Bike Touring Journals by Neil Anderson and Sharon Anderson Partners in Grime
The Ghosts That Haunt Me
"Make haste slowly."
~ embroidered on a towel at Margot'sGaspé was still 260 kilometres away, a good two days' ride. A westerly wind blew, pushing us, providing an easy pedal over undulating terrain. Sunshine cascaded over our shoulders. For the first time in days, we removed our fleece pullovers, enjoying the warm temperature. Carload after carload of Sunday cruisers passed us, admiring tawny autumn leaves and pastel reflections.
In Rimouski, we came face-to-face with the realization that we had ventured far from English-speaking Canada ... locals no longer spoke our language. The harsh reality surfaced when Sharon bought a large bottle of pop I disliked (if it doesn't feel as though it's ripping my throat out, I don't like it). I ventured back inside to exchange it.
"Bonjour," I sang out in my best French accent. "Échange?" I twittered, holding the bottle aloft for the girl on the till to see.
"Un moment," came the cashier's reply. "Je ne parle pas anglais." Huh? She didn't speak English? Hey, wait a minute, dearie. I was speaking French!
Another clerk appeared. He understood enough English to facilitate the replacement. Barely.
Conversing became increasingly difficult. Accent, coupled with our poor grasp of the romantic language, made understanding nearly impossible. Feeling like one-year-olds, we struggled to comprehend the gist of the simplest conversations.
After one caustic encounter - more akin to a shouting match than a conversation - Sharon muttered, "I wish people would realize that sticking their face in mine and yelling louder isn't going to help."
"Yeah," I grinned. "Don't they know that only works for English?"
By the time we hit Matane dusk had overtaken us. I tried to find someone who would give us a spot to spend the night. All we needed was a little chunk of grass. A fellow cutting his lawn called "hullo" as we rode toward him.
I pulled to a stop. "Would it be all right if we camped overnight in your yard?"
"I don't think so," came his curt reply.
Refusal was a new experience for me. Taken aback, I stood there dumbly, mute, confused, rejected. Was it because I didn't speak French? I wondered. Or maybe the guy didn't trust the Anglais? The acrimonious taste of discrimination rose in my mouth. On a very tiny scale, I empathized with what some people encountered daily. Mulling his words, I thanked him and pushed off into the biting wind and gathering gloom.
A few kilometres down the road, in nearly total blackness, we approached a cemetery.
"There's a quiet place," Sharon said, pointing, too weary to care she was suggesting we sleep in a graveyard. Then she upped the ante. "You don't believe in ghosts, do you?"
"Nope," I gulped. (I'm a bit like the little old lady who said, 'I don't believe in ghosts. But I'm afraid of them.') "I wouldn't be able to understand them anyway."
The night was as fresh as a tomb. A heavy earthiness permeated the moist air. Between graves, near a crooked fence, we found a flat spot. Using the fence to block the haunting wind, I erected our mausoleum in haste. Stabbing the metal tent stakes into the soft ground, I couldn't help wonder if they should perhaps be wooden instead?
Crisp stars dotted a ribbon of darkness. "No need to put the fly on," I said. "The wind will just snap it and keep us awake all night." We tossed sleeping accouterments inside the cave, then, like a pair of myopic bats, fluttered in after them.
The wind lashed our tiny abode, whipping it one way, then another, threatening to flatten the whole shebang. In a futile attempt to keep the fabric structure from totally imploding, Sharon sat, gargoyle-like, hunched in the centre of the tent, her arms outstretched.
"Can't get much worse than this," I yelled above the din. The wind howled, as if in disagreement, and ratcheted up a notch.
"My, gosh!" Sharon snorted. "It's like being inside a wind tunnel!"
Shimmy. Shake. Rattle. I hoped there would be no roll. The tent collapsed inwards, sides nearly touching, then billowed out frenetically, like Dracula furling and unfurling his cape before takeoff.
"I always wondered what it would be like to sleep in a wind sock," I hollered. The tempest seized the words from my throat and flung them off into a dark corner. "The only consolation," I yelled, "if we liftoff, we'll probably get snagged on a tombstone!"
Sharon grimaced. "That's a consolation?"
By leaving the fly off, I had, of course, angered the weather gods. I watched the night sky through the tent's screen roof. Stars blotted out one by one. They winked out, like an invisible hand of Bill Gates removing light bulbs, and declaring darkness the new standard.
A sudden squall hit, spitting chilly spatters through the mesh. "Oh, bother!" I hissed, and bolted outside, sans coat, intent on quickly fastening on the fly - and learned firsthand that haste does indeed make waste. So absorbed in using the fence as a windbreak, I had placed the tent too close to it. Unable to stake the fly I cursed, and wondered what to do. Gobs of rain, cold as stone, drooled down the nape of my neck. Shivering like an Eskimo locked outside his igloo without a parka; my numb fingers awkwardly tied the wildly palpitating fabric to the picket fence. "Man," I shuddered, diving back inside the tent and cloaking a sleeping bag around my shaking shoulders. "I'm so cold, I could pee ice cubes."
It didn't take long for the fly to rip loose. The suddenly free end snapped in the frenzied wind like a madman's whip intent on shaping up neophyte slaves. The doors' zipper pulls jangled like a jailer's ring of keys. The frantic air reached a feverous pitch, screeching like a tormented soul enduring the burning coals of Hell.
"This is going to be one interesting night," I muttered, shoving in earplugs. I pulled my sleeping bag over my head. In the complete blackness, I punched the light button on my watch. Its face glowed copper green: 12:03. Whooooo!
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