nothing will.
No comments:
Post a Comment