|
New Low "I've found out why people laugh.
They laugh because it hurts so much ... " Bucking a stiff headwind, we averaged a miserly 11 kilometres per hour to Bonaventure and arrived just before sunset. We hung around outside the front doors of a grocery store, trying to look cute and adoptable, in hopes someone would offer us a place for the night. The sky was clear. Camping in the open promised to be another frigid one. But no one offered us a bed and breakfast or even a "come and camp on my grass." The only thing we accomplished was having a lot of folks tell us what we already knew: "Il fait froid!" No kidding, Sherlock. Cold, indeed! "Maybe we should write on a cardboard and hold it up: Camper. Votre terre?" I suggested. "How about: Cyclists for Adoption," Sharon asked. "That's way beyond my basic French." Having stood around long enough in the miserable wind, trying to appear cheery and adoptable, we gave up and headed for a church. When we arrived, no one was around to ask permission. There wasn't much grass, anyway. "Remember the municipal camp sign on the way into town?" Sharon asked. We turned around and went back to find it. The cold wind blew us into a campground near a marina. Both were closed. Our bikes slipped deftly around the entrance posts. "Practically an invitation," I said. Inside the compound, a collection of lavatory buildings called our names. I checked the hommes door and three shower doors - all locked tighter than a pickle jar lid. Around back, where the femmes washrooms were, I found Sharon inside the facilities. "The door was locked, but the latch doesn't fit properly," Sharon told me. "When I pushed on the door - it popped open." She paused. "That's not breaking and entering, is it?" "Well, you didn't break anything," I answered, not sure of the legalities when the washroom held nothing to steal ... not even a roll of toilet paper. The washroom was clean and freshly painted, all ready for the next season. "Wow, plush," I said. "Best of all," Sharon grinned, "it's odourless. How about if we cook supper in here? We'll be out of the wind." "Sounds good to me." We bounced out (making sure the door didn't latch behind us), rounded up our bikes, and carried them inside. Leaning our rides carefully against a bare wall, we hauled out our food. The countertop between sinks made a superb surface for heating our beef stew. We ate our meal without being deafened for a change. "It sure is great being out of the wind," Sharon sighed. That's when I formulated the plan that we could stay in the john overnight. Physically and mentally exhausted from battling the nonstop gale all day, I grabbed my sleeping bag and pad. Sharon wasn't so sure about camping in a women's bathroom. But, dead-tired, I didn't give a crap that I was about to bed down in a lavatory. I snuggled in, ready for a good night's stupor. Out of the darkness came Sharon's quizzical voice. "What's the purpose of our trip?" she asked. I was still pondering a suitable response when more questions burst forth. "What expectations do we have? Why are we doing this anyway? What do we hope to prove? What do we hope to find? Why are we inflicting these hardships on ourselves? Why did we leave so late? How could we be so foolish to think that cycling in October - even with the beautiful colours - was a good idea? My gosh!" she gibbered. "Look at us! We're sleeping in a women's toilet!" "Potty-mouth!" I cried. "Sorry," I quickly apologized, "couldn't resist." I paused, considering, but I was way too tired to formulate a proper response to her excellent questions. Instead, I kidded, "I prefer to think of it as a small house with three bathrooms." "Oh, brother!" Sharon muttered, clearly not smitten with my analogy. "Create your own reality! We're sleeping in a women's toilet, and you're marvelling over it?" Apparently the journey had lost its allure. Combined with the cold weather and my cheapness about not getting motels, or even eating in restaurants, I was subjecting Sharon to an unrewarding experience that wasn't providing her with a great deal of personal satisfaction. "When I was slaving away at work," she said, "at least I was warm." There was a long pause. Then Sharon's voice again shot from the blackness: "If this trip doesn't start getting fun real soon, I'm going home." |
Book Info
