|
Riding Under A Nuclear Sky "Too much of a good thing is wonderful."
Autumnal equinox arrived without fanfare. I found it intriguing: Twice a year, on the vernal and autumnal equinox, everywhere on earth receives an equal 12 hours of dark and 12 hours of light. Compared to the long hours of light we had enjoyed in July, the third week of September had drastically less daylight. No longer could we dawdle as we had in the past and still rack up a good number of kilometres before darkness enveloped us. After all, we wanted to make it out of Canada before winter snowed us in. And if we wanted to be in Kingston before nightfall we had to get a move on - we still had quite a few kilometres to go. At 6:30 am, morning light had just begun to paint a faint rosy blush on the distant eastern horizon. We pushed our bikes out of a secluded spot from behind a stand of evergreens in closed-for-the-season Ferris Provincial Park. In the early dawn, we were the only ones up for miles around, and were enjoying the all encompassing silence. A hearty "Hello!" startled me. "Good morning!" I replied reflexively. "Beautiful day for a walk," I stuttered. As soon as the words left my lips, I noticed the walker's mittens. Maybe it was still a bit cool. Her breath puffed out in smoky wisps as she laughed in agreement. We rode some of the morning wearing our fleece pullovers. By the time we cruised through Stirling at the day's 30 kilometre mark, we were perspiring like overweight recruits on a cross-country run. Pedalling hard, we were racking up the kilometres, our goal being to reach Claren and Kevin's before nightfall. Our first stop of the day came at lunchtime in Belleville. The morning's workout had piqued our appetites. We bought a grilled chicken, and, overlooking Bay of Quinte, devoured the bird in short order to little more than a heap of steaming bones. After our chicken-feast decimation, we crossed onto Picton Island with its delightful collection of country cottages. Drinking in a view of tranquil Muscote Bay, we wound our way along Prince Edward County's sporadically trafficked roads. At 4 pm, we arrived in Picton, lightheaded, still several kilometres from our destination. Our legs shaky, delirium was just a short step around the corner. We needed food. Sharon's ashen face broadcast fatigue and hunger. I wasn't feeling so hot myself - lack of glucose is nasty business. Not only was I out of energy, but it felt as though rats were gnawing my stomach lining. "How about if we eat at Lake on the Mountain Park?" Surely, I thought, we could make it ten more kilometres to the park. But when we reached Glenora Ferry, Lake on the Mountain Park was still two kilometres away - and all of it uphill (I guess that's where the 'mountain' part of the name came in). "Forget that!" Sharon announced, and clomped onto the waiting ferry like a weary Clydesdale. During the short crossing we tore into granola bars and fruit leather. I had visions of fastening my handlebar bag around my ears like an old mare's feed bag. We gulped down every food item in our bags. By the time the ferry reached the other side, our hunger had vanished. We hopped on our bikes and sprinted along Highway 33, making good time - considering our quasi-twilight state of existence. Five kilometres farther, two touring cyclists headed toward us. Often, touring cyclists will stop and jaw with each other - exchanging war stories, routes, and good bakeries. But we were on a tear, and didn't plan on stopping. I had decided we would pass them with a cheery wave. However, they had other ideas. Both cyclists darted across the road and swerved to a dead halt in front of us. Sharon and I jumped on our brakes and barely stopped before knocking them down. Unfazed, the front runner thrust out a gloved hand. "Hi!" he chirped. "We're from England!" "Nice running into you," I drawled. The jawing began. On the road since May - almost five months - they had begun their trip in Vancouver, ridden to Québec, and were on their way back to Toronto to catch a flight home. "I can't believe it!" the rearward bloke deplored. "In two weeks we're flying back to England! It all seemed so far away when we started.... It's hard to believe how fast the time has flown." His voice trailed off. I wondered, after living free for five months, how they were going to manage the adjustment back into the 'real' world. Wearing cycling gloves at the office water cooler? Roasting wieners over a garbage can? (Really though, my concern should have been how we, after our much longer sojourn, would pull off re-entry. But, at the time, I had not the slightest inkling that we would never be normal again.) The front fellow nodded. "We've been watching the Best-Before dates on milk," he said with a chuckle. "For a long time we had far more days than the date. Now," he said, and he practically whimpered when he said this, "the expiry date is after when we'll be leaving." (Still in a delirious state, I wondered if milk dates were perhaps a metaphor for life - we all had a 'best-before' date. Perhaps that's why some folks have such a sour outlook on life? They're past their 'best-before' date.) The English bloke composed himself. Stiff upper lip and all that. "All very depressing," he muttered. "Quite," the second chap concurred. "Quite." At 5:30 pm, still shaking their heads, they shoved off. Sharon and I, our bellies again well past empty, had 50 kilometres to go. Not long after, in a hunger-induced state of violent mental agitation, we goose-stepped through Adolphustown, conned our way through Conway, blasted through Sandhurst, washed through Bath ("cleanest folks around!" Sharon declared), and guardedly sprinted past Millhaven Penitentiary. After pedalling kilometres in a trance-like state, we became woozy. I spotted a roadside corner store and pulled off the road. Sharon, collapsed over her handlebars, white as a ghost in a freshly laundered sheet. Near collapse myself, I managed to get off my bike and tromp inside. Suddenly possessed of five thumbs, my uncoordinated fingers fumbled for change to buy a half-dozen chocolate bars. "Do you want a bag for those?" the clerk asked, watching me with concern. "Naw," I slurred. "I'm gonna eat 'em here." Back outside, Sharon wolfed down her allotted three candy bars. And off we dashed. Daylight was rapidly abandoning us. Fuelled by hits of chocolate, we rocketed along at 30 kilometres an hour. Then, a crosswind blowing off Lake Ontario blindsided us, hampering our best efforts. We churned away, sweat streaming down our temples. The only thing that kept us cranking? The vision of showers at our good hosts' home. At Collins Bay, on the outskirts of Kingston, daylight failed us completely. We stopped and basked in a nuclear explosion sunset (sunscreen SPF 1 million). Deep pinks, husky reds, lurid purples, all radiated in a polychromatic burst. Evaluating our predicament we stopped at the first pay phone we found and called our friends. Alas, there was no answer. Claren, a Chartered Accountant, and Kevin, an officer in the Canadian military (yes, Virginia, we have an army - we just don't let them have any weapons), hadn't arrived home from work yet. We rode on doggedly, our VistaLites flashing red, while keeping as far right as practicable. When we arrived in Kingston it was in pitch blackness. We stopped outside a Mac's convenience store, and I phoned our friends again. Kevin answered. "Man, it's dark out there!" he chuckled. "I have a bike rack," he said. "I'll come and pick you up. Where are you?" "We're beside the Mac's at -," I said. "Hang on. I'll run to the corner and check the street names." "I know where it is," Kevin said. "I'm on my way." The receiver clicked in my ear. "He's on his way," I told a relieved Sharon. It took longer than expected for Kevin to show up at our location. And when he did, it was our turn to chuckle. When I had told him we were outside "Mac's," Kevin had misinterpreted it as "Max" as in Kingston Maximum Security Penitentiary. He had spent the past several minutes driving past the penitentiary on the lookout for us. "After my third pass, I figured it out," he said, laughing. "Only an armed force's officer would make that mistake," I kidded him. "You must have forgotten you were dealing with civilians. Did you realize that on your second pass you were a 'repeat offender'?" We loaded our machines onto the small bike rack and Kevin whisked us home within minutes. Amazing how fast cars go. Headlights are pretty nice, too. The Canadian Armed Forces had recently transferred Kevin from Ottawa to Kingston. Claren was still holding her government job in Ottawa and only came home on weekends. The price of success? She had arrived home only seconds before us. They gave us a tour of their new residence. It featured gleaming hardwood floors, antique French doors, and plenty of large windows. "Officers are treated pretty good in Kingston," Kevin understated. They set about pampering us. While we hit the showers, they ordered in massive boxes of cheese-laden ultra-gooey super-deluxe pizza. Sharon and I ate. And ate. And ate some more. Our friends' eyes expressed admiration for the amount we could pack away - or was it a look of shock at our gluttony? After 'stuffer' (when one eats that much, it can't reasonably be called 'supper' - at least not with a straight face), filled to the brim, not even room for one little wafer, we bid our wide-eyed hosts good night, and retired to a comfortable bed complete with matching feather pillows. "Hmmm," Sharon murmured dreamily, as she slipped under the warm covers. "I could get used to this." |
Book Info
