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Geranium "The male is a domestic animal which,
if treated with firmness, can be trained to do most things."
We pedalled into Sarnia. Built along the banks of the turgid, turquoise and azure, Saint Clair River, it displayed gardens bursting with flowers. My favourites were dazzling red hot pokers. Heavy industry had spent a load of money disguising chemical plants and smokestacks. Everything looked clean ... as long as one only looked skin-deep. (Like my mother was fond of saying: "Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes all the way to the bone.") Leaving Sarnia to the Bobs of the world, we arrived at a campground in Mooretown. In front of a travel trailer, two large women lay sprawled across lawn chairs. We wheeled over to them and discovered they wanted an exorbitant sum for a tiny plot of ground. We only want to sleep here, I thought, not buy the place. In hopes of wrangling a discount, I tried out my new spiel. "How much is it for round-the-world cyclists?" The two women shuffled in their chairs, eyes wide, mouths agape. "That's more the response I have been looking for," I whispered to Sharon. "In that case," the smaller of the two large women chirruped, "nothing!" She pointed to a piece of grass. "You can stay right here beside our trailer." I nodded. Blankly. The woman's free offer hadn't registered in my teeny-tiny brain. Perhaps Sarnia Bob still had me rattled, too? Not one to quit when I'm ahead I added we were on our honeymoon. Which was true. Technically. But when they assumed we had just been married, I dumbly nodded again. (I like to think that what I lack in honesty I make up in charisma.) "Newlyweds!" the woman exclaimed, her eyes twinkling. "And you're riding around the world on bikes? Honey," she said, giving Sharon a pensive look, "you must really love him." I was about to inform the woman that it had all been Sharon's idea, then, at the last moment, decided to keep quiet. From her ample bulk, I assumed she wouldn't understand how anyone on earth could want to do such a thing. Besides, I had already opened my big mouth wide enough. Was there room for another cycling shoe in there? Sometimes, I thought, it's better to keep your mouth shut and let them think you're stupid, rather than open your mouth, and prove it. "Oh, yeah," Sharon drawled, giving me a sideways look, "he's good for a laugh now and then." "Well, it sounds like you'll fit right in," the large woman replied with a shadowy smile. "My name's Pat," she said, thrusting a meaty paw toward us. Half-turning her torso, she jabbed a thick thumb toward a neat fellow two-thirds her size, standing in the travel trailer's doorway, tea-towel in hand. "That's my husband, Klaus," Pat said, a half-smile crinkling her lips. "He's part German and part Ukrainian ... I call him my little geranium." I chuckled and waved. Already, I could tell we were in for an entertaining evening. "This is my sister, Judy," Pat said, introducing the even larger woman next to her. Pat gazed around, then pointed out a wee wisp of a feller running to another trailer over yonder. "That's Judy's husband," Pat said, giggling. "We call him 'Speedy.'" The vast size difference between husband and wife struck me as comical. I smiled, pondering. Do the biggest women always marry the smallest men? Was it one of life's little rules? Somewhat similar to those with the biggest butt, invariably always seem to sport the smallest fanny pack? Then again, I thought, perhaps it's all just an unfortunate optical illusion. "Are you hungry?" Pat asked, jolting me from my daydream. "No, we're fine, thanks," Sharon answered. My stomach demurred with a reflexive growl. "We've finished supper," Pat went on, "but it's no trouble for Klaus to fix you a burger." I glanced toward Klaus. Still framing the trailer's doorway, he grinned, slapped the tea-towel over his shoulder, and about-faced into the trailer. "Men never do anything unless people are visiting," Pat informed Sharon, beginning what would turn out to be a very long list of newlywed tips. "But if you have guests they will do everything - making it look like you do nothing. So," she said with a sly grin, "the secret is to always have lots of company!" In short order, Klaus reappeared with two deluxe burgers and two cups of tea. Sharon and I sat at the picnic table. "Train your man early," Pat advised Sharon. "They take time, so don't waste a second!" "Oh?" Sharon replied. "How long does it take?" "Thirty-one years," Pat replied. I almost choked on a chunk of cheese. If Roseanne ever needed a stand-in, the woman could fill her shoes (and then some). "I plan on writing a book on men and marriage," Pat stated. "Good idea," I said. "What's the title?" "I'm calling it Pat's Pointers: A Guide for Today's Wild Wahini. My motto: 'Make your man laugh at least once a day, and he'll never leave you.'" Sounded good to me. Klaus delivered tea to Pat and Judy, then settled himself into a lawn chair. Talk turned to the usual questions of routes and how many kilometres a day we did. Then they shifted gears, asking what our parents thought about our trip. "They're worried," we confided, "but they're supportive." Looking from a more senior perspective, they had said, "You only live once - so you may as well make the most of it." And, when they realized we were going away for a considerable length of time, they said, "You know, two, three, even four years are going to go by whether you do it or not." That was true. So, we thought, 'What would we rather be doing? Climbing the corporate ladder one shaky rung at a time (possibly sawed off mid-step), or off exploring the big wide world?' Happily, travel won out. After all, who would voluntarily choose being cooped up inside all day breathing artificial air and seeing with artificial light when there are mountains to climb, roads to ride, rivers to swim, and new friends to meet? Did I mention copious amounts of food to be eaten? Barely finished licking our fingers from our first helping, Klaus hustled over with another humongous burger. "We decided we'd rather be doing this," Sharon said, "than stuck in some dead-end job." "Just waiting to die," I added. Pat lurched upright. "My dad's 80," she said. "And he's just waiting to die." She paused, her eyes moist. "I went to see him the other day," she said. "He greets me with 'Hi, Fat Pat.'" She frowned. Her head bowed. "I asked him, 'Dad, do you want to go to a birthday party next week?' "'Probably be dead by then,' he says. "Well, if you're not dead, do you want to go? "'Okay, but I'll probably be dead. Don't make any plans around me.' "Okay, Dad," Pat grimaced, enjoying her one-woman two-sided dialog. "He's so stooped over," she rebounded, giggling, "he reminds me of the letter 'n.' It looks like his suspenders are way too tight and they're pulling the poor old guy over. 'Hey, Dad! Your suspenders are too tight!' "'Whaaaat?' "Never mind." Pat paused. A crease furrowed her brow. "Yep. He's just waiting to die." There was silence as we digested Pat's remarks. I decided then and there that I intended to wear out rather than rust out. "So!" Pat burst out suddenly, breaking our ruminations. "Enough of my morbidity!" She looked directly at Sharon, ready to dispense more bang-up newlywed tips. "What do you guys do about sex?" It was Sharon's turn to nearly choke. "Well, I've got some advice for you," Pat said, "on how to avoid sex." Oh, great. "Can't use the old headache excuse anymore," she griped, pursing her lips into a beguiling pout. "Some dumb doctor loused that one up. 'Sex reduces stress and actually helps your headache go away.' Terrific! I've had to go and change my entire tactic since that sordid piece of research. Now I say to Klaus, 'Rub my back.'" Her voice dropped to a whisper as she demonstrated. "The secret is to keep twitching your shoulder until he falls asleep." I hoped Sharon wasn't paying too close attention. "Men are quite ignorant about the female physiology," Pat continued. "Like, I'll wear pads for three weeks straight. 'Sorry, hon, not tonight.'" Her face twisted into a cherubic grin. Hmmm. I'd watch for that one. Pat was full of good ideas. "Another thing you can do is tell him to go to bed and you'll be right there. Keep checking every so often. 'Honey, don't fall asleep watching TV. Hon?' When he doesn't answer anymore, it's safe to go to bed." Good thing we sold our TV! Klaus served mugs of hot chocolate. "Speaking of 'safes,'" Pat went on, "the other day, our grandson asked Klaus, 'What's a condom, Grandpa?' Klaus tells him: 'An apartment building.' I felt it my duty to correct Klaus," Pat sniffed. "'It's a raincoat for a penis,' I told him. Don't want the kid gettin' no wrong ideas." I nearly spat out my hot chocolate. After another round of 'helpful' newlywed advice, Sharon and I were ready to hit the showers. I rummaged through my panniers, searching for fresh clothes. "You can shower together if you like," Judy piped up. "The one on the end is for handicapped. It's nice and roomy!" I considered that the most helpful tip of the evening. Sharon and I traipsed off happily to the showers. "Hey!" Pat bellowed. "You're
holding hands! Newlyweds!" she shouted. Then, in mock disgust,
directed at Sharon I presumed, "You haven't learned one
thing I've told you, have you?" |
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