Cycling Journal: Day 2 (August 1)

CYCLING TORONTO-SASKATOON
JOURNAL DAY 2 (August 1): Owen Sound (The Asshole Line) – Tobermorey (“Five Crappiest Towns I’ve Visited” Second Prize) – Sympathy of the Proletariat – Hunters – Wild Beasts – Guerrilla Camping Technique

I was on the road again by 8:00 this morning and made the 60k trip to Owen Sound in just a couple hours. Breakfast at the Old Bus Stop Diner, enjoying the company of a mildly retarded but friendly man with a singularly unattractive skin condition. We talked about the recent demise of Wiarton Willy (the famous psychic groundhog) and he gave me some vague advice about the road to Tobermorey (“it’s flat but there’s damn big hill in Wiarton!”).

In yesterday’s journal I mentioned how I later realized that Highway 89 was the Yuppie Cyclist Line because there are no YCs north of that latitude. Owen Sound was also a dividing line: it’s the Asshole Line. The last asshole I met on this trip was a fat woman in an SUV on my way out of Owen Sound. I’m sure there are plenty of assholes northwest of Owen Sound, but evidence suggests they keep more to themselves than they do in southern Canada. I suspect the higher rate of gun ownership in the north may have something to do with this.

I took a slight scenic detour leaving town (nothing like yesterday’s disasters), following the shore of the lake on RR1 rather than taking the more direct RR17. Again it was a weird town name that made up my mind: I got to pass through the villages of Hogg and Zion. Of course both of them were nothing but signposts between farms. But this was beautiful country split between small farms and forest and I didn’t lose any time by this route.

Had my first minor bike problems: 1) a splinter of glass to into my rear tire and I didn’t find it when I changed the tube – so I had to change it again ten minutes later, this time going over the tube millimeter by millimeter until I found the bit of glass and yanked it out with pliers; 2) I managed to smash my bike computer while changing the tire the second time. The computer calculates speed and distance and was a helpful thing to have. But, weeks later, when I finally had a chance to replace it I found that I didn’t miss it and in fact thought of it as a distraction. So I didn’t bother buying another.

My retarded friend was right: there’s a damn big hill at the north end of Wiarton. I took a good run at it but had to push the bike up most of the way. Luckily there was a wide shoulder on this road because it was the August 1st long weekend and traffic was bad.

Suffered from lack of water on the Bruce Peninsula. It was a hot day and that road offers no shade and few places to stop, and I finished the last of my water well past the last place I could’ve got more. There was a sign placed by Satanic Park Rangers at a rest stop in the Bruce Peninsula Provincial Park saying “Well Pump ==>”. But after walking a path through the woods for a long way I realized there was no well. Just another lowlife Ranger using his government job to abuse travelers (in a couple weeks I’ll tell you how another Ranger stole my biking gloves).

Eventually I came across the first of the many Native Chip Trucks that would brighten my trip. This one, like the majority of these places, consisted of two trailers: one selling chips; the other selling cigarettes. Oddly enough the trailer selling chips didn’t sell drinks – for drinks you had to go to the trailer selling cigarettes. That was ok: bought a couple packs of cigarettes, a can of pop, and some bottles of water.

By the end of my trip I’d compiled several lists: one list is “5 Crappiest Towns I’ve Visited”. Tobermorey is second on that list.

If you’re curious about how over-priveleged twits enjoy “wild nature” or how the more tasteless members of our society understand the concept of “the North Country” – visit Tobermorey on the August 1st long weekend. The pity and rage I felt at seeing a waiter on the patio of one of Tobermorey’s “Northern Wilderness”-themed restaurants, dressed up as a pirate and serving a family of four sentient Blackberries spaghetti will always be with me.

As well as utterly destroying what must have once been a very beautiful place, the herd of capitalist swine ruined my plan to camp that night: they’d booked up all the campsites and hotels in the whole region.

After scrambling from place to place looking for somewhere to sleep, I was told that the guy who runs the tourist desk at the Commerce Office might be able to find a vacancy for me. So I walked there (passing the sad pirate for a second time – this time he looked up at me and I tried express sympathy – I swear he was holding back tears), went up to a chunky guy at the desk and said: “I’m fucked”.

“Looking for somewhere to stay?”

“Yup.”

“It’s bad. But since you’re riding a bike I’ll phone around and see.”

…phones….”nope. full.” …phones…. “nope. full” …phones… “nope….”

But he was amazingly thorough, going through his whole list until finally clicked with a hotel that had a cancellation. He just beaming because he’d done me a good turn, and I was so glad that he cared enough to put in such an effort that I thanked him profusely and shook his hand. But when I asked him how much the place cost and he said “well – under $150″ I spontaneously slammed my palm down on the desk and said “fuck it – I know you tried but fuck it – I’m sleeping in the fucking woods.”

He approved of this decision and wished me luck. So I biked back south out that miserable town to try my luck in the bush, stopping only to buy small bottle of whisky.

GUERILLA CAMPING

I passed through the outskirts of Tobermorey, analyzing sites for their potential obscurity, comfort, and defensibility: Overgrown lot? Too exposed. Derelict gravel pit? Too rocky. Behind the abandoned gospel church? No – the town’s deviant youth probably go there to have sex. I ignored the “No Camping” sign and tried the northmost road into the Provincial Park, but the woods were unbelievably dense and I was spied by a Ranger who gave me a look that said “I know what you’re up to and I’m going to make trouble for you” so I gave that up.

But I hit upon what must’ve been an old logging road going into the woods a little further south and decided to give it a try. It went a fair way from the road before it branched: one path going further into the woods and the other running parallel to the main road. The latter had a rusty old chain strung across it so I picked that one to look for a clearing along: the chain would keep vehicles and most people out so I figured that way would give me the best chance of finding a place where I could camp undiscovered.

A short way down that road I saw an ideal clearing through the woods and made it my camp, cleverly dragging the branches of a dead and collapsed pine tree into the gap between the clearing and the path. I scrambled back out and looked at my camp: almost completely invisible. Perfect.

So I settled in, put on the Mosquito Hazmat Suit Greg Oh had kindly lent me for the trip, and read a bit of John Wyndham’s The Midwitch Cuckoos. Then: !!BLAM!! – gunshot! !!BLAM!! !!BLAM!! — somebody was shooting a gun. Really close by.

I jumped up and stared into the woods. Couldn’t see anything. But the shots kept coming periodically, still sounding close enough that I worried where the bullets would end up when he missed whatever he was shooting at. Then it occurred to me that my moving about might draw a shot from whatever camouflaged, toothless hillbilly was out there thinking that I’m a deer. So I decided the best thing to do was stand tall outside my tent, smoking my Native cigarettes and drinking whisky from the bottle.

Deers don’t smoke or drink whisky, but hillbillies do. So if I tricked him into believing I was one of his kind I might escape unharmed.

He kept shooting well into the night. It was dark by the time I heard a pickup truck heading out of the woods by the road I’d turned off of. By this time I’d retired to the tent, and I finally nodded off. But I wasn’t done for the night – I woke up to a terrifying sound: coyotes killing something. Sudden short fierce barking; a beat of silence; then savage barking and the cry of some pitiful creature; then nothing. It couldn’t have taken more than ten seconds.

I thought “well, at least they’re not hungry” and went to sleep holding the heaviest wrench I’d brought in my bike repair kit.