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Half-Star "The flush toilet is the basis of
Western civilization." In the morning, Sharon 'raced' slow motion to the nearest rest stop in Shingleton - ten torturous kilometres. Her morning constitution was often inopportune. Reaching a restroom was sometimes a challenging ordeal. A hardship of touring by bicycle is the distance between facilities: rest stops are spaced for car travellers. And what takes an hour for them, takes us a day. We pulled into the roadside rest stop as an old gent exited the outdoor biffy - holding his nose. Not a good sign. "Better use the motorhome," he advised his frail-looking wife. "It's pretty stinky." Not having the luxury of a motorhome washroom alternative, Sharon plugged her nose and bolted inside. Moments later, she staggered out. "Definitely half-star," she choked. (We had devised a five star rating system for washrooms. Never before had one attained the lowly status of half a star!) "What I'd like to know," Sharon shuddered, "is how someone can sling crap four feet up the bloody walls!? For crying out loud, it looks like someone took a dump in there while swinging from a fan." "Gives a whole new understanding to 'the shit's gonna hit the fan,'" I said, not especially eager to take my turn. Outhouses were a definite downside to biking and camping. The brown stuff may make great roses, but it sure doesn't smell like roses. The old man's assessment turned out to be unanimous. On a 1 to 10 smelliness scale, I rated it a generous 11. Talk about extreme sports! And, being the only rest stop for miles around, it procured a steady stream of 'customers.' The weekend was just beginning, but already the outhouse's toilet paper had run its course. Thankfully we carried our own. We sat at a nearby (but not too near!) picnic table to watch the fun. A big stocky fellow entered. "Oh, my!" he exclaimed in a high voice. What fun! "Reminds me of the old man who lived by the sewer," I said. "One day he was found dead. Some thought it was murder ... but it was actually sewercide." As we ate breakfast - upwind - a retired couple pulled in with a beautiful motorhome (the older I get, the better motorhomes look). They spotted our Canadian flags and beelined over to chat. From British Columbia, they were tired of the travel life and were headed back home. "Travelling for two months has plain tuckered us out," the old gent sighed. "My goodness," his wife put in, "we were nearly shaken to bits near Sault Ste Marie. You aren't going to dare ride that on pedal bikes, are you?" That particular stretch of Trans Canada highway is infamous for eating bicycles (and cyclists) - both bike tourers and car drivers had tabled a smorgasbord of horror stories: narrow ... abysmal surface ... nonexistent shoulders ... heavy truck traffic ... countless motorhomes ... high-speed drivers in a hurry to run cyclists off the road. The combination made for a deadly cycling experience. (A friend of ours had cycled solo all the way across Canada with no problems till he hit that section. After being run off the road three times in one day, he turned his little bicycle around and headed back west. When Cross-Canada tour groups ride that segment they begin at dawn. A support van, hazard lights flashing, herds everyone down the road in one unit.) Since we weren't with a Cross-Canada tour group - and wishing to live long and healthy lives - our plan was to head south to Port Huron, Seney, Manistique Lake.... Rather than jousting with freight trucks and motorhome mirrors, we would enjoy a tranquil ride on peaceful country roads. Or at least that was the plan. |
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