I’m on the shores of the St Lawrence River, feeling a feeling which must be what it’s like to be ass raped in a Canadian prison. The offending offender’s name is Chad. He tells me so I don’t have to make this up. Another fucking Chad. Couldn’t write it any better. God damnit. Fucking figures. The other Chad is a few kilometers back. Doing his usual. This new, younger, Canadian and clearly more sadist Chad, though… he’s here now. He lets me go “pick out a site”; each one I pick he tells me, “just got checked into”; I get upsold on a water front site. Some potato chips from the camp store. And now some Haagen Daz ice cream. By the time I walk out, it’s dark and I’m out 75 doll hairs. Straight up rape of my wallet, in my book. In the prison of my mind. I wonder if they serve poutine in Canadian jails. Does Canada even have prisons. Does Canada have criminals yet? They learn it by watching us, ok?

Back at the campsite, there’s little flat earth, there’s a giant hole dug immediately next to the picnic table, there’s overgrown vegetation on the other side of it. Mosquitos everywhere. My mind conjures up multiple scenes from Blood In, Blood Out. Vatos Locos forever. Can’t believe Ving Rames and Billy Bob Thornton show up in that film. Anywho. Canada. Clearly for sale, but not for cheap. I blame it on crossing the provincial line, from Quebec to Ontario. Never shoulda done it. I evade thick airfields of mosquitos and escape to bath house to grab a shower. It smells like fish in here. Not like, broiled sea bass with lemon. Mmmm. No like a “which fishermen gutted a goddamn trout in here?” stank. I wash my ass nonetheless. Nights fallen. I evade more mosquitos basically by diving into my tent and calling it a night.

Lemme dial up Rufus, get in the booth and start way back in Montreal.

Day before liftoff and we do all the things. All of them, I tell you! Phenomenal sushi. History lesson boat cruise. St Laurent thrift shopping. Air conditioned ferris wheel with surprise Bluetooth musical speaker capabilities. Underground mezcal speakeasy. Some guy on the street approaches me and — based on my hat/sunglasses combo (I guess?) — shakes my hand fervently, telling me he’s a huge fan of my music… naming Santana song after song. Let’s call him Luc. In his thick French accent (he’s probably actually a Luc-Jean) he’s jokingly telling me I look like Carlos Santana, presumptuously over estimating my musical abilities, psychedelic drug use and — most saddening to myself — bank account balance. So, like I said: all the things.

The next morning is get up and out. Fat fuck ourselves out at a breakfast spot called Tommy. Carmen and her kids take Chads car to do some daytime family stuff before dipping out via fossil fuels. Chad and I are long ride bound via leg muscles and protein bars. It’s late morning as we’re pedaling through this dense urban Francophone island. It’s difficult for me to leave Montreal. Another place I could live. Another lifetime I suppose. I barely speak one language fluently. Chad takes way too many side quests, wasting precious daylight. It’s already early afternoon when we finally make it to another isle.

Canal trails abound on this section of Le Route Vert. Which I have been told is French for “very rude”. It’s nice though. Oui oui. I give these Portable toilets 10/10. I’d happily shit here if I had too. Not this time. A wise lesson taught by total stranger whilst mutually urinating in a metal trough in Munich during Oktoberfest: Water in water out, for now.

Intention is really the name of the game today. Most days on a long bike ride. All days on the ones deemed successful. Moving with intention: cautious urgency, maybe urgent caution. Also, the true actual power of intention. Mental yardwork. Out here in nearly 100° F hard work. That’s like 37° Celsius for those of you playing along at home, in the comfort of your AC.

Chad cramps up. I get grumpy. We ride on. It’s beautifully calm during this stretch outside of the city and suburban ring of population. We cross the border from Quebec into Ontario as the sun gets low, it’s still 90° but it’s become more cooling and comforting. A lulling calm before the storm of my aforementioned encounter with that raping capitalist Chad from an Ontario provincial campground. So much for democratic socialism. Shoulda stayed in Montreal and I’d still have my dignity and dollars. Bon soir.