pretending not that i don't know

awoke in the place where i'd left off last evening (as is the usual case when it comes to these identity of time/place/person things), Wheatley Provincial Park. also, as usual, so enamoured with the fact that i could see it, i'd eaten all of the desirable food the previous night, promising that i would stop and have a Real Breakfast in the morning (like *that* ever happens). made do with some scraps as i got back on the highway. most of the time, it was difficult to tell exactly *which* highway this was, or at least how it was called (3 or 34, and later 45 entered into the mix, too). nonetheless, it was heading west along the coast just like i was, so i couldn't complain too voraciously. before too long, landed myself in Leamington, aka the Tomato Capital of Canada. after the ones i'd scarfed up last night, i was not in any position to argue down the likelihood/ness (let us settle, for once and all, *which* it is) of the statement; the billboard upon which it was displayed, moreover, was out of my weight-class. the morning fog, which i've come to love so well, had mostly burned off as i left town, leaning south for a heartbeat, and then west again along highway 18. i was singing a lot during this time.

then, when i was just outside of Kingsville, i remembered my promise, no doubt inclined towards this by my stomach, which had picked up the bad complaining habits of the bike. as a partial concession to the whole Real Breakfast nonsense, dragged everything into the grocery store there. lately, i'd taken a rather lax view of lockage and other security measures, counting, instead, on my own breakneck ability to, like a shinkansen, be back before i left—or, at least, before anyone realised it. parked bike by some plants displayed by the automatic doors and quickly swept up a variety of items that are, by now, so familiar that they scarcely need mentioning: bread, yogurt, and concentrated fructose in the form of dried fruit. by the time i had returned, no one had noticed—no one, that is, except my little wheeled ward, whose problems with the "being left alone" seemed to have gotten totally out of hand. that is, without a thought about the consequences of her actions, magenta had gone and blown out the usual front tire. it was not a smart move and, what's more, in addition to yesterday morning, this had happened once before (in a Jackson, MI ), exactly like this (except somewhat more dramatically, the result of sudden temperature/volume changes in addition to fractiousness). i was less than patient, hearing the other side of the story as i marched her down the street to the nearest petrol station. there, i politely inquired about some toolage and, upon receipt of a wrench and flat screwdriver, set up shop behind the station and in reach of the forced-air machine.

of course, the first thing to do was to see if a mere inflation attempt would revive the beast. in the process, however, i somehow jammed the tiny (but vital, as is often the case when it comes to things of disproportionate size) bit of metal that controlled the flow of air into, and prevented its outflow from, the tube. thus, it looked like retention was now an impossibility. moreover, as i proceeded to step 2 (tire removal), i found that in the course of a day and a night, neither of which had seen any rain or being spit upon my angry mobs, the bolts were again rusted into an immobility for which my weakling arm torque and flimsy borrowed wrench were clearly no match. out of the corner of my eye, i saw a wood store. there, thought i, surely i could find some strapping lad to do my dirty work for me.

as suspected, not only was the lumber store equipped with two eagerly strong young men, but these were completely enthusiastic about hearing my rendition of the travel story that was reaching somewhat snowballed and hysterical levels (narratively, on my part—although i absolve myself with the fact that i'd spoken to nearly no one for the past three days, save myself and my miserable charge). their vocal awe translated into free usage of any accoutrements shelved in their store (the incident in Jackson's Mei-jer, where i had likewise set up shop in the aisles, came, once again, into focus); i chose the Vice Grip (glory of tools, subordinate only to the Needle-Nosed Pliers). soon enough, we had the rusty bolts loosened. i unhinged the brake and wove out the faulty tube, which was torn. installed the "new" (ie. old, removed yesterday) one and ran with the entire wheel (sans bike and sans qualms about *this* abandonment because what could she do? i was carrying the oft-provoked item) back over to the petrol station, where i inflated the thing. obviously unable to learn from earlier mistakes, i succeeded in losing that un-named (when it comes to, ultimately, mattering a lot, the same holds true for items unspecifically termed as for the aforementioned miniscule ones) speck just inside the shaft. maddened like nothing else, i returned to the boys who were minding what remained of the bike. adding this new development to the tale of woe, i shed all remaining dignity and asked to use the phonebook (this, after i put the tire back *on* in about 3 seconds, to their great surprise and delight). it seemed that there were no stores that could remotely be summoned upon to carry inner tubes; i really do question the credibility of any business that doesn't, but that changed reality not in the slightest. however, there was some sort of hardware store less than a mile from the lumber store. bidding farewell to my helpful lads, we set out limping down the street.

said hardware store did, in fact, exist. its shelves contained, way in the back, a handful of dusty, enboxed inner tubes. moreover, when i asked, i was told that i could install the new one in the basement (just like in Mei-jer. wait? have i mentioned that already? one can never leave Jackson, MI, birthplace of the Republican Party). in fact, the guy working down there stepped up and did the thing for me. to this, i tell you with all the foreshadowing clout i can muster, i should not have agreed. nonetheless, i was duly (externally) grateful and continued on my way.

before too long i noticed that the tire was slightly flat. at this point i was somewhat doubting the logic of leaving town (ready supply of petrol stations, and the like, that it was), with no other definite oasis for long stretches of road ahead. stopped at an automechanic shop and put some more air into it. while i was scrubbing myself down in the bathroom (hung all around with the green uniforms of its employees, to fit any and all sizes that might happen to be, thus, employed), or so i heard upon emergence from two such green-clad ones, the inner tube had blown in a noisy commotion. with my freshly washed hands and none too kind words, borrowed another wrench and hauled the tire off again. this time, the culprit was a tube that was much too narrow (intended for tires of a racing or *at most* road/touring bike, but certainly not my clunky too-much-mountain-for-its-own-good-(this-is-the-midwest-after-all) one)). now i had nothing but that oft-resucitated original tube, which i had saved because it was "only missing [wee nameless valve]." as a last-ditch effort, asked the older mechanic if he, by any chance, *had* any [wee nameless valves]. sure enough, after some grubbing through impeccably ordered drawers of parts, he held up one of the same with fingers that looked as though they were too stiff and broad to handle anything besides a carburetor. (of course, this is exactly the unlikely beauty of all good tinkers). he positioned it in the lip of the tube and i returned to my favourite activity. while he was, earlier, searching for the small part (which he *did* name, but which i cannot now recall; the remarkable phenomenon, delicately articulated through [wee nameless part] is, i now see, the one upon which, perhaps, our very existence rests), i noticed some rolls of electrical tape lying around. while my first thought in regards the stuff pertained to the taping of whining mouths, because without some pieced-together solution like this, the remaining miles would be unbearable (for me, the listener and intended do-er-of-something in regards the petty grievance at hand). returning to practicalities, i figured that some tape around the inside of the metal rim would be in order. around and around, with as many layers as i could reasonably create while diverting the attention of the two mechanics with lively conversational wiles, i covered the (real or imagined) intrusion of spokes. with the same on the tube itself, especially in the places where it looked tired and worn, i knew i'd done what i could. after inflation and reconnecting the brake cable, adjusted my baggage and rode off under the balancing breezes of idiocy and necessity.

the same striking conjunction of features emerges again and again in my biking, prompting me to comment, here, further. while mishaps are, clearly, inevitable, that i am always able to negotiate some satisfactory solution is one thing (good fortune or "providence" or something)—but that it is always the *best possible* one is characteristic of something else, that may or may not exist solely in my mind. i am faced with two alternatives, borrowing heavily from Nietzsche and Voltaire (_Candide_): that i really am blessed (by breaking down near towns, by having guys checking their mail in the early morning hours, by being in Canada or the mid-west, by ______, etcetera) or—that anything that *could* happen is, by definition, its essential/exemplar form. of course, i opt for the latter because it forms a far more cohesive manner of living, one that justifies itself more scrupulously and without the self-gratification of the former.

as to the second aspect of the whole "bike culture" phenomenon, to which i have already alluded in my description of specific instances thereabout. namely, as soon as i am on the road, i undergo a completely superficial *but* nonetheless genuine (this is possible, i tell you) personality shift, which enables me not only to ask for help from perfect strangers, but to do so while exaggerating the discrepancy between their ability and my lack thereof. all right, this pertains to one thing alone and it is: upper body strength. as opposed to the *entire rest of my life* and its activities, in these cases i have absolutely no problem searching out strong-looking guys to assist me and, moreover, doing the pleading pitiful act with the best of them. this has to do with two main elements. first (the pragmatic reason), it's either that or sit there, indefinitely, with my little rust and my little rage. second, though, is that despite how much i do need someone to lever me out of the current situation, despite how (in what voice and manner) i ask for help, despite the appearance of the needy female—there is the undeniable fact that i have already traveled such-and-such a distance, that i've managed quite well up to the point of asking, and that i am irrefutably continuing (in the same fashion) after i receive the requested help. i could falsetto like a little girl, i could cry—but, still, i am weathered and engrimed in a way that can neither be denied nor simulated. i can see, then, in the faces of these men who *know* that they are helping me, though (and some even say) they could or would not do what i am doing—that they admire me, though they, for the moment, hold the wrench. it is mostly because of this—what needs not be spoken beyond the barest sketch—that i have nothing to fear, nothing usurpable. as opposed to the donned kind that calls for constant reiteration (because it must be proved to oneself, ultimately, though it masquerades as something to be displayed for to convince observing multitudes), this sort of self-sufficiency is, to me and for me, most pure and uncorrupting. it merely (in both senses of the adverb) exists and cannot *not* exist, no matter how the uncouth natural or social world impinges upon it.

so, let's see, where was i before i got sidetracked with this thematic nonsense? ah, yes, had just left Kingsville, held together with only a morass of electrical tape. by means of defending this choice (to self, interrogators and/or posterity), i was still hoping to reach Detroit by afternoon and, thus, in time to visit the Museum of Art, whose elusion had been, you will kindly remember, a significant factor in my taking this trip at all. the several hour Hang Up With Errant Youth and Tire (capitalised like the Dutch master(s) work it is)) meant that it was now late morning; i was faced with two alternatives: either rush down the highway was fast as possible, or go at a pace that would enable me to keep my eyes fixed at all times on my delinquent charge and, specifically, her front tire (so as to silence any signs of misbehaviour before they presented themselves). i suppose i settled somewhere in between these, mostly because of necessity: i was too weary (or, perhaps, wary of squandering energy in the fashion dictated by intense speed when there is yet a nearly-full day ahead) for the former, but the latter would have driven me into mental conniptions before the sun was 14° higher in the already-scorched sky. the important thing about mid- to long-distance biking is to keep going; this is far more valuable than bursts of speed. while doing so, i looked/thought "askance" about the very real possibility of another catastrophe, by which i mean: it never left my mind, but i lent it no room to wiggle or otherwise come to fruition therein.

the point at which i could have taken a more direct (diagonal) cut across southwesternmost Ontario had presented itself (its easiest opportunity, that is; these route-determinations are never final) at a time when i was not interested in doing so, but in keeping to the lake's freshness as much as possible. even after leaving Kingsville, i was still inclined to push forward with this plan, never having been good at substituting for less rigour, even when situational demands solicit it. retroactive justification doesn't take much: i passed through the town of Harrow and knew that my course of thought and action was correct. then i came upon a "Turtle Crossing," which caused the opposite reaction; i never said my responses aligned with the ideal. caught highway 18 and followed it straight west until it reached Lake Saint Clair, where it turned sharply north. on the portion of it which leads into Amherstburg, i found myself objectively closest to the water. rather than sensing it or seeing it from a semi-height, here i took the road's contours because these were determined primarily by the lapping of small waves and, there, on the other side, another country: the one to which i was bound again. i found Amherstburg very much un-fallen, which was a great help for me, as food was in short supply by this time. found a butcher-ish/ing store (some of my favourite places are such; what was i saying about expected reactions?), where i also wrangled passage to the bathroom, which took me behind the whole pigs and partial sausages that were, as fractions, larger in circumference even than one of my biker thighs.

paused only briefly, before continuing straight north. the day itself pressed upon me, from above and below, in the form of quintessential heat. it was profound, really, in the sense of pre-Socratic philosophy/cosmology. 18 was busy and, in the outskirts of Windsor, became even more so. additionally, it was both littered with stones and other debris (when i was not looking harshly at the front tire, i was obsessively scanning the road for anything that would encourage its disobedience) and unmarkedly confusing. i was not pleased with the combination, but this had absolutely no effect on me suddenly realising that i was on the bloody EC Row Highway. (was it the 100 km/hour sign? was it the narrowing of the shoulder? was it the way in which i was called upon, in a moment, to handle entrance ramps/lanes—these latter, which are never as terrorising as when one is on a bike and either forced to stop *in the middle of* what has now become two lanes, or to speed in front of cars entering the highway and making a great accelerated thrust of their own?) i chalk it up to the fright and the fact that i couldn't figure out which highway i was on (it was like particles—and by going through the motions, i had relinquished my sense of position): not only did i not get off this highway at (*before*) my first chance, but i continued on it for several too many exits, not knowing that it ran east/west instead of north/south. once i'd collected my senses, i decided to take the tunnel (had been aiming for bridge at first), which meant weaving through the slum part (it seemed like the whole to me, but i was annoyed about the highway thing) of Windsor that is, for many (by which i mean college kids in Michigan) all they ever see of the great Canadee-i-o. kept following the signs, but kept not getting to the tunnel, kept being trapped on 8-lane roads through the city. when i finally approached the checkpoint, it was flooded with cars. i proceeded to snub their drivers, the elementary school teachers of which were probably doubly appalled that i was cutting in line. made my way to the front only to find out that not only were bikes not allowed through the tunnel (was half expecting this, given the drama at Port Huron), but that there'd be no chalk circle, no regaling of tales as i was ferried under the river—but only a slinking back down, past the Cake-y line of cars, to a sketchy fast-food place to call a taxi. there: where i sat "so [im]patiently/ waiting to find out what price/ you have to pay to get out of/ going through all these things twice." this: i tell you, so you will not suscept, as i was forced to do.

perhaps, you say, after all the various erosions that had occurred over the past few days, could not this injustice be swallowed and borne? not so, if only because of the systematic (and systematically made inescapable) scamming as evident as the 1/2 page printed list of costs i would be incurring during the next 30 minutes and 1500 meters, displayed on the back of the passenger seat in front of me. the first time i'd been in an enclosed vehicle for so many days, and it cost me more than the whole trip: flat rate plus meter costs (stuck in aforementioned traffic, it just ticked), something for the actually border crossing and then (this really pounded it in), all of this *again* for the ride back to Windsor, in which no part of me would be present in the getaway car. just when i thought it had exceeded the Limits of the Real (or something just as intolerable, in discourse and, well, reality), we reached the customs official, who insisted on hassling me about going into Detroit alone. as the meter kept its steady calibration, he fairly ordered me to stay in the glass prison until i'd reached, i don't know, Grosse Pointe or something. i wanted some electrical tape, wanted it real badly, and neither on nor for my tire. he was holding my passport, though, and that does wonders for the instillation of quick civility. i did, however, order the taxi driver to stop *just* outside the station, where, in plain view of the cubicle and leering occupant, hauled my bike out of the trunk, reattached everything, and pushed up the hill into Detroit, heading straight north to the museum because, as it was, i now had just over an hour before closing time.

perhaps i ought to have actually stopped for a museum appraisal three days earlier instead of taking anything regarding the DIA at (deceitful website's) face value. because, although opening days and times had been prominently listed (with authority conveyed in a manner that seemed sufficient basis upon which to plan my original Toronto trip, and then this improvised one (both the supposed "back before supper" version and the one i was now dragging to a painful conclusion), so that passage through the city of Detroit would not fall on a Monday or Tuesday; this is, you must know, more difficult than it would seem)), there was no opening or closing going on—but only the secure gating of all orifices and, behind them, the baring of not-quite-apologetic notices. something about a 7 September re-opening, which helped me exactly zero. by then i was going to be in a bombed-out post-communist country that either had better art or had sold it somewhere along the way to save its soul (i wouldn't know which until i got there). washed my hands of the whole failed attempt, in the fountain that warned against such activities. then, after lining up a perfectly symmetrical photo of bike, arches of the museum building, and re-cast (in bulletproof material) Thinker, i continued west.

intentionally, i cycled past Wayne State, noting the medical school for Erica, who'd applied there. after all the conversations in the Office of Undergrad Admissions at UMich, with my kids, about Detroit (how it "really" is, how it seems, how it is dogmatically viewed; how these inform each other, how they are all, in some way, correct and totally missing of any mark that could be had), the best i could come up with, at the moment, was: Detroit would be a good place in which to school. perhaps not live for long periods of time and, especially, perhaps not to hail from—but for a decided clump of years during one's relative youth, a decent locale. i had heard there was a good bookstore by the bus station, but didn't stop to find out.

i wove along regular streets instead of searching out old US 12 again, in the interests of nonrepetition and because i wasn't in the mood for highways, particularly because i had encountered only construction mud, carved up and occupied shoulders, and trucks on my way into the city. was less in the mood, however, for dissolution incarnate—in the form of buildings, objects in/on street, and human beings/activities. so, before long, angled back over and picked up 12. a word thereabout: have now taken it (i think) in its entirety, including several stretches (Ann Arbor to Jackson) upon which i've practically worn my own private Idaho. that's my kind of accomplishment; yes, indeed.

so there i was, back in Michigan and heading into the sunset and the homeless people pushing shopping carts along the roads, through towns with names that sounded like they'd known racial problems since their incarnation, for no reason contained *in* said names, exactly. Inkster and Dearborn, Wayne, Livonia. the midwest is troubled in its simplicity. it's flat, and maybe that's the whole of the trouble.

it is flat, though, and i'd pretty much made sure that no one could, now, doubt me when i made the standard offer about picking them up from Detroit Metro [carefully measured, laden, pause] on my bicycle. i had all the luggage i needed, could really have taken a flight myself, if it weren't for the current task of being sucked back down the genie bottle, past everything i'd sped on that Wednesday morning [8am], which now seemed very long ago but really just happened before the third-degree sunburn and, so, felt distant.

outside of Ypsilanti, saw the same nearly-faceless man whom i had not only seen walking down the street on the morning when last i ventured through here, heading (as was he) in the equal and opposite direction—but that i knew so well from the ER. he is not "nondescript," nor do i mean such when i use the above adjective: the bottom part of his face is missing. the gaping hole, run through with tenuous stented scaffolding, is always infected; he attempts to talk though it all, and i have learned, more or less, how to understand his words.

pushed myself within the city limits of Ann Arbor, just in time for it to be growing dark. i had no idea who would be at my house when i arrived there. that Rich certainly wouldn't and that i wanted my first known human contact to be with one who, for better or worse, knew both me and my tough little mouthy urchin, headed over to Carol and Emmett's house. some moderate picking up of the pieces, although my relations are catching on to my whole "just taking off" thing. unfortunately, i also seem to time (by which i mean, *not* time) these incidents for one of the rare times when all the Ann Arbor folks are gathering together; too bad they, that *reticent* and *stilted* crew, have nothing about which to converse other than my whereabouts....

declined a ride down and back to the house on Traver, of course. though it may sit atop a mountain, the final stretch for home, arrival thereat, *always* contains within itself a descent and, moreover, this marked the first time i had made a round-trip (in each other, i had trained or been driven on the return). this was necessary: to coast up to my apartment in this way: finishing something, my way of leaving the city that had, despite every last slander of mine, been good to me. one final return in order to leave completely, except for the notebooks and kitchenware i'd boxed up for storage in the basement. you have to learn, if you ride, that you can't count on much. not where it'll all go flat. not where you'll be commended and where, chased. not when the sight of something will slice through the weathered exterior and when it won't make a dent. as Jimmy said at HotHouse, way back when i'd taken 250 miles (Ann Arbor to Chicago) to learn to dance and, even as i showed up in the doorway, still couldn't do more than shuffle (but, nonetheless, was hauled to my feet and peered at by warm ones who could), it's the kind of challenge for a mind that aspires to unalloyed metal. that's not exactly what he said, but he knew: that you only draft the physical part, that it's a sheltering cave for the forging out that happens when, distracted by the cyclicality, you discover that you've neither more nor less than when you had set out—but only that, now, it's been packed somewhat more tightly, that you've become slightly defter in its conveyance.