“Old man look at my life, I'm a lot like you were”
The after effects of yesterday’s poor choices in food and drink made for a morning of pit stops. Clouded over and dreary, we were lost for the second time of the trip, unable to differentiate between two usually distinct morning horizons. Stopping and yelling into the face of a man on his lawnmower proved fruitless. “I am from Cleveland. This is the prison road. I am not allowed off this grass here.” Riding without confidence of direction is painful; every pedal rotation could be wasted and the frequent bathroom stops were already making me weak in the knees. But we eventually found the due-east road, that dead ends into Lake Huron.
Heading south after soup and sandwiches, a storm came over us almost too quick to cover our bags, and we stood under a beefy tree in someone’s front yard as the owner watched us from his window, thinking if we could keep our chamois dry, our afternoon would go better. Normally rain doesn’t phase us enough to stop pedaling, but its intensity had us seeing only a few feet ahead, and the busyness of the afternoon on this highway got our worries going about being hit. The tree was worthless, branches streaming down like a faucet and we were soaked within a minute or two. Easily the worst downpour we’ve stood in, comparable only to the one Dave and I narrowly escaped once in Ecuador’s eastern jungles.
When we finally approached the St. Clair waterway that separates Michigan and Ontario after two afternoon stops for coffee, we were disappointed to find bicycles couldn’t be used to cross the bridge. A Michigan DOT truck was summoned and we were delivered to the search and seizing area on the Canadian side, being sniffed out by springer spaniels and grilled by two hardened boarder guards who eventually warmed up and annotated our map’s next move.
The daylight was cut short at the strip of motels east of town, known as the golden mile, due to our day of lazy meandering. Luckily the area shows heavy competition for pricing, and we were able to sleep comfortably and cheaper than a spot at a provincial campground. Turning on the TV, a rarity this trip, had us watching a Neil Young concert, apt for an arrival his native Ontario. Exhausted and inhaling yogurt with grapenuts, Dave and I began singing along on a few tunes, transporting me back to the late eighties. I’m sitting shotgun in our navy blue ‘60 beetle, with a view of likely just sky, branches and powerlines, cotton gloves from their dash spot, trusty scissors in the ignition, and we’re belting out “heart of gold” together – the first song I can remember learning that didn’t involve Raffi.
Day 30: Sarnia to Sand Hill, Ontario. 108.7 miles. 7:47 in saddle.
“I can’t get that sound you make out of my head, I can’t even figure out what’s making it”
Even the dodgiest of motels have free wifi, and we used my itouch’s google directions to get us southeast across a region of Ontario where roads don’t tend to line up with our plans. Although we’ve heard of the greatness of Garmins for bicycles, it was an expense we didn’t want to add to our trip, and our little device will cache our route in its memory for use long after we leave the internet, showing topography and step by step “walking” routes that keep you off interstates, err, interprovinces.
We tried to note the changes from the US, but the rolling farmland and decent paving was more of what we’d seen over the past couple weeks. A European influence in home construction is apparent in the stonework of farmhouses opposed to the usual timber and clapboards of the states, and the only supermarket we visited was prideful of which products were Canadian, and featured cooking classes and weight watchers meeting areas built into the upper level.
Our lunch break came at a crossroads after a few miles of washboard roads, and the intersection showed a demarcation of the reservation border; the unpaved streets named with nouns and celebrating the last chance for cheap cigarettes met perfect pavement named for dead white people and well groomed wheat fields. After wondering the price of a ’95 Jetta with ’96 Civic parts being advertised on the corner, we sat at length with our sandwiches questioning what we were hearing in the wheat field. The clicking and popping wasn’t unlike a run-out groove, and I theorized the humidity’s force on a windless wheat stalk; was the heat cracking them? Once my face was within a foot of the crop, a world of locusts came into view, making their dry noises as they brushed between plants. I was far too fascinated with this cacophony, and was likely hitting the delirium stages of dehydration. So we drank.
Once we found the north shore of Lake Eerie, we were back on our cycling maps, winding agonizingly down into every quaint port town only to climb back out to the same plateau. After a few of the same views , we kept to the high road and camped out at “Ontario’s largest sand pile,” which doesn’t really do anything for me.
Day 31: Sand Hill to Buffalo, NY. 111.5 miles. 8:33 in Saddle.
“so welcome to meadow brook, welcome to shady space”
Sticking to our plan of keeping to the high road wasn’t possible due to road breaks, and our first 20 miles included some painful hills. Once a good alternative was established, we found ourselves on roads with heavy truck traffic and poor space for our wheels, but our afternoon through lowland towns named with ports, points, and beaches was relaxing and scenic.
The further east we rode along Lake Erie, the fields and wind farms diminished and the population of waterfront cottages with overly cutesy names dominated our view. While thinking about the costs of cabins and my hypothetical return to the area for a nice family ride, my daydream was crushed as pockets of stench, hot with the day’s overcast, wafted around us. Apparently some townships just pipe their sewage waste down into Lake Erie, and a flavor returns to the shore, depending on the whims of the currents and winds. It’s quite sad from both an environmental and real estate perspective, and the gagging we endured means we won’t be returning to this area.
But the terrain is gorgeous and we were greeted with a final 20 miles to the US border by a “rails to trails". On most days when we hit 90 miles, I get fixated on my odometer and how long until I get to eat dinner, so I have to find distractions. With the sun falling to my back, and an open trail allowing for an upright, handless ride, I found myself making my shadow dance and settling into a steady, purposeful and jerky arm action to match my legs. I was thinking myself to be original until I realized I was doing the Ian Curtis (his stage march, not his kitchen sway). A fellow touring cyclist informed us that there is an excellent network of cycling trails up and around the long way to Toronto, and we’ll be keeping that tidbit in our pockets. He had missed his flight to Vancouver to do his own cross-Canada ride back to Toronto, and was making the best of his loaded down rig itching for use around the great lakes.
The border guards were once again generous in travel tips, this time covering which areas of Buffalo to circumnavigate for fear of mugging, and we went for a motel again. There was ample camping on the Canadian side, but we needed to get back in touch with our family without worry of cellphone bills.
No comments:
Post a Comment