May 29, 2004

We felt too lazy to bike down to Elora, my friend and I. Our last trip there was hell — we toiled for hours in the hot sun and came home with warped tires and worn-out souls — and we didn’t want to go through all that again today. So instead we went to RIM Park.

“We’ll bike leisurely for a few hours,” my Visionary Indian Friend announced. Six hours later, alone and hungry, I was still on the road dragging my bike through the dust and swearing savagely at passing cars. I wanted to kick something.

Everything was going well until we got lost. My Visionary Indian Friend was being damn paternal and I was giddy as hell.

“We need to get you some pants,” he offered. He’s always like that, offering visions, drugs, new sets of breaks, and I always childishly refuse him.

“I don’t need any fucking breaks,” I say. When I’m unable to stop every intersection feels like a miracle if I manage to avoid cars. We experienced quite a few of these miracles before we found our way back to the city. That’s when my friend decided to head home, and I decided to head for St. Jacobs.

I got there, three hours later, on a flat tire. Out of sheer malice I nearly stepped on a butterfly before I too headed home. I stopped at three gas stations along the way to inflated my tire, and rode on until the tire deflated again and I had to carry my bike. Twice I was tempted to piss on my machine, and twice I held myself back.

I’ll need my bike to take me out to Elora sometime next week.