Day 3. 209 Miles. Day Trois.

Posted on August 15, 2025 by anthonycaferro

Three. Is the magic number. Ask Posdnuos. Ask Trugoy. Can’t, bc he’s dead. So you better ask somebody.

By day three the vacation is out of our systems. By day three I start to get into the restorative reality of the rigorous routine. Really.

It’s “chilly AF” and wet in the morning. Full Monty full disclosure, I’m fully naked in the tent bc it was “hot AF” and wet LAST night. Take it ease: we’re all naked under our clothes. Last night I sandman’d out so hard during thunderclap and hard rains. Like lights out. Now I’m awake. Don the rain jacket and shorts and I’m out of the tent… shivering. I get the fuck back in the fucking tent. Whew. Where the hell did this come from. I didn’t even bring a single pair of pants to the heatwave party up in here, up in here. I did however bring this 20°-rated sleeping bag with me, it comes on every long ride no matter the forecast. Thats Fahrenheit degrees. Not Celsius. Nor Kelvin. Shit, 20° Kelvin is just crazy. Anyhoo, this sleeping bag I got… Works fine just to lay on top of or use as more of a pillow. Shoutout to whatever brand that doesn’t pay me in times like this. I’d say this is right now right now. But right then right then, I was just trying to get warm. I couldn’t possibly be typing this.

So um yeah. Fast forward to rn rn — me seated on this shady bench along the Thousand Islands Parkway. It’s got a separated bike path alongside the motored way. You people stay over there. Whoa. This bench is also a cemetery. Chads doing yoga far enough away from me that I’m not irritated. He looks goofy as fuck. Chad’s the one ten years older doing youthful shit but I’m over here hanging with the dead. Right here. Right now. Thai cemetery tho. Buried here. Here lies. All that. Founder of the entire township, Billa La Rue (aka William, and yes that’s Billa and not Billy), his wife Abigail and 6 of their 9 children, all of whom seem to have died before their parents, ranging in lifespan from 1 month and 20 days to 17 years 6 days. Fortunately for me, you and everyone else, one of his daughters live long enough to erect this placquard at this private dead body plot. Rough going back then. Sometimes rough going in the present day. My legs hurt a little less. I stretch my hammies. Now Chad and I are both younger. Two Yutes, two whhat?.

Day Trois and J Dilla, Danny Brown, and The White Stripes occupy my oculars, obviously.

Chad comments on his past day three experiences. I don’t prompt it whatsoever and he doesn’t see drafts of my scribbling. I got the Chadster into this long ride shit back in the year of the Panda 2020, when a crew of four of us headed out along the Erie Canal. Now, we’re on our 4th version together. He’s getting good at it; don’t ever tell him. He’s telling me how he always starts to feel good on day three. His body starts responding to the demands he’s puts on it after the second sleep. Maybe it’s the yoga. Maybe it’s magic.

One snake that was way too big to NOT be dangerous. One sunflower with a head twice as big as my head. I count only 999 islands and receive zero ounces/grams of the disgusting salad dressing. I’d ask for my money back then again I’m not paying much. Rather nothing. I’m good with that. The views are spectacular. I see a lot of Canada Proud signs. Seems like the sentiment is all in response to DJT’s dumbfuckery. It’s all political theatre. A fucking joke, two “sides” and North American politics, keeping everyone in place. All sides of it. In a culture and class war, I’m with Mexico and the zapatistas. Just to be clear.

Dia Tres and showering is no longer missed. Comfort is gone. Sleeping outside becomes natural…

…Hardest of lefts accompanied by screeching tire sound effects and we’ve Time Banditted up to me in this downtown Kingston Holiday Inn pool. Soaking the parts. So much for all that day three stuff. Laugh. Out. Loud. Bee. Tee. Dubs: that’s still Kingston Ontario, not New York nor Jamaica. There’s probably a Kingston in England and/or Australia too, so not definitely there either. I really feel the need to be specific cuz you know, sometimes when one time travels, one actually time-space travels. But yeah, I’m in this pool. In this hotel. Coolin’. Chillin’. Maxin’. Relaxin’. All the things 90 rappers do, except the ls are the actual iterations. Just Me, Myself, and I.

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Day 2. 135 Miles. Bro, Canada.

Posted on August 14, 2025 by anthonycaferro

O Canada. Our home and native land.

Campground morning one with Chad is rather tits. Awesome. Great. Just the day before, he couldn’t stop talking about butts and boobs in Montreal. Now it’s quiet and calm.

Coffee brews and waste is made. The weather forecast is calling for cooler temps and mucho precipitation today. Rain for sure. The radar shows some ketchup and mustard coming right at us. Hopefully it’s not too eventful; I don’t like riding in lightning. We push out and the cooler temps feel marvelous. The rain hits, soft at first. Then heavy downpours. Then nada. Rinse and repeat. A couple times over. I pedal through it. Rain is no problemo. A few hours and kilometers later and the sun is back out and with it coming the higher temps.

True patriot love in all of us command.

The bulk food section of the Cornwall Ontario Walmart is phenomenal. I’ve never even seen a bulk food section in a Walmart before. I’d call it flourishingly fantastic and I’d be lying in that we all know the proper (what’d ya say, Hammer?) terminology for rn rn fr fr is ROBUST. Damon would agree. This may be the most robust of all Walmarts I’ve coming across on my long distance pedal parading aboot. Serio. FR FR. As I mix and match my own trail mix and prepare to scribble a couple numbers next to some French words, I can’t help but wonder, is this version of the ultra greedy mega corporation aka bike touring Mecca is even realer bc there’s such a large Muslim population here? I keep my thoughts inside my head as this Iranian-Canadian milf eye fucks me walking down the protein bar isle. Call her eye fuck Fatima. Nice eyes lady, that’s all I get but that’s all I need.

Moments later , I’ve cashed out and I’m standing guard on Chad’s bike. He went side questing again and showed up moments earlier and right now now it’s once again moments later and I’m approached by some straggly looking white man, who kinda hanging was there looking at me for way too long already. Cynically I verbally receive some sort of smashed up wordage that I don’t catch and then the word “bike”. I have no idea what he’s saying. None. I can’t decipher it. It could be English. Imma call him Donnie. Trying hard to understand what the D man has to say; I’m really giving this suspect ass dude the benefit of the… what the fuck? Donnie’s got ten very poorly inked letters permanently inscribed below his shirt sleeve and those letters spell out… white power. I immediately retreat from the conversation, and now I’m instead typing these words into my phone, ignoring his entire presence. He mutters more but now I really couldn’t give much of a fuck. He finally wonders off. Fatima walks out and passes me, giggling about something. They are still speaking French here and I’m well past Quebec. Yowsers.

With glowing hearts we see thee rise,
The True North strong and free!

Damn, the TRUE north? Who’s that shit aimed at? Some kinda passive aggressive sub tweet. Anyway. Beach life is a thing up here. As I pedal the gorgeous Long Sault Parkway, it washes over me. We pay five whole doll hairs at Mille Roches Beach. I hope it’s someone’s name and not a sign that there’s millions of roaches here. Nope. Just sand, water and a ton of geese. Chad mentions that we’re probably swimming in tons of goose shit, so “try not to drink any water”. I don’t even go underwater. 20 kilos up and we find another beach. This one free. No geese. Even a pier to jump in off. Long walks off short piers. I prefer this one.

O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

Days like today really drive home the old “it’s the journey, not the destination” cliche. We legit don’t even have a destination, rolling through Morrisburg, then Mariatown. I wonder if Morris and Maria ever met. Either way, the last actual campground was kilometers ago, so we’re pedaling for pedaling sake. The sun is getting low, big guy. It’s good to have Chad here on this ride, he’s always just enough but never too much. A real bro. Iroquois campground shows up; they don’t allow tent camping. We gotta stop calling parking an RV “camping”. Just like calling those uncertified volunteers, “firefighters”. You know what a volunteer cop is? A fucking vigilante. Eventually we find some seclusion along a discreet strip of land near Cardinal, Ontario. Remote sleeping time. The sun sets. The mosquitos come out. The tents pop up. And then the skies open up. A total downpour. Thunder. Lightning. All of it. Me inside the palace, dosing off and cramping up. For the win.

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Day 1. 67 Miles. 108 Kilometers And Running.

Posted on August 13, 2025 by anthonycaferro

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.

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