|
On Our Way "Far away there in the sunshine are
my highest aspirations. I may not reach them but I can look up
and see their beauty, believe in them and try to follow them. Wednesday, July 6th. We spent the day packing our panniers and twiddling with our neglected bikes. By the time we were ready, it was late afternoon. Sharon and I would have liked one more sleep in our bed. But since it was Sue's vacation time, we thought it only fair to ask her. Not surprisingly, she voted to head out. We couldn't blame her. In the fun department, helping someone move on your vacation time is right up there with having a root canal. I later read in Sharon's journal: "For years I anticipated, hoped for, dreamt about, a world tour cycling trip. In all my musings and daydreams, I visualized my departure a thousand times. Not one of those times did I come close to the reality of today." In actuality, there were no grand send-offs, no tearful goodbyes, no ticker tape parades, no journalistic camera crews seeking interviews. Instead, after frantic days of packing belongings - "our very lives" Sharon deemed it - into cardboard boxes and stashing them at various relatives' homes, we hit the road. Rather than Sharon's grand visions of an early-morning sun-drenched parade route, a sultry July evening shooed us on our way. We slammed the door on our humble west end abode and wobbled away ... on ill-prepared bicycles powered by overtaxed bodies. We didn't even have the strength to shout "Yahoo! World here we come!" Never in the history of a world cycle tour had there been a more ignominious beginning. Heading south out of Edmonton - the place we'd called home for the past 18 years - we soon lost our way in a convoluted maze of Millwoods' neighbourhood streets. "Where are you folks headed?" a fellow in his front yard cutting grass called as we pedalled past. "Around the world!" I shouted. "Where are you from?" "Edmonton!" "Well, good luck!" he replied, as we cycled toward a dead end.
Ten-thirty pm, after three hours on the road (and lost an equal number of times), we struggled into Beaumont - a skimpy 42 kilometres from the back door we had so exuberantly slammed. "We're barely out of the city," Sue trilled, "but it sure feels good to be underway!" I wasn't so sure. Caught up in lesson plans, report cards, parent-teacher interviews, and shifting households, I hadn't had time to train. Worse, I had totally forgotten that ancient instrument of torture - the bicycle seat. For the past two hours, my nether regions had jolted as if jostling atop an electric chair. "The sparks are flying!" I discharged, parroting our friend Ryan, after he's spent too long on an exercise bike. "All I want to do," Sharon wheezed, "is find a place for the night." She hadn't had time to train either. "How about the church?" Sue asked, pointing to a distant hilltop. I sighed. That was the last thing I needed. I didn't want to get sweaty just before bed. And my chain was skipping. Without speaking, we pedalled toward the church. Before reaching it, we lucked across an RV parking area. "I think we qualify," I panted. "We're loaded like pack mules." Sharon spotted a porta-potty. "That settles it!" she said, swinging her steed into the gravel lot. "We must be living right," I said, happy not to attempt the church hill. Not only did it save me from extra exertion, but on a slope ascending Edmonton's river valley, Sharon and I discovered our chains skipped like world jump rope champions. I had replaced our bike's worn chains, but in my pre-trip delirium I hadn't tested them. The old rear cogs' teeth no longer meshed with the new chain. On one edge of the parking lot, after determining that late arriving motorhomes wouldn't trammel us, we found a grassy patch upwind from the porta-potty. Despite the darkness, we erected our tent in record time. "Impressive," I allowed. "Considering it's by moonlight." Sharon tossed in her sleeping bag. "I'm hitting the sack," she announced, exhausted from late nights and departure stresses. Sue, a lithesome blonde with no fat reserves, protested, "I'm starving!" On cue, her stomach growled menacingly, punctuating her statement like a jungle cat about to stomp a zebra. I sprang into action like a cheetah on a trampoline. "A true biker," I grinned. "Come to think of it, I'm hungry too." Sue wasn't one to complain unduly - she hadn't even uttered cries of despair when we made her pack our household things on her cherished vacation time. A friend indeed. "Let's go for a midnight snack," Sharon said, relenting. "My legs could use a stretch." We hobbled down the road into Beaumont, on the lookout for an open establishment. Luscious odours wafted through the hushed night air. Our noses led us to a lighted doorway. Like three starving mice, we scurried inside the pizzeria and immediately placed an order for two extra large pizzas before they could tell us they were closed. "Would you like it cut into 8 or 12 slices?" "We're pretty hungry," I said. "Better make it 12." "You're a goose," Sue laughed, shaking her head. At the stroke of midnight, Basile Pizza presented us with two sensational piping-hot pizzas. We whisked the pies outside and plunked ourselves down on a bus bench. Sharon and Sue each balanced a toasty pizza box on their goosebumpled legs. "This is great!" Sue raved. "My legs are freezing, but these boxes make great leg warmers!" |
Book Info
