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Androgynous "There is a certain relief in change,
even though it can be from bad to worse! As I have often found
in travelling ... that it is often a comfort to shift one's position,
and be bruised in a new place." Following unsigned country roads, we traversed to Wheatley, and headed north, away from Lake Erie's built-up shoreline. Hundreds of black birds lined telephone wires, three deep. As we rode past, a flurry of feathers would erupt as they zoomed skyward, performing displays of sweeping synchronized aerial acrobatics, only to alight farther down the line ... and do it all over again when we arrived moments later. The birds led us to a camp spot amongst woods. We dozed off to unremitting insect droning. In the middle of the night I suddenly awoke. It was spookily quiet - not a peep to be heard. Complete and utter silence. During the day, crickets chirped loudly until we rode by, then they would quit - sometimes mid chirrup. Had something disturbed the insects to hush? Or do they sleep too? I wondered. I lay there a long time, straining my ears to the incredible lack of sound. I always thought the phrase 'deafening silence' was an oxymoron. But, lying there, marvelling how any place on earth could be so totally without sound, I could hear the roar of molecules bouncing off my eardrums. Or was it remnants of the Big Bang?
At 6:30 am, the hum of motorized insects began - also known as the urbanite morning commute. We waited till 8 am to get on the road, after most of the worker drones were off the highways and into their hive-like cubicles. Skirting Lake Erie's shoreline, we followed Highway 3, the Talbot Road. Colonel Thomas Talbot was said to have been a stubborn Irishman. In the early 1800s, in hopes of attracting more settlers, he built a crude road along the lake from Fort Erie to Windsor. Anna Jameson gives a wonderful account of her arduous 1837 Talbot Road horse and cart journey in Winter Studies and Summer Rambles in Canada. She describes the route as "scarcely passable ... dark pine forest and the rank swamp (my bones ache at the mere recollection!) and deep holes and pools of rotted vegetable matter, mixed with water, black, bottomless sloughs of despond! ... I set my teeth, screwed myself to the seat and commended myself to Heaven...." A bicycle seat wasn't looking so bad, after all. And the road we cycled was heavenly smooth compared to the corrugated surface those first travellers endured. Lake Erie sparkled, sunlight reflecting off small waves. I thought it odd that no cottages lined the waterfront as they had up till then. Searching for a spot to enjoy breakfast, we followed a path lined with old oak, weeping willow, and tulip trees to the edge of Lake Erie. Suddenly, with a start (and a sudden stop) we discovered why no vacation homes occupied the shoreline. There was a tremendous 75-foot drop, straight down to the water. "Yikes!" I gulped, looking over the cliff. "Makes it rather difficult to get to one's boat." But it made for one fine breakfast spot.
After our breakfast with a view, a sudden urge to make like a doggy in a flower bed struck me. All those fresh veggies we had found along the roadside? I needed a washroom. Pronto. Cycling gingerly, praying for something to turn up, I wasn't having much faith. In the middle of nowhere, I had about as much chance of finding a toilet as a one-legged dude did of winning an ass-kicking contest. Then, ahead, I thought I saw something outhouse-shaped tucked amongst pine trees behind an old church. "That's my Man," I muttered, pulling into the church yard and leaning my bike against an ancient oak. I scurdled (that's scurrying and waddling combined) toward the outhouse. I yanked the door open. Gauzy spider webs draped the interior - including the entire roll of toilet paper. But what shocked me more was the side-by-side two-holer greeting me - a tandem pooper! What's this? I wondered. One for you and one for a very good friend? Nope. Closer inspection revealed it was a dual-purpose combination men and women's outhouse. I could tell right off that the hole on the left was for the men. It was nothing but a bare board. Apparently, real men were supposed to be like John Wayne - they liked it rough and tough. In contrast, the hole opposite the men's displayed a padded cushy pink seat. "Talk about discrimination," I grumbled, dropping my drawers and setting myself delicately onto the rough-hewn plank. Watch for slivers. No sudden movements! Sitting on that butt-numbing board, I felt like Goldilocks. "This commode is too hard!" I glanced over at the soft and supple women's seat. Hmmm. Hell, I thought, aren't I androgynous enough to use the comfy pink throne? After all, I always remember to put the seat down. And besides, who would ever know? Wiping cobwebs from the overstuffed seat, I lifted the lid and checked for spiders. I had no intention of letting a black widow bite unmentionables as they swung over the dark abyss. Plopping myself onto the pillowy-soft seat, I sat in momentary dignified repose. Apprehension cut my solitude short. Spiders, large and small, brown and black, bald and hirsute, scuttled forth from nooks and crannies. I watched with rapt attention as the biggest carpenter ant I'd ever laid eyes on crawled forth from a crevice. All two inches of the shiny minibeast shot straight for me. Shocked, I stood abruptly. Too abruptly. My shorts plummeted, blanketing the ant. I snatched them up and gave them a vigorous shake. But the corpulent six-legged brute had vanished. It was nowhere to be seen. Talk about having ants in one's pants! Omigosh! I thought. I hope it's not looking for a new crack to call home! I quickly exited, wedging the door tightly closed behind me. Back outside in bright sunshine I composed myself, then sauntered around the corner to where Sharon waited. "How is it?" she asked. "Posh," I lied. "Five stars." Sharon happily trundled off to use the facilities. |
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