covering the crossroads

instead of doing the responsible thing (namely, remaining in Ann Arbor to pack and repack my belongings into smaller and smaller compressional volumes with the help of such tools as: vacuum cleaner and tiny awl), i opted for first principles. that is: to set out on a biking trip, the destination of which was determined (Toronto) and then cleared away in a fit of rage related to the sudden snapping sound of my newly-cleaned-and-lubricated chain. upon reinstalling (incorrectly) a new one, being forced to seek out assistance in the form of a bike mechanic who, though trustable, proceeded to laugh in that socially-accepted incredulous manner when i casually mentioned my earlier plans regarding Toronto-boundedness. my antennae, attuned though they are towards any kind of challenge, knew not how to react; their wild vacillation clearly affected the brain below. decided to head to Detroit, early the next morning, to visit the elusive but looming Art Institute. found myself shackled to a bounding pace and a mind which kept up the speed—such that, by the time i had cleared Detroit the museum was not yet open (more on *that* later) and, moreover, i had already (in the space of about 14 seconds) decided to turn this into an international journey of espionage and allure.

handy to have remembered: passport and tent. remarkable foresight for one who *wasn't* going to go on a long trip, who had fairly promised to be home by suppertime; this was supposed to be ensured by the not-taking-of-ANY-maps. that sort of logic has never amounted to much and it was not about to, especially given that i had spent the past two days poring over said maps and possible routes.

after being physically startled by the suddenness with which Detroit turns into Grosse Pointe (and all its variations), crept up the shores of Lake Saint Clair towards Port Huron, but not before pausing to (unintentionally) strike this weird sense of awe in passersby, including but not limited to: mechanics who could barely contain their amazement at my firmly-established foolhardiness, marvelling that i'd made it from Ann Arbor (i did not reveal anything about my further plans, out of fear for cardiovascular systems not my own) and giving me money for drinks. near Port Huron, not to be deterred by apparent road blockages (heh heh, says the i-who-am-not-a-car, i am not subject to rules posted on a barricade around which i can easily slip) leading to my destination, landed myself on business loop 94, face to face with a construction vehicle meticulously spraying down the dirt foundations of new road. neither one of us was particularly deterred by the other, which meant: i was soundly blasted by water and mud as the unflinching truck barrelled along. landed in the "All American City" (just to be sure the visitor is not fooled by its hop-skip-jump position in relation to what would, well, not be an American City, now would it?). just to further solidify its AAC status, petrol stations carry maps up to and including the Blue Water Bridge—but will never, under oath, include that region known as "Ontario: no place i'd rather be." so even though i *might* have checked memory roads against a real grid, i continued with the former right up the sidewalk leading to the magnificent bridge and its extremely welcoming customs booths.

despite surprising agility and a firm resolution to pull it off, my slipping underneath the guard rail caused various bells-of-lividity to resound. a rather large woman emerged from one of the little toll stations with a speed uncharacteristic of her demeanor and forcibly prevented me from continuing. she drew a chalk circle and put inside it both me and my wheeled companion—but failed to realise that she had placed this drawn circle within visibility (and shouting distance) from the Canadian mirror-imaged guard station, out of which came curious fellows who warned me that i could not stay here—because of the highly inevitable, seldom broadcast, gun fights on the Blue Water. this seemed a brilliant ground upon which to establish the little inter-lac-national rivalry which had been simmering in my mind for all of 10 minutes; i dared to leave my confines, practiced my impeccablest tattling voice, and went to tell the woman that, yes, the Canadians were objecting to my flag-waving, anthem-singing presence. never have i seem such a reversal (or, at least, "never" for rhetorical purposes) as then occurred in said woman, who instantly began to move in terms of making arrangements nearly as quickly as she had when she deigned to trap my flitting self from invading Not-Her country. within moments, a pickup truck carrying the bridge supervisor himself screeched to a halt in front of my well-worn chalk circle. he stepped out, offered me his hand, and ushered me and my bicycle into it. off we went, no toll paid and none seeming likely, over and across the expanse of water, chatting like the old countrymen we were. playing this up landed me a special customs line all to my own and, more importantly, a private audience for my little dramatic rendition, the theme of which was (of course): why i am not bringing alcohol or drugs into Canada (the apotheosis being: these are faaaaar too heavy; i can't even manage an extra change of clothes).

stopped briefly at the Sarnia visitor's center, hauling bike in with me of course. on trips of this nature, one quickly learns how to optimise resources and be thankful for small strokes of luck, often in the form of beautiful bathrooms. washed myself down as best i could, squinting so that i could still feign ignorance about the state of sunburn that was emerging in its awful reality. found a map on the wall and, thus, looked at it long enough to confirm what i already knew. with that, i set off again, heading northeast along highway 7/21, aka Lake (Huron) Shore Drive.

the map in my mind, unfortunately, was not drawn to any sort of acceptable scale. by the time i was in Bright's Grove (or somewhere equally ridiculous and close to the border crossing), it looked like a job for the Sun Racer—and, in short, a losing proposition. the real culprit, though, was not even my near exhaustion (hadn't rested properly because, as you recall, i was not really going anywhere; that said, i'm not sure if i would have *actually* done anything differently, but the rationale/hypothetical is seductive). instead, it was the stupid bits of research (totally unhelpful, could have been much better served by a small, mental, 1cm=10km measuring rod for all maps, ingrained and exgrained) that clung to the ravaged brain. as in: the name of this one place for camping along the lake, Pinery Provincial Park. so now, as the light faded with a speed i could not match or muster, and as i passed many turn-offs with well-marked signs for tent proppage and such, i continued, unflinching, towards the goal which had not yet given any yelps, whereby i'd know that it really existed.

the yelp came, at long last, in the form of a dim sign and you can rest assured that i responded in like kind. after doing the usual passing, doubling back, passing again routine, i finally found myself weaving deep into the provincial park whose pines (nor anything else, save the cars which appeared before me with the suddenness of steep, quickly consecutive hills) i could not see. because it was so late and i, so charming (i'm certain), the guard allowed me to enter and find a place to set up where i could, all without exacting a price. the smell of fires and low conversation were wondrous things—as was a shower. with soap and QwikDri towel. and much the torn out hair.

i do believe i've determined (with the use of many complicated equations involving main variables: daylight and muscle capacity for repetitive motion, if not actual strength) my own personal maximum distance per diem: 150 miles.