Verbal snapshots from a long weekend.

This is a picture I did not take of a still northern lake in the late afternoon sun, the tree-covered hills on the far shore perfectly reflected in all their red, gold and green glory. (concept shamelessly ganked from Unphotographable)

Why did I not take this picture, or any number of other pictures from the weekend? Because the road, with all it’s sinuous curves, was too seductive. It kept urging me on so photo stops were abandoned.

When you are handed a perfect forecast for a long weekend, you gratefully accept the gift that it is. Both Keith and I had work to do but decided to get on the bikes for one last road trip, one last hurrah. We went north to ride along country roads we knew like old friends, roads that twisted and snaked around lakes and small towns.

It’s fitting that the last ride be as challenging as the other ride of the summer. I traversed two sections of local highway that have always given me the willies; I’ve made us go kilometers and an hour out of our way along city streets because the 401/404 combo scared me so much.  But I’m tired of letting that fear inconvenience us and tired of that look on Keith’s face. So not only did I ride them, I led. And for the first time, I did not 1) cry, 2) feel like I was going to throw up or 3) be resigned to the fact that I was going to die before I got home. Those 2 sections still give me the willies, just not nearly so much.

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I’m all over the place today. I’d thought to put the weekend in some sort of logical order, but that doesn’t look like it’s going to happen today, so here it is as some snapshots of moments.

The train:

Our first coffee stop was at a little-used park on the eastern shore of Lake Simcoe where we’ve stopped before. Keith got the coffee under way, and I wandered along the shoreline a bit looking for stones suitable for skipping. We heard a far-off train whistle, and walked to the crossing to see if one was coming. Keith told a story about putting pennies on the rails, and when he found out that was something I’d never done, placed four pennies on the closest rail. The light of the oncoming train came into view around the curve and we stepped back.

I’d never been that close to a moving train before. I stood about ten feet from where it sailed through the crossing. The turbulence of it’s passing whipped my hair around my face and I could feel the earth tremble beneath my feet. It was exhilarating as hell and I know that I was grinning like a wild woman when the last car had passed.

We only found one of the four pennies, even though we searched far along the tracks. It’s in the pocket of my bike jacket, along with a piece of cobalt blue beach glass and a smooth flat skipping stone.

Coffee:

I love our coffee stops. I know, it seems excessive to travel with propane, a camp stove and a stovetop espresso maker but Keith is with coffee the way some people are with wine. Believe me, there is something to be said about enjoying a nice espresso by a slow river rather than drinking brown swill in a Tim Horton’s parking lot.

All our coffee stops on the weekend were sensory life-is-good moments: clear water reflecting clear blue skies; the strident cry of the blue jays temporarily drowned out by the woosh of coffee-scented steam that signals it’s time to pour; the caramel after-taste of the brown sugar stirred in the espresso; that peculiar, almost spicey smell of fallen poplar leaves.

Fog:

One of my favourite books is Winter’s Tale, by Mark Helprin. It’s a fantasy / fairy tale of a story, set in a New York that might have been or may still be, but certainly isn’t the one we know now. There is a plot device that he uses, the Cloud Wall, as a transition between time periods and settings. The Cloud Wall is a dense fog that sweeps in from the ocean, filled with shapes and noise and static. Time dilates and shifts in the Cloud Wall; people are lost in it, to reappear years or decades later.

I mention this because it struck me on Sunday morning, that riding through fog is much what I imagine being in Helprin’s Cloud Wall to be like. It both deadens and heightens sound; the normal sounds of the V-twin engine were muted and heavy while the noise of my tires on the pavement seemed enormous. Out of the corner of my eye, I’d catch a dark shape or flash of light in one of the mirrors, but there would be nothing there when I looked closer. Thirty kilometers at 100 km/h seemed to take an eternity which stretched even longer when I lost sight of Keith’s tail lights. My watch said it had only been 25 minutes of riding but I feel that it lies. The fog was surreal and unnerving, and then suddenly gone like a switch had been thrown.

The rest:

Family thanksgiving dinners; both sides. One filled with fun and lively conversations about wine, food, art, movies and travel. The other is not so fun, not so lively. Duty is the keyword there, and we are never quite dutiful enough it seems.

There’s been too much turkey, too much pie, too much everything. I’m sluggish after so much food, and long for a good night’s sleep.