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The Long Way "Even if you are on the right track,
you'll get run over if you just sit there." Mid-September. A sharpness was in the air. A fellow in Cannington greeted us with, "You two are out very late in the season." "We've cycled in weather colder than this," we assured him. (A foot of snow at Oregon's Crater Lake one June leapt to mind.) "Where are you going?" he asked. "Eventually, I mean." "Vancouver," I replied. "The long way." "It'll be snow before you get there," he warned, bushy eyebrows jutting skyward in haughty concern. A simper - like some folks get when secretly getting pleasure from delivering bad news - creased his thin lips. "Thunder Bay had frost in August." "Cool," I said. "No cool about it," he snorted, miffed at my lack of reaction to his frosty news. "That's damn cold. Where are you from, anyway?" "Edmonton." "Oh," he said. "So you know about cold then." I nodded. "Where are you headed now?" "Gaspé," I replied. My response shook him. Gaspé, after all, is in the exact opposite direction from Vancouver. I could see the lights were flashing, but no train was coming. "Then what are you going to do?" he stammered, trying to regain his equilibrium. "Fly," Sharon interjected. "Ah," he brightened. "To Vancouver." "No," I responded. "Spain." That information perplexed the poor fellow even more. "Well," he said, suddenly grabbing my hand and pumping it. "Good luck." As his figure receded down the sidewalk, Sharon turned to me. "Don't you think it'd just be a whole lot easier if you simply told people that we're cycling around the world? Instead of 'Vancouver ... the long way'?" I shrugged. "I like derailments." |
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