I am Jack’s total unawareness of what day or time it is. I am a slave to night and day and overwhelming physical exertion. However let me be clear in stating that I stand behind all commas, regardless of what others might say.

I’m about to sleep in a total strangers basement in Oshawa Canada. Sounds like some chop you up in your sleep shit but it’s really just a warm shower. Which sounds like something even worse I know. Fact is, I really didn’t wanna remote sleep two night in a row. These upstrangers feed me fish tacos and watermelon salad and fizzy water. Now I’m drinking decaf coffee brewed by them. So it’s fully on, to the fullest fullness of full. Luxury lifestyle thanks to our gracious new friends John and Pam. My long ride dexterity is softening now that I am three and a quarter years old. I don’t even know who I am anymore. I think maybe I need to take another shit.

Break yourself fool… be kind and rewind to Friday. Night, actually. Night 4, to be specific. When we roll up smoke dog style on the entrance station to Prequ’ile (Press Keal) Provincial Park, a beautiful piece of peninsula real estate jutting out into Lake Ontario. Not to be confused with Presque Isle (Press Kyle) State Park, a beautiful piece of peninsula real estate jutting out into Lake Erie. Cuz why in the fuck would that be confusing at all? So rn rn here at The Keal, the two yutes at entrance station inform us there’s no room at this inn baby Jesus. Which means that somehow out of the 2500 acres in this park, I can’t set up my 5 x 3 tent because there isn’t a chargeable space available. Commodification to the dumbest. I’d say the natives to this land are probably rolling over in their graves, but I can actually feel the ground moving around under my two feet. Rn rn. I even offered to pay these motherfuckers for a 5 ft.² space. They don’t know shit about the King’s foot. No stairway. Denied. But this denial is different because Chad and I — after all that — are still allowed free admission into the park, one yute tells us that it closes at 10; we don’t gotta be out til 10:30 PM. The sunsets at 8:30 PM here. I haven’t been conscious for more than 20 minutes past sunset in days. Some people call this ghost camping. Some people call this stealth camping. Some people call it trespassing. Some people call it squatting. Some call it loitering. To hell with all those fucking people, I call it remote sleeping. We find a discreet little corner away from any cars and parking lots and we pop up the palaces at just after sunset. Lights out.

Remote sleep wake up is a different animal, Belushi. Cold wake up and difficult to eject out of. But none of that gives a fuck about me. There’s also no chair no table no shower no toilet. Nada. Just consequences. So no time either, neither, and both. We move fast before we get caught. Get up get out get something, OutKast. Packing up and pushing out, westbound.

It’s twenty miles up and Chad is rambling on and on about whatever it is he knows a ton of something or even nothing about.. then he finally fucking comes to a nugget worth my attention as he says, “I’m not gonna celebrate it like you, but I do enjoy the regular morning bowel movements on a bike trip.” Word for fucking word. No human can deny it. Not a one. If you have a problem with constipation, grab your bicycle and don’t stop pedaling until the loaf is halfway out of the oven. Shit’s a celebration, bitches.

No dumping. Poop and scoop. I see these signs and I’m conflicted. To shit or not to shit. That is a question.

60 kilometers earlier and I’m facefucking a meat lovers breakfast plate at Hardy’s Diner. Greasy spoon goodness. Do it if you are ever in this place I’m in. Which I think is Cobourg. There’s photos of famous chefs on the wall. The presumed chef/owner tells me, “after I put the chef photos up, my husband insisted I have a cartoon chefs wall as well.” Amongst others along this wall are Homer Simpson, yet the real praise and glory truly goes out to the greatest of them all (and definitely NOT a cartoon), the motherfucking Swedish chef, holding knives and ready to lay on across the chicken’s neck! Bourdain’s ubiquitous portrait legitimately sits on the wall across from the Muppet; they’re having a bit of a stare down with each other while I crush Canadian bacon and ham and bacon — when mid mouthful I realize that I don’t even know the Swedish Chef’s real name. Self flabbergasted sounds way weirder than what it is and the shame inevitably leads me to our robot AI overlords, whom are a bit unclear about TSC having a name as well. Though I’ve been to Sweden a couple times, and it’s more like that his name is Lars or Anders.

Oshawa trail bench life is Rick James level interesting. Chad is doing his own brand of navigation where he gets himself lost and so I’m moving slowly up this creek trail and I’m not sure how I feel about the heads I’m turning and how I’m being processed. Like, I’m literally halfway between fearing-for-my-life emotions and seductively-charmed feels. The Osh (as I’m now calling it) definitely gots some grime and underbelly. Hoping I don’t get abducted, chained to a radiator, and burned by a crackpipe, I pedal on. Lots of commas. No calm. People look strange. Act strange. Are strange. And for once, it’s not just me. Takes a lot to make me feel awkward and this trail has got all of the above vibes.

Not so sound cliche, but where we’re going, we don’t need roads. Traversing dreamland. Setting the time circuit coordinates for the next morning. What the fuck is a jiggawatt. Chad and I are pedaling the last 50 miles into Toronto. It’s almost all suburbanesque, much to my chagrin. There are however bike lanes and facilities the entire way, which tells me all I need to know about Canada’s superior bicycling green space.

Another twenty miles and predictably, Chad is now contradicting himself and celebrating his bowel movements to the fullest. I don’t hate him for it but right now right now it’s another 30 miles later, I’m ridiculing him in front of his longtime friends, and my hosts for the evening, Linda and John. They’ve offered to let us camp in there downtown Toronto backyard. And dinner is getting hooked up too. Chicken in the grill. And to top the last few days off in way that might make Hammer say “proper”, Linda is telling me how she with Jim Henson for years and so the motherfucking Swedish Chef shows up once again, along with his chicken. Tomorrow we make a push for the border back the dystopian states of America.

I am Jack’s happiness over everything coming full circle. Fuck yes, chef.