Do It Yourself

I thought I was a pretty good self-starter, one to do it myself, until I saw a sign advertising Do It Yourself Pig Roasts. Really? I mean is there a degree of expertise required, or some large equipment that you might not have kicking around the house? As a vegetarian, I find the whole idea of a pig roast fairly repugnant, but I confess I was fascinated at the notion, and being on a long stretch with few things to distract me, said DIY pig roast occupied my thoughts for some time.

But I am getting ahead of myself, as that sign was hours into another rainy, drizzly and all around messy ride, albeit nowhere near as crazy as Saturday’s saga.

Let’s start with the good bits, because positive person though I may be, I am not given to saying it’s all good.

Waking in Barrie, was in itself neither good nor bad, as Hamlet might observe. My view from the hotel was not charming, but I was pleased to see that the trees outside my window had ceased to thrash about, and the rain had abated. Still I set out with all of my rain kit on, knowing the brooding skies overhead might yield rain at any moment.

The first few kilometres, winding my way downtown to the rail trail were pokey, and I had to stop a few times to check the route on my phone, when the navigation on my bike computer proved insufficient. It is a small screen, offering a brief segment of the ride, and if I miss a turn, or take an alternative route, it beeps madly at me, telling me to make a u-turn. If I were more tech savvy, I am sure I would handle these small glitches with greater aplomb, but I find them stressful, and often stop to check the route on the Komoot app on my phone, which allows me to get more perspective as to where I am, and where I need to go. Cue metaphor.

Rerouting became the theme of the day, as my route to the cottage contained quite a few segments of gravel road, which was a beautiful prospect on a dry day, but less so on a wet day, when the gravel roads had turned to mud. Those of you who have ridden your bikes through wet mud will be familiar with the horrid sound of your disc brakes getting clogged with mud, and debris. You will also know that muddy roads slow you down to a discouragingly slow pace.

Having enjoyed the rail trail from Barrie to Orillia, on which for a few brief moments I shed my rain jacket, glimpsed deer, loons and a swan on the grandest nest, I then poked along shorter segments of trail between Orillia and Ramara, and finally reached the roads, only to discover it was now gooey gravel. The mud began churning, the disc brakes began protesting, and after a few kilometres, I stopped to check my options. Such became my day, finding pavement where I could.

Even on paved roads, with the steady headwind, I was moving rather slowly, but I now felt like I was flying, so in this rare case, comparison was not the thief of joy, but rather the bearer of it.

I was going to stay off Highway 35, fearing it would be too busy, but when I reached Norland, about 40 km from the cottage, I opted to take it, and rode straight north at a good pace. The road varied in quality, but for the most part there was a small shoulder, and drivers gave me a wide berth.

Finally I was making some progress, with lots of billboards, promising me well built docks, state of the art log homes, and waterfront property.

Rolling into the village of Minden, I was only too happy to find it all but deserted compared to the summer months, making it easy enough to deal with Foodland, which provided me with lots of groceries for dinner and breakfast, as I was on my own at the cottage.

With my groceries in my knapsack, I made a final push up the highway, and was thrilled to find a huge shoulder and a designated bike route. What a lovely way to finish my ride.

Arriving at the cottage, I took a few shots of the view to send with a few I-made-it-safely texts, and then my phone died. Yup. I had clearly used up my battery checking the route all day.

No problem, I would just retrieve the cottage key from its hiding place, which I was confident I could recall having been here years ago. Thus I hunted in the dark garage, feeling around for the key, and not finding it.

Okay don’t panic, there are neighbours about, and at that moment I saw their neighbour trundling to his cottage with a load of wood, so I walked over with phone and charger held aloft, and asked if I might charge my phone briefly. Of course the neighbours were lovely, and within minutes, I learned all about them taking care of their grandchildren all weekend (thus she was collapsed on the couch), and with my newly charged phone, I checked my sister-in-law’s email, in which she explained precisely where the key was hidden, and I made my way inside.

I would love to say that I was then able to flop on the couch, but alas, I had a very dirty bike to clean, and laundry to wash, so it was some time before I could in fact collapse in a heap and enjoy one of their many classic movies on DVD. To be honest, I was too spent to watch for long. I was happy to crawl into bed, cozy and content for the night.

This morning, though there has been no sunrise, I have enjoyed the loons crying out, and there is sunshine in the forecast. Time to pack up, and head for Whitney.

PS I have been unable to get the automated emails to send when I publish, so I hope you will check the blog regularly if you are inclined to read more.

Four Strong Winds That Blow Lonely

Well perhaps there was only one strong wind, but it was epic enough to feel like four. It swirled, it buffeted, it tossed me about anytime I was on open roads, making me that much more grateful to be on the trails much of the day.

I was too focused to feel lonely, but the trails looked a little bereft, and in want of travellers once I got past the Caledon area, where a fundraising ride for mental health put on by Jack.org had brought out some hearty looking riders.

I had set out at 6:00 before the rain began, which was lucky as I encountered an unexpected challenge early on. Looking down at my bars, I saw one of the clips for my handlebar bag had broken, thus the strap was hanging on very precariously. I got the medical tape out of my bag, and wound it as tightly as I could around the clip and the bar, to reinforce it, and then put a zip tie around the bar to take some of the weight off the clip.

It was all I had with me, and it felt sturdy enough, but as you can imagine, with every bump I went over, I feared the pack would come loose, or the clip would break off entirely.

Soon after, the rain began, slowly, and then steadily enough to soak through my first pair of rain gloves. I switched up to a second pair of gloves, but really there seems to be little on the market that is truly waterproof. Neither of my pairs are, so after a few hours, my hands were too cold to do anything beyond hold on to the bars and to brake. Oh and to hold cookies. Barely. I was so lucky that my pal, Sonya, had sent me on my way with a gift of cookies. Once I reached the Cheltenham Badlands, I stopped for a few quick photos, I found the dexterity to unpack and inhale the cookies. I fear I looked like a rabid animal; luckily there were no creatures around to witness.

With the wind rising and rain increasing, I had a singular goal: get to Barrie. As long as I was moving, I was warm enough. Just.

In Tottenham, I got on the roads for a short spell, and I got a bit of a tailwind, as the wind gusted from the SE. Then it was back onto the trail for another 25 kms, before a final 10 kms into Barrie, which seemed to have invited the whole world to come and stay for the weekend. It was awash with people, busy people, but I have to say, those busy people gave me as much space on the road as possible, and for the last few kms, I had a glorious bike lane.

I have never been so happy to see the Super 8 sign. Yes, the hotel is a little weary, but when I rolled my muddy bike and my bedraggled self through the front doors, I was greeted by the most cheerful receptionist ever. And she did not denounce my bike, nor suggest I would have to leave it in storage. Instead when I told her my name, she shared with me my wonderful fate: she had overbooked rooms, and had randomly selected me to upgrade to a larger room. I couldn’t have been luckier.

After struggling to sign my name on the invoice—I managed a line of scribble—I went up to my room which was indeed spacious, with a small kitchen area to wash my gear, and lots of space to drape all of my wet kit.

My first task was to unzip my neoprene booties. Not possible with the state of my hands, until I ran my hands under warm water for a few minutes. Finally success. By now my teeth were chattering, so I went no further than the big tub, ran a deep and hot bath, then climbed in with cookies from the Erin bakery, and my phone to send messages that I had arrived safely if somewhat soggy.

The bath did a world of wonders, as did the cookies, then it was time to make my way back out into the world, to find food, drink, and a better solution for the clip on my pack. Again, I was very lucky, with an LCBO next door, a Farm Boy across the street, and a Canadian Tire one windy block away.

I wandered through multiple aisles of hunting and fishing gear in CT, while listening to an endless page for any available employee to assist a customer in aisle 40. Then came the page for all employees to turn their radios on. Am sure that customer has perished by now. When I suggested such to the young woman stuck working in the self-serve checkout, she confessed she had not even heard the page. Just tunes it all out, she said, cheerfully. Yes, clearly.

Still, I managed to find a strong rubber belt, that I can wrap around my pack and front bar to hold it firmly in place, then got some take out from FB, and of course a cider from LCBO.

Back in my room, after struggling to use the remote, and marching down to front desk for a tutorial (yes I have become that person), I enjoyed my dinner in a lovely stupor of fatigue, before making my final push of the day to clean my bike, and repair my gear.

I am happy to report that the rain has stopped—for now—and the wind has relented. A little.

Time for breakfast, and then I will head for my brother and sister-in-law’s cottage on Twelve Mile Lake. Cannot wait!

Solo Journey Ahead

Dear reader, I hope you will indulge me in some irony. In preparing for this solo journey, I have never enjoyed riding with friends more. Yesterday, one of my running friends, Julie,  joined another friend, Mylene, and me on the bike for the first time.  We had been inviting her for some time, but like most of us, she was concerned about slowing down the group, and about the technical aspects of riding, such as clipping in and out of her pedals.  Again, most of us as cyclists have faced similar concerns, and certainly I have had my fair share of falling over while clipped in.

It was a perfect summer morning, gifted to us after a long stretch of unusually cold and blustery May days, and we mapped out a route to Elora that was a combination of the G2G trail, and quiet roads lined with farms. Our conversation was fluid and wide ranging, weaving back and forth between the three of us, as we pedalled past blossoming trees and newly sown crops. 

Riding into Elora, the traffic increased significantly.  It is no longer the sleepy town my friend Janine and I cycled to in high school, with its small frozen yogurt shop and tiny cinema; it’s now a mecca for tourists. We met a young couple on the foot bridge with their tripod set up, clearly adept at taking photos, and they kindly indulged us, taking our photo. 

I am almost hesitant to name our destination, Lost and Found cafe, because its increased popularity has led to customers having to line up out the door.  Mind you that did not deter us from joining the cue.

Sitting at a long pine table, which we shared with a couple who were happily tucked into their books, I felt joyous and grateful. Such moments, with an iced latte and a round wonder of a scone in front of me, and two good friends on either side, are rare and wonderful, to be recollected during moments of solitude, as Wordsworth said, even if he was referring to a host of golden daffodils, rather than a moment with friends in a busy cafe.

Getting back on our bikes, I could feel that familiar weariness in the legs during the initial push up the hill, and then we were spinning easily, with the wind behind us, the wide blue sky above, and green, green fields on either side.

Why, you might ask, if I am so exuberant when cycling with friends, am I about to depart for almost three weeks of solo riding? It is a question I have been mulling over myself.  Call it the bind of the introvert/extrovert. I love moments of camaraderie, and would be bereft without such, but as a lone wolf, a descriptor I find preferable to control freak, I like to map out the day as I please, pushing myself as far as I can go. Thus, in five days, I will head east, and will no doubt spend many moments of solitude reflecting on all the friends who I love and look forward to seeing once again.