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Pick-Your-Own "If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world." ~ J. R. R. Tolkien On the road by 7 am - bucking the stiffest headwind in a long while - my lead-possessed legs twirled in uncoordinated circles. At one o'clock, after six hours on the road, we stopped for lunch - a paltry 20 kilometres from where we set off that morning! The headwind was pummeling us, giving us a tough reintroduction to hills after southern Ontario's flat farmland. The only thing keeping me from heaving my bike into the nearest ditch was the fantastic display of autumn foliage - waves of amber and orange reflected in canal waters. On one low canal bridge, I lightened up a bit when I read what some wag had scrawled: Duck. Or quack your head. At a farmer's field, tired of pedalling face-first into a stiff headwind, we stopped and pulled out our map. Holding it down with both hands, I studied it for an alternate route. "Can't get much worse than this," I complained. A sudden whirlwind hurled a fistful of dust straight into my face. I coughed and waved my arms. "Just to prove me wrong," I spluttered. But it wasn't over yet. An earsplitting explosion, not unlike a letter bomb detonating inside a Belfast postal centre, rocked the air. My front tire had exploded clear off the rim! The lifeless tube hung limply, shredded, spindled, and mutilated, appearing to have suffered a cruel fate at the hands of Jack the Ripper. My jaw dropped. "Very strange," I muttered. "I think you're going to have to take a look at that," Sharon deadpanned. What could be causing the problem? Nothing like this had occurred on our long-distance bike trip across the States. I removed the tire and checked the rim. Nothing. Rim tape? Nope, it appeared fine. How about under the rim tape? Any slivers of metal? Nope, again, I could find nothing awry. I hated to imagine a blowout like that while flying down a hill. In consternation I wondered, "What's causing these blowouts?" "Hmmm," Sharon murmured. "I pumped your tires to 90 pounds this morning. I wonder if that caused it?" "It shouldn't have," I answered. "They're rated at least that. But, come to think of it, since that time my rear tire exploded, I've been keeping them at 80." I replaced the tube. Head tilted and one eye closed, I pumped the tire to a tentative 80 psi. Talk about gun shy. Replacing the valve top, I remembered something was different. "You don't suppose my Mr Tuffy tire liners are the problem, do you?" We hadn't used them on long trips before. "That's the only thing I can think of that's different." "Aren't they supposed to stop flats? Not cause them," Sharon smirked. We mounted up and rode on without complications. I admit, though, I was a lot more cautious whilst zipping down hills. (And the next time I had a flat, I tossed the Mr Tuffy tire liner. Guess what? I'm not saying the Mr Tuffy tire liners were the cause, but the mysterious exploding tire syndrome went away.) A pick-your-own vegetable farm came into view - a choice spot to acquire fresh veggies. Produce, from asparagus to zucchini, sprouted in every direction. (Okay, I'm not sure if they had asparagus, but there was corn, carrots, cucumbers....) One field, as far as my eye could see, held nothing but cabbage. "I can't imagine all the people in Canada eating that much cabbage!" I sputtered. "Maybe they export it to the Ukraine?" "That's a whole lotta cabbage rolls," Sharon confirmed. We leaned our bikes against a metal quonset hut, and entered the main building to obtain baskets. The heady smell of onion permeated the air, tickling our noses with its redolent scent. Baskets of already picked carrots sat on a shelf awaiting buyers. "Can I buy half a basket of carrots?" Sharon asked the person in charge at the cash register. "No," he replied, shaking his head. "We don't sell half-baskets of pre-picked. But you can pick half a basket for yourself in the field, though." We took two baskets and plodded what seemed a mile into a long field and picked a few tomatoes. Sharon wanted corn too, but it was at the end of another field, about another mile away. I convinced her we didn't need corn. Disillusioned by how far it was between vegetable patches, we even forgot carrots. We trudged back to the quonset hut with our red fruit. "How much for these?" Sharon asked, plunking her basket onto the weigh scale. "For you?" the owner answered. "Nothing." "Nothing?" Sharon said, startled. In our absence, the owner had been outside and discovered we were on bikes. "Anyone who can make it here under her own steam deserves something," he said kindly. Our mode of transport had once again opened people's hearts. "These are for you, too," he said, motioning to a couple of plump paper sacks sitting on the counter beside him. The bags bulged with new baby potatoes, cucumbers, celery, onions, and, oh yes, a few carrots, too. A woman approached and handed us souvenir pens. "To remember us by," she said warmly. "You'll think of us whenever you write a postcard." We wholeheartedly thanked the owners for their generosity. They responded by throwing in cobs of corn. How much room did they think we had in those bike panniers? Grinning ear to ear, we swayed down the earthen
farm road and back on to the main route. With heavy bags (but
light hearts), we skipped our way to Keswick. The park at Cook's
Bay suited us for the night (though I had to wonder about a sign
in the parking area: No undressing in cars). |
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