colour of the sun, cut flat

i had previously concluded that there is no "high" or "low" culture—just the brain and the body: mix thoroughly and cook slowly over low heat. however, upon waking, i thought that i needed a little high-er culture in what had become a somewhat grueling existence. but, first, a bit more gruel.

a word about Canada's highway system. mostly, they are their US counterparts, except with narrower (at times, invisible) shoulders, and, once, i saw a perfect animal heart spanning the rubbed-away paint division and already dusty.

leaving Grand Bend, near where Pinery was located, i followed highway 5 for some time. when i stopped for another litre (of water) at a small restaurant and the waitress insisted on giving it to me cold from a spigot that was obviously meant for smaller vessels, i found that the labourious process gave me just enough time and just captive enough of an audience to once again perform the usual tragi-comedy of the absurd, in three short acts. sent on my way with directions to highway 4 from one of the weathered men, best wishes from all, warnings against truck drivers and farmers (it could not be decided, in the course of the slow-dripped litre, which group warranted more watching-out-for), and rollings of eyes when they thought i was far enough out the door.

made it, finally, to highway 7 (oh, it of shoulderless notoriety; see above), which would eventually kick me into Stratford, my destination l'culture du jour. i found some cucumbers at a roadside stand to eat with bread and Clifbars, all from the pocket (of course). there are few things as free-seeming as this method of existence: with a set of wheels all your own, carrying only what you can manage on whatever hills you choose to include in your path, stopping to buy and then eat in one go (because they, especially the squishy ones, won't bear the ensuing bumping ride and, besides, add weight better stored in the stomach) all the fresh veg and fruit that you can reasonably hold, along with water (always bountiful, as long as you know where to look). that this took place beneath the wide sky, extending for days, as i repetitively moved my legs and slowly covered somewhat great distances, only intensified the sense of untetheredness.

of course, freedom and movement have their hidden costs, the brunt of which were dearly paid by one pelvic joint belonging to your faithful wheeled flee-er, and ofttimes narrator. that, yesterday, i had not only done the longest day (of my short career as faithful, &tc) yet was fine and good—but now it was today (with very physical remembrances of what had preceded it), and i was attempting a modified version of yesterday's activities. as i've mentioned, biking is not difficult. it merely requires the same motion of two legs, repeated ad infinitum. thus, the strain occurs on the mental and the exposed skin (more on this later) levels. however, there is the whole "point of contact with the bike seat" issue. wearing my Best Pants, though i was (and subjecting them to unmentionable atrocities involving biting gears, chain grease, and the (purportedly) Natural Elements; i consoled my maltreating self that none of these were any different from the ones by which i, myself, was being inflicted with abuse), with their netted lining, though they were, i reasoned that if i merely turned the pants inside out, i would soon be free from the constant grating of mesh-on-skin. i hopped off my bike and with uncharacteristic swiftness removed the offending article of clothing, inverted it, and had just about stepped through the legs when a truck full of something farmish came jouncing down the road. i'm certain that the driver saw nothing untoward save a faster-than-sound, indeterminately blue (and red) object diving for cover. that there was no place in this flat land to hide, combined with the previous usage uppage of available speedage, reveals that version of the tale as the blatant lie it is. i promise to reform from my deceitful ways, though the truth cheapens my already tarnished appearance: honestly, i couldn't have cared less about the passing truck, even had i been wearing nothing at all on the side of the road (modifiedly, this would happen later).

back on the bike, i thought everything was going much better, despite the fact that eating from them had become much more difficult—since my pockets were now next to my skin. the favourable results, however, were short-lived. at this point, i knew the situation demanded drastic measures in the form of the ICPSR program (in whose library i'd worked the previous summer) tote bag. ingeniously filling it with all of the clothes i was not wearing (at this, early morning, point: US Coast Guard jacket and towel) and securing it to the seat, i now had access to the utterly confusing simultaneity of experience: sitting on a pillow and riding a bike. it only got better, i assure you. as the day progressed, as the question became not whether i would breathe the heat like an aether, but only how i would do so (while roasting in clothes worn to prevent the scorch, or while being, thus, burned alive, albeit with imagined breeze on my flesh), i was seen whipping off various shirts (i opted for the latter, in spite of it all) and stuffing them into the sack beneath me.

reached Stratford a good hour ahead of schedule. by which i mean, with sufficient time to stake out claim in bathroom, turn clothes inside out from inside out (a nod towards being properly dressed for culture), find out which play i could see for $20, and eat lunch before the production of _Hello, Dolly_ began. oh, i somehow failed to mention my other activity during this time: the rampant despotic placing of poor magenta bike in various demeaning poses, with statuary of the grounds, and exerting further (and durable) mastery over it with the taking of numerous photographs. on that note, i unbuckled everything except tent poles (which i figured could hold their own against anything that would occur during my absence) and schlepped it into the theatre with me. surprisingly (it must have been the vigour of my aforementioned nod or, i rather more highly suspect, the fact that i, with much force of will (the same will that had long been used to making full use of all opportunities, odd looks or no), desisted from draping my still-damp (from late last night's wringing out/nod (all these!) towards cleanliness) over- and under-wear up and down the aisles)))), once situated, i was remarkably well received by my fellow theatregoers.

over even the sound of singing and dancing, i heard a colossal thunderstorm outside. by the time the production (very nice, by the by, according to that "absolutely meaningless" rule, to which all good musicals inherently adhere) was clapped off the stage and i got near enough to outside to observe it for myself, the effects were still quite, well, in effect. not to be deterred by this little detail, strapped everything, myself included, back on the bike and braced myself for the trip (partial backtracking along 7's atrocious shoulders, made only better in their new 'n' improved state of being washed out) down/through London. surprisingly, the rain did not last long and, then, i made decent time while drying off, singing away at the Stan Rogers without accompaniment (hadn't brought music because—what's that you say?—"i wasn't leaving the country"). it is a startling and dismaying fact that i cannot seem to engender in entirety, without assistance, any of the several songs which i profess to love more than life itself.

as usual, getting through town (London) took far too long and was only somewhat the result of enourmous slabs of concrete missing from, alternately, road and sidewalk (making for some interesting weaving dangeresquenesses). as i cleared the southern outskirts and found my favourite highway 4 (aka Oxford Street), it was quite dark. i'd heard tell of a camping place in Komoka, but wasn't sure how far this was from London. the terrific hill leading out of town dumped me on a badly-lit, shoulder-poor, section of highway. that i, then and there (as my LED refused to stay clamped in an upright position on my handlebars and, finally, as i opted for walking as far to "the side" of it as the road allowed), resolved never never again to traverse a country highway after dark did little to ameliorate the current situation, in which, now, the strains of distant thunder and gathering wind were providing more than background music. there was, of course, also the omniscient sense that such a resolution would be overturned, almost at the first availability. hauling self and whining machine up a hill, a truck carrying a canoe slowed down momentarily, then kept going (note here: subtle use of time distortion as a (quite powerful, i hear) foreshadowing technique). at the top of said hill, i dared ride again. i seemed to be nearing another town, whose first letter i hoped was a resounding K. at a confusing corner, with roads heading in all directions, i pulled into a petrol station and, with surprise, noted that the truck with canoe in it was also parked there. in the store, i inquired as to the specifics of a campsite about which i knew nothing but its (dubious) existence. the owner knew even less than my nothing—but the canoe guy, who quickly appeared, after buying his snacks, seemed to have sketchy directions to somewhere i might like to be. while i (and everyone's mother) ought to have been the nervous party, he overbent himself (backwards) in giving every number but the one on his kitchen sink to the manager of the store before offering to drive slowly enough for me to follow him. he would have given me and bike a ride in the truck, he said, but the wife (you know) wouldn't appreciate the potential scratches. in this fashion, on graveled roads that i would never have taken had i elected to just cruise around Komoka in search of the place, we arrived at a site that was clearly for camping—but, apparently, only by those who had steel-sided tents and would be there all summer. not wishing to further inclement my helpful encanoed friend, i assured him that i would sort it all out. i investigated the grounds. the thunder grew louder. a woman came out and asked what exactly i was doing. though i could see that she wanted to be sympathetic, the rules at this place seemed inordinately strict and capable of tamping down the best human intentions towards wayfaring strangers. the whole thing felt extremely German, and almost as Gothic. nonetheless, as i pretended to be departing, another woman emerged from her camper/house and, as i explained myself (with delicate undertones of imploring patheticity, never overtly stated), as the distant thunder sounded all at once nearer, she eventually led me to the outer regions of the intentional community, to a place where i could set up camp. i promised her that i would be gone before the sun rose up in the morning, never to trouble her again.

leaning bike against a tree, i unfolded and raised the tent before unfolding and lowering myself into it. before long i realised, by its sounds, that this was clearly not a thunderstorm that would take a graceful veer at the last moment. thus, despite my ardent oath of 40 minutes prior, i trekked back down to the woman's house. in the darkness, i couldn't be sure that i had the right one. there was a dog. not to be deterred, i asked what i thought was the woman's son, who teenagedly acquiesced, whether i could have a few garbage bags. with these, i hoped to compensate for the fact that i had brilliantly decided to leave out the rainfly before starting the trip ("surely it would not rain before dinner," said i; "surely i will be able to detect differences of unbelievable markedness in the strenuousity of pedalling with 3/4 of a Gear-pound less," continued i, from behind the glazed eyes of one with all-too-firm convictions). no sooner had i begun the fabrication than it began to rain in a sudden release of that which had been building all evening—a downpour, the likes of which are seen only when there shall be no escape. the drenching sparked a veritable miracle of innate thinking (over which i still marvel now, so unprecedented, inexplicable, and swift was it). in about 3 seconds flat i had abandoned the sewing-with-seal-sinew project, spread garbage bags on ground, lumped all possessions together, broken down tent, turned it inside out (with "waterproof" bottom outwards), huddled myself up amidst belongings, and pulled the tent in atop and around us. therewithin, lit by the blue glow of LED, i ate rain-sticky jellybeans and gave thanks for my claustrophilia. that is, until i found that i was having difficulty breathing. the air-hole also allowed in a tiny stream (these also formed elsewhere) of water, but i considered it a fair trade of those there Oriental whatsits. after i turned the LED off, i could see unbelievable lightning through the fabric of the tent. the thunder crashed close behind. i hoped the bike still had all fingers and other anthropomorphised qualities intact. oddly enough, the storm was relatively brief (not more than 2 hours). when it had passed, i elected to re-hoist the tent and try to sleep under skies that hadn't quite rained themselves out—mostly because the alternative was falling asleep in our lovely suffocating cave and, well, possibly not continuing on the trip a few hours later. covered (against the circumstantial, which included post-re-post-reburn, chill) with all my available ( and ranging from soaked to damp) clothes, the dripping of trees, whose entirely random dispersal of drops provided precisely the elusion of prediction necessary for a lulling to sleep.