If you need a reminder that there is a higher order watching over us (NOT our profane version of moneyless fusion of people under Big Brother), put yourself in danger. I mean to the edge of things. That alone should be enough - if you survive. But if you are blessed with unexpected rescue, bringing you back from the edge, that is even better. I had two such moments in this, my latest ambitious attempt to extend the bounds of Toronto cycle pleasure to the edge of the world. I.e., what's doable by bike ALONE (OK, public transit too), but sans the killer car. You'll have to read to find my epiphanies, but they were/are truly divine. No other explanation.
The trip had a rocky start. Up at 5am to Union Station for the 6:05am train to Oshawa. I took a chance on the 'no bikes' in rush hour. When the gate was announced, I suddenly realized my Presto card was at home in the drawer! Living downtown and with my trusty bike, I rarely use public transit, which is slower and unpleasant (make it free and more enjoyable, please). And of course left my baseball cap for some lucky fellow. Oh well, a 20-minute (uphill) ride home, sweaty, retrieved IT, watered the plants, got another cap, and made a note for neighbor Marty to feed the sparrows Saturday too, just in case. Now the 7:05am train and hope that the conductor (they are rarely seen anyway) would not be surly.
I loaded my bike and on to Oshawa, the only alarm being a violent shouting match between young lovers from the upper deck, and the bus to Peterborough. But first a tongue-lashing from the surly, fat woman driver, who refused to let me load the bike up front on the bike rack, as I have a carried (firmly attached). The only other time I've been hassled was by a short, fat Indian immigrant driver. I dutifully, with difficulty, managed to insert it in the luggage hold. She harrumphed and lectured me: Just so you know, you are responsible for any damage.
And what a dreary ride, with stops at strange tiny 'park and ride', occasionally 'kiss and ride', asphalt parking lots in the middle of nowhere (what possible use could they be?). One person actually got off at one. I wanted to grab her arm and ask her 'what for?' No wonder the driver was such a ... (choose your own epithet). Her life was driving back and forth from one bleak spot to another with stops at senseless parking lots.
Finally Peterborough. But where was the river? I could have used the sun, but my ordeal drained my self-confidence. Almost everyone not in a car is Asian or African, even in Peterborough. I figured they wouldn't know and asked a young white pierced-ear guy at the stop. 'I have no idea what you're talking about,' he replied hostilely. The next person I asked (black) assured me I was headed in the right direction. The Otonabbee and bike trail.
The Otonabee ('the bubbling and boiling water of the rapids beat like a heart') flows into Rice Lake as part of the Trent-Severn canal system, connecting Lake Huron to Lake Ontario, which arguably held Canada together. Lake Erie and the Niagara Falls were a bummer for commerce (and defense). Trent University operates its own hydroelectric plant on the river. So thank you Odoonabii-ziibi (in Ojibwe).
Things were finally looking up. But bike trails have a habit of abruptly stopping with detours poorly marked so I continued my interaction with locals, which is one of the joys of biking (other than angry young men). I had the directions courtesy of Google Maps (don't be fooled, at least for bikes, they are only rough guides) which had nothing in common with the young couple's directions. Maybe Google's purpose is to put bikers in touch with locals? Their advice got me on the rail trail to Hastings. A man, a plan, a canal, Hastings!
As I said, the trip started badly. Worse yet, the trouble had begun the day before, when (multi-tasking) I managed to leave my library DVDs at the foodbank, remembering only at bedtime. So when at 10am, halfway to Hastings, I decided to phone PWA and ask. Yes, Nat found them and would leave them at the front desk. A good sign.
The rail trail is nice, safe, occasionally scenic, but 40km of the straight and narrow was enough. Now Hastings bridge and south to Lake Ontario. A tiny sign said 'bridge closed' yet the trail continued. I kept biking to the cool wooden swing bridge, but when I got on it, it was indeed closed,. I could easily have biked over the edge, a good 80-foot drop. A nice European cycle-nerd laughed as he biked towards it; 'I like to dangle my feet over the edge'. So on to the 'heart' of Hastings, to the mundane Bridge Street bridge.
I continued now with trepidation, as the next 50km was on the main highway 45, and not an inch of bike path. Re road bike 'paths', there are many versions: white line only (lethal), white line with 12 inches of path (bearable) and 3 feet of path (exquisite but rare). Thankfully, the traffic wasn't too bad.
After 3 hours of hell (walking up steep hills with my 10-ton loaded bike) and many breathers, I realized I was setting myself up for sunstroke (or heart failure). A kindly senior stopped and checked that I was OK and gave me some water. That was a boon. Someone cared!
Mostly nothing to lean my bike on during my many breathers. There is the road, the gravel shoulder, ditch. But in a delirium, facing the ditch, I suddenly saw beauty. Not always, but often a floral arrangement, more beautiful than the tight-assed formal gardens that wear you out looking at them. I could stare at God's floral arrangements and find peace. I can see them now as I write. And later when sitting in grass, weeds, bushes, an elegant daddy-longlegs deftly dancing through all the obstacles on long impossibly delicate legs.
I kept slogging, hoping to get to Alderville, where the next scenic bit should be. But I doubt now that I would have made it. Resting, another car stopped and out stepped Archangel Gabriel, né Tim, a huge smile on a blond, sunburnt face, about 30, happy to load my bike in his hatchback and take me to highway 18. A back-to-the-lander, no-tilling farmer, though he grew up in Toronto. When we stopped at the turn-off I bought ice cream cones to treat him, but he politely declined as 'full of sugar'. Fair enough, but I was burning calories so fast, I wolfed them both.
Memorial in Alderville to WWI&II dead
The first miracle of my trip. Why did Tim stop? He is just a swell guy, generous to a fault. He envied or at least admired the audacity of my reckless trip, and was excited by the ecological beauty of it. 'You don't have to leave Ontario to have a great vacation.' Yes! Screw Thailand to see the last of some endangered species or have kinky sex, or flying around the world to see some rare bird, or just for the faux thrill of flying. The birds know I'm one of them, as close as we humans can get. No carbon footprint except your breathing, which you will do 3x as much to fill your blood with fuel to drive you on your quest.
Nature calls
The fourth breather announced time to move the bowels. Nowhere to hide so I trudged a ways through a sea of long flattened grass, like waves on the ocean, to a utility pole, thinking I would be less visible. I covered the droppings with gravel, then noticed what looked like a burrow below the gravel. Poor varmint. Sorry.
Lots of time to ponder. I realized my exhausting bike trips are like life, sex. Occasional fleeting joy and mostly pain. I thought of the young tough and his lover still shouting as they left the train in Oshawa. Thankfully, you remember the joy and the pain fades. I write this so as not to forget, to keep a balance with the reality.
At Alderville, I remarked on the huge, strange memorial. Tim, 'I've never looked at it.' When he left me, I was walking up to it. Of course, a war memorial. WWI 10, WWII 90 dead. Little Alderville's brave sacrifices. To what? I thought, as I contemplated our warmongering system, eager to kill more and more, honoring some deaths and despising others. No. Whoever kills an innocent person it is as if he has killed all of humanity.
#18 was blissfully calm and normal hills, gloriously long curves to break the tedium, not the long, straight highway monsters, but only a brief glimpse of Rice Lake. Cottager 'settlers' have scooped up as much as possible, leaving a few sacred islands and Serpent Mounds Park, one of the raised mound sites created 2000 years ago across North America. (I will probably have to go by car to visit. lol.) A Catholic church (with a sense of humor) on the 'outskirts' of Harwood.
A nice Gothic touch to the only active place of worship seen
Tim's timely rescue actually put me ahead of my 'schedule'. At Harwood I turned south to #15 which is not busy, but eventually connects with the dreaded #45 into Baltimore and Port Cobourg.
Staking out my first campsite
But first sleep. Like any decent animal, I searched out a cozy, invisible corner. The Blue Loo was good news. An abandoned work site? Maybe. A small sign a ways in announced a 'nature regeneration' reserve. No trespassing. Long luxuriant grass and stately ash trees. Long grass makes a fine bed but for the mosquito frenzy. Glad I remembered my oil and toque. They divebomb the toque at the ear, just for spite.
A light rain, but it didn't look threatening. I worked out my strategy with the tarp to fold over me and my worldly possessions, but it stopped and I breathed fresh air again. And slept. The overexertion is good for sleep. The ash spookily gothic, with black, dead lower branches creating blurry intricate designs, illuminated by the setting sun, looking like Arabic script, squiggles and dots, or like a telescopic view of a constellation. The rich, pungent forest smell was like incense.
On night watch at the nature reserve at Harwood
Suddenly it was all light. 5am. I woke curled up and in a completely different spot. Yes, the fetal position best for warmth and comfort. Flashes of a dream. As usual, only vaguely remembered. 'Honor after the unknown.' My sleeping bag was mysteriously inside out! Had I been abducted by aliens?! And the morning aroma, so completely different from the nighttime. The plaintive song of a morning dove 1 4 1 and 1 5 2 2 and my favorite 7 5 1. Where did she learn the minor 6th? It's like a morning coffee (sad to get up, but then happy). What a perfect morning prayer.
A fig and some water and on my way. The mist hung over everything but me, and kept running ahead, until the sun popped up and chased it away. #15 had been upgraded. I.e., our car-worshipping Ford uses our taxes to raid some of the 100s of gravel quarries which scar thousands of acres of 'useless land', to raise the highway above the land ('high' way), making it totally inaccessible to any human activity other than 'drive straight and fast'.
Glad I stopped before that 'improvement'. Fresh asphalt makes me feel a part of our war against nature, culminating in the 'ribbons of death', the monster expressways that take 'drive' to obscenity. I inadvertently crossed #401 at least twice (by the end, everything got very confused). The so-called Highway of Heroes commemorates soldiers who died in our NATO invasion of Afghanistan. Obscenity piled on obscenity.
Some roadside finds: a vap cartridge, a 1/2-filled water bottle (I took it, tasted fine, the more water containers the better), an ancient cigarette butt, grey and undegradable. I tore it in pieces; at least it would lose its ugly symbolism. Speaking of symbols, I feel like a bird on these trips especially, free, just me and the wind, 360 degree nature, yet with cares always in the background. Many times birds shouted hello (crows, blackbirds mostly).
On the rail trail, a robin stood looking at me as I approached and greeted him. He waited till the bicycle wheel was inches away, then tentatively flutter up to my eye level, squeaked a hello, and flew on ahead. A little divebomber almost touched my head as it swooped down and disappeared. A majestic blue heron, startled by my passage, lumbered silently, magnificently, out of the dense, tangled marsh. The rail trails are a birder's paradise, especially early morning, but the birdies hang out there all day. So many orioles, robins and dozens that I don't know.
Birds talk to us. Say hello when a bird lands near you or calls from on high. They know you're talking our bird talk with them. Or better, try to sing their song. What a miracle these angels are. And we kill off species almost every day. And box ourselves in machines that take these simple pleasures away.
Cobourg-Newcastle nadir
I missed the turn onto #2 (the original 19th c 'transcanada'), so more communing with locals, and I found the user-unfriendly series of turn-offs and several steep hills, wending through upscale, uphill suburbia until the asphalty suburbia ended and the real Lakeshore Road began.
Probably the most beautiful part of the trip, though only glimpses of Lake Ontario, but lots of greenery sprouting through the asphalt. And brilliant yellow flowers, blue hickory, wild grape creeping out to reclaim their birthright. And hardly a car at all. So you can wobble as you take in the beauty.
My kind of 'great replacement'
The towns Wesleyville, Port Britain, Port Granby, Lovekin are ghost towns, citizens forced to move when the feds bought up the land in anticipation of Darlington IV (which was never built). I didn't know this and when I saw some obvious tourists in broad sunhats (NOT Chinese though I later met a bizarre duo later on a totally unscenic railway overpass in the intense midday heat).
So 270 hectares will become a nature reserve (All these 'nature reserves' are just the extreme opposite of our 'car reserves'. How about just banning cars and let people be part of the solution?). Britt is caretaking at the new Wesleyville historical site beside - yes - an abandoned church, trying to preserve the local history. I kept seeing churches everywhere abandoned (except for the quirky Catholic one at Harwood). There are a few new 'settlers' reclaiming some of the land but when you kill communities, you leave behind only individuals doing their own thing.
Britt makes something out of the remains of our nuclear warfare
It made me happy to see a 19-yr old new-agey girl enthusing about our lost culture, abhorring our addiction to huge power projects at the expense of living humans. 'I'm ashamed of my generation, all about 'sex, drugs and rock'roll,' I told Brett. She nodded enthusiastically. 'It's up to you to try to undo the horrors we created.' My note in the guest book: reclaim our society after our WWIII nuclear madness.
My cycling stamina did not improve. Walking is good for bone strength, I kept telling myself. Having climbed a monster and resting, a heavy 40ish woman on her own with huge paniers crawled past in first gear. 'I don't know how you manage.' 'Neither do I,' she replied as she slogged forward. My regime was/is when you can't catch enough breath, stop and wait till you can't hear your heart pounding in your ears (or bellybutton, as I discovered. I could hear it and feel it everywhere.) What a machine, the heart, as well as home of the soul. And most of us die from heart problems, which makes perfect sense.
Bondhead has come alive again after Darlington death. A lovely sandy cove-park so I stopped. A cold dip would be perfect, but I was told 'too much bacteria after the rain', though it was 3 days since rain and it looked fine. I compromised, splashing off some sweat and cooling my feet. I was a wreck at this point and realized I had to eat something. My nausea probably from sunstroke meant nothing would stay down. I munched on a carrot and lay back (trying to avoid the goose droppings). An emergency #2 feeling so headed for the portable potty. It was like a sauna and completely full but I risked adding my own and thankfully escaped without mishap. As I opened the door, I was met by a monstrous truck with hoses and a huge tank. The 'night soil' crew, but not (prerevolutionary) Chinese style. What an operation, weird noises as all the felucence was sucked up.
Crises mount
If I wasn't already nauseous, that was the cherry on top. I lay down in the shade and dropped off into a deep, heavenly sleep, lulled by a kitschy version Pachebel's canon. When I woke I barfed a bit (just water and undigested carrot, tasting like an orange. a heavenly barf?) then moved on. I haven't barfed in ... a decade at least.
That episode was not the highlight of the trip. But the fun was only beginning. It was already 2pm. Would I make it to Oshawa tonight? I knew that it was necessary to cross the 'ribbon of death' and take #2, but in last minute googling I saw these little green squiggles seemingly to Port Darlington and Oshawa on bike trails. Was that true? Explorer that I am, I was determined to find out. But this was my biggest failing: you can't force reality to comply with your ideas. What a bitter lesson that has been, one which I have to keep learning over and over.
In short, there seemed to be no 'source of the Nile', so I headed for #2 - a long uphill ride over #401, collapsing at Gord and Peggy's Motel. Gord was smoking on the porch in the late afternoon sun. He told me some complicated directions to get to #2, then Peggy arrives and liked my idea and encouraged me, though clearly she was just being agreeable. So a downhill 10-minute ride took my back to the tiny scenic park in Wilmot Creek to discover the nature park there is a series of self-contained trails,
that I would have to return to Newcastle, though I already sense my goose was cooked.
I retrace my steps but whatever happened, I ended up on #2 going the wrong way, not having crossed the #401 again. I stopped to ask Kevin, chopping wood where #2 was. He laughed, 'this is #2 and if you want to go to Oshawa it's the other way. And you must have gone over #401 to get here.' He was right. The sun really does set in the west. He offered me bottled water. I politely demurred and handed him my old bottles. 'I refuse to drink bottled water.' He didn't ask why so I didn't pontificate, though Nestle's scheming to steal all our ground water and sell it around the world is right up there with Israel's genocide of Palestinians, or the US plan to destroy Russia. All in the name of $$$$$.
It was 7pm, so I become birdman again, looking for my roost. As I said, road, gravel shoulder, deep culvert are car heaven. It was that and houses almost nonstop to Oshawa. Suddenly two tractors were roaring towards me, taking up both lanes as one inched past the other. When I reached them, the second one was carrying 25 Mexican workers, sprawled exhaust in the open trailer. They waved joyously at me as I passed. What a thrill. Then I saw the humble dirt track (the only one I saw all day), passed it and thought, 'A field of cabbages, a copse of trees a ways in. It clicked. The spirit of the workers infected me and I turned around and rode it.
Lots of twigs to clear. When I lay down, I found the lumpy mattress quite passable. And lo, the misty, crescent moon rising as the blurry orange sun set. Not a clear sky, but not cloudy. The light pollution even here? I was delighted to be able to fall asleep and wake up in nature a second time. OK, humanized nature, but the Mexican workers gave it a dignity, a love of farming, that we've lost. I guess I can thank my stupidity for that privilege. But I was still far from Oshawa and very exhausted. Could I manage the 4 hours of nasty highway and the complicated maneuvering through to Oshawa? Could I get home?
I managed half an apple and water. I had tried to increase my water intake so I could pee at least by evening. A hot summer day of cycling sweats off all your H₂O. I spent what seems like half the time asking people to fill up my 3 - and then 4 with the roadkill - bottles.
Another blissful sleep then off at 5am, no traffic but more and more urban, construction, increasingly unpleasant. I got to Bowmanville and stopped for a coffee and something. A liquid yogurt was the only thing I was sure I could keep down. I asked casually about the time to Oshawa. 'The bus stops outside here at 7:05. In 5 minutes,' the Indian clerk said. What, I thought. This is my second blessing, act of God. I hurried out, had a sip of coffee, drank the yogurt and there was the bus at the stoplight. I flagged the driver. She stopped and was happy to have her first passenger, letting me load the bike up front. I rushed to disassemble the gear, and suddenly I knew I was saved. So much for the jumbo-size coffee ('we don't do small').
Thank God! No more crossing the ribbon of death, fighting my way through streets and mini-expressways. No wonder Oshawa is a city of murder and drug abuse. These ribbons of death cut through the heart of our cities, turn us into car-worshippers, slaves of our technology, undermining any real spiritual health, destroying nature, us. Hamilton is another sad case, as are all American cities. Only now are cities such as Seattle and Oakland (and Montreal) ripping them down and healing the bleeding gash. Of course, Ontario is a generation behind, as Ford rams a new ribbon of death down our throats, #413. And Toronto Mayor Tory shied at the thought of ripping out the Gardner expressway.
The last night I was down to one cigarette (I brought 4 as security blankets), and told myself, 'The last half is before you get the Oshawa GO (if you make it).' When I arrived at the GO station, I loaded up again and asked a 'security guard', a black woman lounging between the station and trains. Do security guards provide information on schedules? She pointed and said 8:05. I.e., in 5 minutes. Another little blessing. And no time (or need) for the killer weed.
Of course, when I had settled in, I remembered I didn't remember to 'tap' my Presto card. I tried to run back but no energy. With 2 minutes to spare (and my bike on the train) I huffed and did my duty. Some announcement said if you partake in some scheme (a bilingual blur), you don't have to 'tap'. LOL. Presto is a disaster. They solve one problem and create new ones. Why not let people buy their tickets, have ticket checkers and real officials at stations rather than pathetic security guards and a dysfunctional credit card system? Old-fashioned is also time-test.
So a trip of wrong turns - Presto, Newcastle-Wilmot Creek, the major ones. But so many moments of joy, more than I expected. The only way to vacation is if you go and put yourself at the mercy of locals and the Almighty. You can't do that couped up in a metal box. Find the Tims among the dross. They will tell you their favorite spots, and a bit about themselves in the process.
Tim and the GO bus to Oshawa and prompt train were definitely acts of grace, although if I had used my reason, I should have figured out that Oshawa GO goes to Bomanville. I guess this is a good example of why grace is need. For idiots like yours truly.
I had Google maps downloaded on my phone but they were not good for anything but road numbers. Using GPS (as many nerdy cyclists do) or even being able to access internet in the wilderness is not an adventure. But 'eyes bigger than stomach' is the story of my life. Some lessons I never seem to learn.
To me this was a genuine adventure, which, to boot, added no carbon footprint. I would not do it again. 'First time is always best.' But then neither would Cook or Darwin want to go through their tribulations again. Their goal was to reveal to the western world the marvels of nature and the Other, offering some advice for future travellers (pointing out what didn't work). I saw a '50s retro hair-stylist picture outside a tiny hair salon in Newtonville and it struck me, we are still living out the naive, wasteful, consumerism which the post-WWII capitalist world promised back then instead of communism. We sense that life in the 50s was better, simpler but already with more than enough material things.
I noticed that everyone I saw today, with the except of the bus driver and an eccentric old man with a mobility problem (my doppelganger?), coming from Bowmanville right through to Oshawa and Toronto, were brown or black. A store along the route promised 'halal'. Canada is experiencing the 'great replacement' but I think that is fine. Most immigrants from Asia and Africa still have some spirituality in their lives. Nothing beats praying in nature, as I did with joy 4 times a day, from dawn to dusk (I was asleep before the final prayer). Maybe that's actually what we're here for.
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Recommended trips: For a younger, fit cyclist, my trip (without the mistakes) is perfect. There are rail trails east all the way to Belleville, but that's outside my league. You can't count on weather for longer that two days and tent-biking is not for old codgers. And north of Peterborough along the Otonabbee to feast on the canals to Lakefield. That I will definitely do.
For lessers, don't do my trip! Go directly by GO to Bowmanville and take a short ride (with a bearable bicycle ribbon all the way) on #2 to Newcastle, over the ribbon of death to Wilmot Creek, explore the reserve (it looks great) and ride to just before the Port Hope suburbia and then go back. Take the 5:05am GO train from Toronto and you can do that in one day if you are a real bike nerd, or buy a $50 Chinese sleeping bag and ground sheet and sleep out. That will be your peak experience. Good-bye the hassle and expense of hotels. But for roughing it, it's better for loners as 'one's company but two's a crowd'.
Read No-carbon footprint travels to Toronto's outer spaces for Eric's other cycling adventures in and around Toronto.
