January 09, 2004

I got on my bike last night and made my way to the edge of town to gather gifts of darkness for Heather. It was colder than hell at 2:30 in the morning, but I was prepared: I had a ski mask, layers of clothing, and shiny instruments for my dark labours. I biked for 40 minutes through uninterrupted night, and by the time I got to my destination my breath froze on my ski mask, creating a shield of ice over my lower jaw.

I found what I wanted, but unfortunately I’m too small a man for such a big job. For a while I struggled in the darkness, until my freezing toes reminded me that it was time to go.

So I started biking madly back towards Waterloo, feeling the blood in my feet freezing and thinking that two pairs of socks are hardly enough to keep out the cold. After a while I wasn’t able to move my toes, and this scared me more than the breath of ice I carried on my face. I kept thinking that if I didn’t find warmth soon I would only get a bunch of amputated fingers for my efforts. And I imagined Heather saying, “You’re a fucking losers,” as she stepped on my bandages.

It took me 30 minutes to reach Tim Horton’s, that great Canadian institution that is open 24/7. After taking off my boots, I asked for a bagel and hot tea, and I held the cup between my frozen feet. I could neither wiggle my toes nor feel the hot cup of tea, but the freshly baked bagel tasted like heaven.

A bit after 4 in the morning, other people started coming into Tim Horton’s, all of them frozen, though none of them rode bikes.

“Is that your bike outside, buddy?” A Yugoslavian construction worker asked me. “How about I give you a ride?”

We talked for a while and he told me about being fucked over while buying marijuana and about his accidents and car crashes. His stories were touchingly human and somewhat comforting so early in the morning. My feet came back to life as we talked, and I got up on my bike and arrived home at nearly five in the morning to plot ways of spending my next night.