bowed down and bent, but yet

noticing the sun in the early morning sky was quickly eclipsed by the glaring (and completely unacceptable) flat tire that my petulant one was sporting, no doubt the result of having been left alone in the thunderstorm. knew, though, that i had to get off the property (thereby keeping a generous half of my promise the night before). dragged uncooperative bike firmly by the hand[lebars] and back down gravel roads to highway 14/2. although, given the position of the sun, i wanted to be going one way down it—figured that heading the other, towards town, would make it more likely that i'd find some tools with which to remove the front tire, assess damage, and replace inner tube. oddly enough, amidst the verbal sparring and accusations/defenses (by both parties) flying all over the place, i managed to notice a sign for another campground along the road that had been much too dark last night, namely: the one to which i *think* we were, in actuality, headed. soon after this discovery, i spied a man checking his mailbox (along the road, as are those of most who live on highways). that he was doing so at 6.30am barely registered, especially when, after a bit of sounding forlorn, he ushered me into his garage out back. it seemed that not only did he have every imaginable tool and the upper body strength to battle my rusted bolts (and win, though he did not gloat), but also a pressurised inflating device. we were both confused by the fact that, once the defective inner tube had been removed and, blown up like the balloon it isn't, no indication of any tear or even pinhole leak presented itself. with that, i thought it best to, nevertheless, put on the spare tube, although i kept the used one for further (highly improbable) emergencies which would press it into service. afterwards, the man informed me of a bit of a shortcut to highway 2. his winning traits included, in addition to being mechanically and directionally smart and looking serious and encouraging/awed (the usual combination. sigh) while hearing about my trip saga and further intentions, astounding clairvoyance: he knew that, if i but followed his recounted route, i would pass a Hollandia factory just before the junction with 2 and, moreover, that the air around this would smell like cooky.

my encounters for the next several hours, though limited in number, were primarily pleasant and established solely on the appearance of my sunburned body. this usually occurred *as* i was pulled off to the side of the road, further dousing myself with the white goop that had helped me exactly zero during the past two days. it is a disheartening thing indeed, my comrades, to realise, later, that, no matter how often the stuff was applied, it needed to have been done so twice as frequently. and then six more times, for good measure—and its accompanying wind, sun, and blinding sweat. [mumble mumble] "the price [mumble mumble] of freedom." or, should i say: the [appropriately Calvinist] cost incurred, if not actually at birth to a joyful (and pure Dutch) lineage, then shortly thereafter, when my wispy redded hair dried....

given my haste in vacating the premises of other people's leisure (for fear of a tax or something) early in the day, i'd been compelled to pack a wet tent. every time, therefore, i took on water and rested, i unrolled it in the sun and allowed it to evaporately flutter. two exercises of this nature and it no longer contained any trace of moisture. during this time, i saw that, despite it being a better two-person than solo tent (clearly not *its* fault, though), it is in the top five of my Most Favourite [individual or shared] Belongings. inclusion in this category has, it seems, everything to do with high drying speed and maximum inverse of mass.

highway 2 runs roughly parallel to the 3 on which i wanted to be by close of day, so somewhere along the way, as Ontario narrowed between lakes, i cut my way down. there, i could almost feel Erie in the uptake of quickened breath: this, my third lake in less than as many days.

all the while keeping an eye on the front tire for signs of misbehaviour, i continued along the border between farm and boat machinery/scenery, often lined up with equal precision. at one place, near Blenheim, evenly spaced rows of trees led, on one side, down to the lake—and, on the other, with comparable symmetry, a cemetary's headstones fanned out as far as i could perceive. this was not the world's smallest, whose four white graves, surrounded by plastic pipe-age, i had already passed several hours ago.

despite the equipment failure of the early morning (which ought to have called for an imprudent, but required, bolt to recoup lost time), this was my slowest day of the trip: good timing, i suppose, given that i'd not slept much due to thunderstorm antics. my being able to complete it all in daylight, stopping for veg and pictures, clarified the intricate balance between endurance of large and small musculatures and the circumstances under which they function. optimally, if i realistically calibrate my mileage with the 16-or-so hours of light in the summertime day, then i will become tired around the time i need to stop because i can no longer see. not having it end in a race to the sunset (and beyond) does wonders for the aura that falls as the day does. furthermore, in mind and body, to be heading *west* now, having made the circle, and towards home (where it would be for yet a few more days), settled upon me—a seed crystal of a blessing, around which others gathered: establishing camp while everything involved was visible rather than brailled into a dwelling place, washing my burned skin (and the tangled hair that Really Must Go) before bedding down to sound sleep, inundated with citronella and the memory of rain.