75 years ago, Buffalo NY was the 8th largest city in the United States. This has nothing to do with this particular long ride but birthplace requires such announcement… too bad, so sad.
467 kilometers pedaled.
We’ve thus far climbed 3,846 feet and descended 3,764 feet. Hmm.
Chad is 6’2” tall. I am 5’10”. Maybe 5’9”.
Chad is 58 years old. I am 3 years old. Ahem. Now then… if you’re one of those unlucky people reading this word vomit, actually paying attention and playing along at home, you may want to throw up your hands and say “so just yesterday you mentioned Chad being ten years older than you, what’s up with your fuzzy math?!” To that I say fuck you. I can’t count. I’m just told you that I am fucking three years old. I can maybe count to ten on a good day. Maybe. Ten is like the biggest number, ever. Evveerrrrr. Fight me.
Digable Planets truly let us know that we are all just babies, man. At least we should act it. I do. I’m Dee in thought about this and a cycling mom rolls by me stopped at a red light. What has to a three year old boy in the bag wagon, donned in an oversized helmet and even more enormous pair of wayfarers, is folding a cookie up and looks at me. Like dead ass into my eyes (even tho his are covered), deep into my soul, and gives me the slightest of nods. We stick together. Solidarity in toddlerdom, I say. With that, I’m convinced this is all I need to say for today. Nothing about Kingston coffee shop morning with native Montrealers. Nothing about the baller free ferry ride. Nothing about that magnificent tuna Gouda melt at a bicycle/coffee shop Picton. Nothing about super dark later night remote sleeping in a provincial park which shall remain unnamed. Nope. Byyyyeee.
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.
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.
“A man on foot, on horseback or on a bicycle will see more, feel more, enjoy more in one mile than the motorized tourists can in a hundred miles. Better to idle through one park in two weeks than try to race through a dozen in the same amount of time. Those who are familiar with both modes of travel know from experience that this is true; the rest have only to make the experiment to discover the same truth for themselves.”
Hoping for a Tail Wind 