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Centre of the Universe "The world is a book, and those who
do not travel, read only a page." We pushed our bikes up a steep bank and through brush, away from our overnight camping spot. Huffing along Highway 2, our breath hung in the dawn air like thick cotton mist. "Sure hope we hit a hill soon," I said, shivering, "so I can warm up." And, being in Vermont, we didn't have long to wait. At a roadside gas station, morning constitution calling, I rushed in, and hastily selected a drink and chocolate bars (I had learned that workers treated me better if I was a customer). While paying, I asked the young woman with big teeth if I could use the facilities. A response frostier than a snowman's willy met my request. Bowlegged and scowling, I waddled back outside. "Can't she see I'm on a bike?" I whined. "Sheesh, it's not like I can hop in my car and drive another 30 kilometres down the road in a couple of minutes." "More people should travel," Sharon decided. "Then they'd know what being denied washroom privileges was like." I felt like taking a dump on their stoop. Instead, in considerable pain, I got my sorry rump back on my bike and rode 30 kilometres down the road to North Concord. "Gives a whole new meaning to 'brown bagging' it," I said, lumbering into a corner grocery store before getting too log-jammed. I asked if I could use their facilities. "Go right ahead," the friendly woman said, pointing the way. I was so grateful that upon my return I tried to buy out half the store - including a gallon of milk. The woman glanced out at our bikes leaning against the railing. "Where are you going to put a gallon of milk on those things?" she asked, incredulity straining her voice. I smiled. "Just balancing the load, ma'am." I didn't have the heart to tell her I already had a gallon jug of milk shoved inside a rear pannier. (At the time, I was unaware I would lug two gallons of milk over Cold Hollow Mountains.) Sharon assumed that after my buying spree we would be eating right away to help lighten the load. But, instead of enquiring if there was a park nearby, I surprised her by asking: "Can you tell me if there are any good restaurants near here?" (Still feeling guilty about my previous day's loutish behaviour?) "The Wagon Wheel," the clerk replied. She proceeded to give me directions. When I asked her how far it was from the store, she replied, "It's about a car mile down the road." Hmmm. One might reasonably assume that miles are miles - the exact same distance no matter what one's mode of transport. But he would be wrong. We had learned that 'car miles' are not the same as 'bike miles.' Oh, no, they're not even close. A bike mile invariably turns out to be at least twice as far as a car mile! And, if someone utters, "It's a good car mile...." May the good Lord be with you - a 'good' car mile means your destination is anywhere from five to twenty-five miles down the road. In six (!) miles we arrived at the restaurant. "Worked up an appetite on that mile," I grinned, sliding into a booth. "I think I'll have a mushroom and cheese omelette," I said, without even picking up a menu. "You're over the last one?" Sharon asked. "Nearly." Just about every patron stopped to chat with us either on their way in or out of the restaurant. "Where are you going?" was at the top of their list. And our answer: "Around the world" always resulted in hoisted eyebrows. We interpreted their looks as, "Come on, quit pulling my leg. I'm nobody's fool, ya know." "How are you getting across the ocean?" one befuddled woman stammered. "Pontoons," came Sharon's immediate facetious reply. I guess the poor woman figured we weren't cycling around the world if we didn't pedal across the ocean, too. "Yep," I concurred, "we're going to paddle instead of pedal." Another customer, learning of our cycling ambitions, cried, "And here you are! In the centre of the universe! Concord!" (Huh? I thought that was Toronto.) Leaving Concord, we spotted a shoe store. Sharon pulled to a stop, and gave her shoes a perambulatory glance. Our footwear had taken on a ragged demeanour. Cycle touring puts shoes to a severe test, exposing footgear to all the natural elements, in addition to long hours of sweat and toil. "We should buy new shoes before heading to Europe," Sharon said. "At least we'll look somewhat presentable on our entry." We entered the shoe store. A saleswoman approached. She looked down. Her jaw dropped. "I can't believe how battered those shoes are!" she said, taking a step back to get a better angle. A frown stamped her dimpled cheeks. She stared and stared. Feeling like an octopus with eight bad ankles, I shifted nervously from foot to foot. Finally, the saleswoman stammered, "How ... how much do you wear them?" "A lot," Sharon answered. "We're cycle touring," she added, as if that explained everything. The woman nodded slowly and put a hand to her chin. "So ... so, you wear them a few hours, two or three times a week?" "Actually," Sharon answered, "we wear them seven days a week, all day, every day." "I take them off when I go to bed," I said. Then I laughed. That wasn't entirely truthful. "At least sometimes," I corrected myself. With that revelation, I thought I saw a tiny night light illuminate a dark cranial cavity in the sale clerk's brain somewhere between 'Hmmm?' and 'Aha!' "We don't have anything like that," she said finally. "Maybe our hiking boot section?" she suggested. We pored over their boot selection. But the models appeared too big and heavy to wear cycling all day. We eventually tramped out the door - still clad in our faithful, but tattered, Shimano and Specialized cycling shoes. |
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