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Devil Got Your Tongue "We are what we think. All that we
are arises with our thoughts. With our thoughts, we make the
world."
On empty stomachs, we rode 70 kilometres into a stiff headwind. Progress was slow. "We'd make lousy gamblers," Sharon said. "Our luck is so terrible! We can't even get a tailwind across the Prairies!" In Yorkton, Saskatchewan, we hit an all-you-can-eat restaurant and filled up on "brupper" - breakfast, lunch, and supper. (When we arrived I had the shakes from not eating for so long; Sharon figured I was trembling from looking at all the food.) We were famished, and, I dare say, got good value for our money. After cleaning out the fruit section, we moved on to main course, cleared that department, then headed for dessert. Sharon gasped for breath, laughing uncontrollably, when she tried to rise for a fifth helping and could not. "The next time they see cyclists coming," she said, "they'll lock the doors before the poor devils can get in." Riding after Yorkton was painful in more ways than one. Not only were our bellies hitting our handlebars, but we hit another cyclists' nemesis, as well: road construction. The surface was rough ("newly pebbled," someone said) and cracked. Adding to our discomfort was the heat. "Hang the environmental concerns," I complained, mopping my brow. "The next bike I get is going to have air conditioning." We cycled past bulky construction workers playing with hot tar. Low slung pants revealed more cracks than the road. Malodorous fumes and clangorous machinery engulfed us, assaulting our ears, eyes, and noses. For two hours the stony surface jarred loose our fillings, swelled our hindquarters, and agitated our stomach contents. The hot miles dragged by. Road grime stuck to our sweaty legs as if we were giant Venus dust traps. On a corner marked with a Wroxton sign, we slithered our sorry carcasses off the sticky tarmac and into a gas station to buy cold treats. Biting Popsicles, we relaxed on a strategically located bench and watched the world go by. The gas station owner and a customer looked at our loaded bikes and debated how long they reckoned it'd take to ride "a blooming bicycle" to Winnipeg. "Well, I've never done it," the owner confessed. "Hell, we don't even ride bicycles," the customer confided. After some questionable math, whilst swatting several bothersome flies, they settled on four days. "That's probably accurate," Sharon said, calculating the distance to be about 400 kilometres. "If we want to be there in four days, we better get a move on." We finished our icy treats and hauled our aching bods back onto our blooming bicycles to tackle the remaining stretch of destruction. Fortunately, we soon struck pavement. The miles slipped by. Save for a few scrub trees and fields of radiant yellow canola there was nothing as far as the eye could see. "Can you believe this?" I said, staring at the immense open space surrounding us. "There's miles between houses." "When each farm averages over a thousand acres," Sharon said, "there's no such thing as close neighbours." Pedalling along, deliberating the merits of irrigation systems versus living with seasonal rain vagaries, we crested a lip of land. There lay a verdant valley and silky-smooth lake; its surface reflecting the first hill we had seen in ages. "Guess what?" Sharon shouted. "We just survived cycling across Saskatchewan! The flat prairies are behind us!" she spouted jubilantly. "Better days ahead!" Compared to our previous snail's rate progress, we zoomed down the hill, and surged across a bridge spanning Lake of the Prairies. "Woo-hoo!" I yelled. "Remember this?" Then, abruptly, we found ourselves grinding up the other side. "Ughh," I groaned, getting a dose of reality while attempting to use muscles that hadn't been tested in a long while. "I had forgotten about this. What am I ever going to do in the Pyrenees?" In a few kilometres, we hit Roblin, our first Manitoban town. A congregation milled about a church parking lot after a mass exodus. I was about to experience an unwelcome welcome to the province that boasts the slogan: Friendly Manitoba. Two elderly parishioners strolled the sidewalk. "Hi!" I called. "Could you give me directions to a grocery store?" They stared back, looking me over. Without a word, they stepped around me and continued on their way. Huh? What could possibly have gone wrong? "They still speak English in Manitoba, don't they?" I asked Sharon. "Maybe they were deaf?" "They must have used up all their goodness in church," Sharon concluded. "That 'Friendly Manitoba' motto does have an 'r' in it, doesn't it?" Two more elderly women hobbled toward me. Do I dare ask them? When they arrived, I was still standing there wondering whether the devil had their tongues too. I chanced it. They turned out to be regular, friendly Manitobans. Not only did they direct us to the nearest convenience store, but they also threw in (at no extra charge) directions to a free campground. We found the campground easy enough and chose a choice spot - a vantage point overlooking tiny Goose Lake. "I guess that's why it's singular," Sharon mused, surveying the pittance of water. "Not enough room for two." The campground was indeed free. Even better, so were the showers. "And they're open 24 hours," a youthful employee at the information booth noted. She must know cyclists! A petite, white-haired woman, all of four and a half feet tall, stood next to the counter. She was the information worker's aunt, and had come to chat. Another woman arrived (the worker's mother). The two older women spitfired questions at Sharon and me about bicycle touring. When they had exhausted the usual questions, the aunt asked, "Don't you get scared? Out there on your bicycles, all by yourselves?" "No," I replied. "We don't watch TV." I figure most people harbour a distorted view on personal - indeed world - safety due to 'news' on the nightly boob tube. Lots of fear mongering. Lots of violence. The more blood splattering the living room floor, or bedroom carpet, the better the ratings. Great stuff to watch before going to sleep. The majority of people who inhabit our old world are decent human beings ... or at least harmless. Everyday good deeds (such as these women's wonderful hospitality), don't sell newspapers. And rarely have I seen a good deed by common folk make the nightly news' top billing. The women listened to my rant politely, then the aunt said, "I like to watch the news." The mother nodded. "Me too." "In colour, too, I'll bet," I said. |
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