July 18, 2004

The following is a transcript of notes made on July 16, the second day of my bike tour:

The day is full of sunshine, the heat oppressive and maddening on an empty stomach. I ate at Parkhill, 17 km away from the place I camped overnight. Those 17 km were the hardest to travel, filled with achy legs, cluttered thoughts, sweat, and madness. I never felt so exhausted after sleeping over 13 hours, but the ground was cold and rigid, and throughout the night I desperately missed Martha’s warmth.

Parkill rejuvenated me with bologna, coffee, and sesame seed buns. Delis are wonderfully inexpensive places to make lunch.

After Parkill, the landscape looked the way I always envisioned Canada: the fields were full of wheat and the road seemed infinite especially to a young man on a bicycle quickly running out of water. I felt I was crossing the country’s main nerve, the asphalt roads like dark veins zig-zagging through the golden fields.

And then there was Sarnia, welcoming me to its bosom with cherries and hugs. Shrish came to pick me up and I washed the cherries in her car on our way through her endless city. There was mad laughter and talk of loves lost and loves found.

"She’s fantastically intense," I said.
"Just what you need," she said.
"That’s why I had to run 2000 km away from her …"
"You fool!”

Dinner with Shrish was full of spicy food and spicy memories of stalkers, lovers, and Brian.

And then there was Alysia who hugged me and welcomed me into her backyard. I pitched my tend for her as soon as I got there.

"The orgies will start later," she announced.

After the sun set like a fingernail of orange above the polluted lake, she brought wine, candles, and friends and we hollered in the night. Her friends are wonderfully animated and full of rhythm. Somebody brought a drum, and in the candlelight we painted our faces dark while moaning and listening to its beat. We were savage creatures in that light, full of wine and inspiration.

It was hard not to madly love everything in Alysia’s yard, not to burn with anguish as her people departed. With our painted faces we continued to moan into the darkness.

And I fell asleep with waves leaping on the shore near my tent, and dreams of Martha in my veins — everything sweet and painful at the same time.