Longest day of the ride. We’re wearing these orangey Kraft cheese slice coloured jerseys today, an official sponsor jersey of some sort, and they’re a gawdawful colour, and for some reason, all the mens’ are too small. Mine is especially. Like Jean-Luc Picard, I keep pulling it down constantly. I mean, I’m no prude, but I don’t really think anyone needs to see more of my exposed midriff than absolutely necessary. At this hour of the day especially. Unless of course, they’re paying customers, but that’s material for another column, Virginia. At any rate, there I was, feeling like a po’man’s Daisy Duke (all I was missing were the cut-off jeans!) when lo and behold, who should appear but Breakfast Television, with the biggest portable antenna unit I’ve ever seen. (Don’t even go there, James) The roving reporter who hosts it was talking to everybody and Murray (sigh) spoke very eloquently and humorously about what we were doing and why, and trying to raise awareness and funds for people living with HIV and AIDS. It was amazing that they were there, and more to the point, came all that way to see us so early in the day. The publicity was fabulous, and a lot of people I knew (I learned later) had seen it. That point really got hit home when were on our way through Port Hope, and all of these people came out and clapped and cheered us on, thrilled to have us there, if only for a night.
The ride itself was long. Three breaks plus lunch. The thing is, these breaks are such godsends, physically and psychologically, because they enable you to go on. You fill up on food and drink, get a massage (if you’re in line fast enough) and then you move on, hopefully before your muscles cool off, otherwise it makes it harder when you get back on your bike. Plus the people watching on the side of the road as you go by, (mostly I noticed, much older people, retirees) clapping and cheering you on, which is a tremendous boost. Its moments like that, when you see ordinary people, stopping the business of their lives to give something of themselves, their cheer, their enthusiasm, that you forget that the world can be such a wretchedly violent place, and can also be one of kinship and spirited pride and kindness. People would actually run up and hand money to the riders and/or crew if they saw them. It happened all the time. Its that kind of thing that renews my faith in humanity.
While on the road, I notice I don’t think about much. I mean, aside from the road and what’s on it, ie; broken glass, potholes, cracks, railroad tracks, gravel and the whatnot. Cars, pedestrians, other cyclists, that kind of thing. Hidden driveways and turns and the like. Its like my internal voice has finally turned off. Odd to not hear any voices having constant debates in my head. The creative voices have turned off, and my own inner one too, the one that constantly questions and studies and turns the myriad complexities of my life over and over again, like a raccoon washing a stone until it tires of it. Its not a conscious thing, this happening, I suppose its just my survival instinct, or whatever you want to call it, has kicked in and I notice everything around me now, and more importantly, pay attention to it. That is to say, what is going on OUTSIDE of my head has finally taken precedence over what takes place INSIDE my head. About time too, I can hear Mother mutter from here.
I never noticed it really, it just happened. Sometimes though, (and perhaps I’ll get used to this the further on I go) I’m riding, and I’m assailed by the feeling that this is all I’ve ever done, or is all I’ll ever do. The rest of the world and my life all seems so far away and remote. It isn’t a high, or a zone that I’m in, or even transcendental, its just a sense of being right there, in that moment, and its lasted and will last, forever. I wonder if that’s what animals feel like, and why they are generally serene by nature. Because there is no future or past to torment them with regret and possibility. Simply the state of being there, now. Only the scenery changes. But my goodness, what scenery, although I must say that by the end of yesterday, I was getting heartily sick of Queen Anne’s Lace, lovely flower that it is, a little goes a long way. The pungent fragrance was giving me a headache. Secular thought of the day; I figured out why all the Monarch butterflies. They’re attracted to the Queen Anne’s Lace. It must be the season for them. Oh well, it was a comforting thought while it lasted. I can’t remember who told me, or mentioned it, but somebody did. At any rate, the scenery changes dramatically the further east you go, and it dawns on me again for the umpteenth time what a fantastically beautiful country we live in. It’s a pity most people only see it by train or from the highway, as so much of the intimacy of it is lost that way. Anyhow, it was a long day, and we got to Picton (which was VERY hilly, with more curves than an old Mansfield movie) only to find out ( I didn’t know for some reason, must not have been paying attention I guess) that we were to be taking the Glenora Ferry across to the mainland (how and when we got off it, I still don’t know). The closer we got to the ferry however, the steeper the hills got, and I got to wondering how it was possible that we were going uphill to catch a vehicle that traveled on water. By the time we got to the top of the highest hill, I was considering smacking the lights out of every geography teacher I’d ever had, for disseminating what was obviously false information. Up on the highest hill I realized two things rather quickly; 1) the ferry was at the bottom of the hill, so the geography teachers got off immediately on that point and 2) it was leaving in a few seconds. Hmmm. I don’t believe I used my brakes until the very last second, and only then it was to avoid hitting the other cyclists already on board. Not that racing breakneck downhill and courting instant death was necessary of course, there was, as it happened, another ferry leaving in fifteen minutes.
The ride across was lovely and a nice mini-break, although some of us were sure there was going to be ice-cream
(there was, an excellent ice-cream place just at the ferry docks, unfortunately, we got there too late so we missed it) but Deb managed to get some, as she got there early enough. Grrrr. After we landed, we rode onward for about another fifteen minutes and finally got to our campsite in Adolphustown, which was lovely, a real campsite right on the water. I set up camp next to my new friend Gilbert, who I’d been riding with for most of the day, he’s very charming and laughs at my jokes
(always a valuable consideration with a frustrated actor) so we got along quite well.
(Yes noseys, he’s in a relationship, very happy, yadda yadda, relax.) I got everything unpacked and set up and realized to my chagrin, that I had left my tent fly 126 kms behind me back in Port Hope. For those of you wondering what this is, and why it should matter, a tent fly is the tie down roof you tie to the top of your tent to prevent potential annoyances such as torrential rain from pouring down upon your head in the middle of the night. It’s a small thing to be sure, but mine own. And I didn’t have it. Minor panic ensued. I asked a few of the organizers if anyone had picked it up, and somebody suggested I try Brent, Grand Vizier of the roadies and a sweetheart to boot, and just as he pointed to the extra lost and found bins lying outside of the trucks, I spied my tent-fly peeping out from one of them. The roadies are the last to leave a site and one of their jobs is to go over every inch of it with a fine tooth comb, bringing everything they find with them, with the idea that some witless wonder will come running up panic-struck at the end of the day saying they’ve lost, oh, I dunno, their tent-fly perhaps? God bless’em, every one. With a whoop they could hear in Java, I bounded over gleefully, snatched it from the jaws of oblivion and fairly danced with it back to my tent, thanking Brent profusely and promising to name all six of my firstborn children after him. Even the girls. No, especially the girls.
Tent restored to miraculous working order, I sat down in my collapsible chair and drank a ginger-ale, good humour restored. Until I discovered (while parking my bike in the truck that night for safe keeping) that my bug repellent had leaked into the inside of my bike bag, attached to my handle bars. Not a particularly attractive smell. Cleaned it out as best I could, and while Gilbert went for a massage, I set up the rest of my tent, clothes, etc. Then I got changed, and when he came back we went down to the water and went for a swim. My first time swimming in a long time, and I was surprised how weak a swimmer I had become. I could still swim, the body doesn’t forget that, but I certainly didn’t have the stamina to keep myself afloat endlessly like I used to. So I simply floated about as far out as I could, while keeping my feet connected to the lake floor. Annoying that, and I was always such a strong swimmer. Alas, like the languages I knew, if you don’t use it, you lose it. We swam for about an hour, managed to get out and dried in time for supper, hung out with James and the boys for a bit, and then while the rest of the mob was at the Bingo Night, I snuck off and had a shower, and washed my hair. I never feel completely clean until I've scrubbed and shampooed my moptop. I was just finishing up in the bathroom next door to the shower when this young man named Ken walked in
(I’d seen him before, noting that obviously a Greek God got lost on his way back to Olympus and wandered in here by accident. Apollo, I’d guess….) with a bug bite on his finger, which was quite swollen. It didn’t seem to be spreading, so amputation didn’t seem necessary just yet, but I offered the brown salve Mom had given me if he needed it, but he thought he’d be O.K, and then we said good night and went off to bed.
Separately, children.
(Yes, he’s happily married too. To a championship swimmer. God, but you’re nosey.) I woke up again at around four in the morning, this time awakened by distant thunder and lightning in the east. I looked out of my tent and silently prayed; “Stay the hell over there!” Then I fell back in a dead sleep.
This just about says it all, doesn't it? Cawthra Park, Departure Day.
