Kiwi Days

February 5:

Air Canada ticket agent of kind and gentle aspect: “Youse guys got your New Zealand visas?”

Alpha male of blank and stupefied aspect: “Eh?”

Ticket agent of non-teasing aspect: “I can’t board you without it.”

Zeta of male of I’m-such-an asspick: “Oh…”

A quick smartphone search, a quick downloaded app, snaps, scans, and lastly a note saying “Thank you for your visa application. Processing will take from 10 minutes to 72 hours.” It took 8 minutes. A long 8 minutes, grimly standing to the side of the ticket counter, feeling as confident as Trump’s Acting Secretary of Luggage and Bike Boxes.

February 6:

Lost by the Acting Secretary of International Dateline Handling. Not his fault.

February 7:

14 hours of middle-seat flight etiquette, requiring constant monitoring of both right AND left elbows, responding instantly to contact with sentient flesh not of your own making. And KNEES! KNEES too!! Exhausting.

Auckland warm, like the left shoulder of the rugby player on the plane… Shit!!!... SHOULDERS too!!!!

February 8:

Our Airbnb was called “The Secret Garden”. Why is “secret” okay, but “secreted” so frankly disgusting? Does anyone ever secrete something pleasant?

No more daily dates… spoils the romance…

[Just for context, June and I are in New Zealand exploring the country with bicycles on the back of a rental car. We brought our own bikes. We brought our own bike rack. One of the bicycles is mine. One of the bicycles is Dave’s. The bike rack is June’s. June is riding Dave’s bike. After a month, June goes home and Dave arrives and Dave and I cycle for a month, minus the rental car. That’s it. Writing straight, descriptive prose is more exhausting than keeping body parts to yourself on an airplane. Back to my usual style…]

I assembled our bikes at The Secret Garden, secreting perspiration, frustration, and profanity from every pore. I did an excellent job on my bike…

For the first few days of riding, June complained that every time she turned the front tire while pedalling, her feet hit the tire. I told her to stop complaining, that Dave obviously bought a bike of inferior design but was too proud to admit it, and that she should stop carping and martyr-up like Dave has on his many tours.

The noise of June’s shoe hitting the tire while maneuvering through twisty mountain bike trails became irksome. Where was the serenity? Also, June’s shoes and the sides of Dave’s tires were beginning to fray. June had been asking me for days to call Dave so, like a good husband, I called Dave. I explained, in a light-hearted way cuz I didn’t want him to feel bad about spending a lot of money on a stupid bike, that June was irritated by the silly little quirk where you couldn’t peddle AND turn at the same time, and did he have any coping mechanisms to handle it?

There was a long pause. I attributed it to talking to someone on the far side of the world.

“Barc…”, and his tone was maddeningly gentle, “Is it possible that when you put the bike together, the front fork was facing the wrong way?”

June’s riding improved dramatically.

Adventures on the Wrong Side of the Road

Gandhi: Be the change you want to see in the world.

 

Barc: Does changing your mind count?

 

Gandhi: Is it a powerful change?

 

Barc: Well, there are all kinds of power…

Now where was I in this exciting adventure…

Oh yeah! NOW I remember! I was prostrate at the side of the road, steeped in physical and mental anguish, watching my self-esteem free fall to the ninth circle of hell. Gosh, seems like ages ago.

Here’s how I fixed my unhappy situation:

1)   Pedaled to my Warmshowers host at time-lapse-photography speed.

2)   Made conversation and ate dinner, I think…

3)   Tried to throw myself into the arms of Morpheus but tripped on my way to the bed, so I sort of oozed onto his feet. It was a bit gross.

4)   Called Maxine the next morning to please come save me, cuz I never wanted to ride a bike again.

5)   Called her back to say, actually, I probably would ride my bike again, someday, but please still come save me.

6)   Got saved, then rented a hatchback.

7)   For two months.

8)   Placed my bike inside, gently and with reverence, and stood for a few moments watching the first few dust molecules cling to the frame.

9)   Got in the car, realized there was no steering wheel in front of me, and switched seats.

10) Started driving, mostly remembering to drive on the wrong side, except for a few uncomfortably exciting moments.

All that remained was to call June and tell her of the change of plans. I happened to record the phone call…

Some Like It Hot...

Encounters with Australia

Volume 647

Chapter 9

We ended Chapter 8 with our hero wafting into the beach town of Bundeena on the final fumes of heat exhaustion. Less than 24 hours later, the fighting spirit that has characterized many of the finest, but dead, spear-carrying Dowd’s saw our Canuck Schmuck saddled up again and headed the profoundly modest distance of 30 km through Royal National Park to the polyglot Kieran, a Warmshowers host in Stanwell Park.

[Let’s go first person personal – it’s so much more intimate.]

Because it was only 30 km, a mere warm-up for hardened road warriors, I spit at the idea that leaving at noon, the beginning of prime-time Aussie heat, might be a problem. That was the last time I spit for awhile. Maxine, my Bundeena hostess, told me “There’s a bit of a hill as you leave town, but that won’t be a problem for you.”

So wrong. So very wrong.

As a one off, the climb was successful, in the way that someone resistant to the physical arts can, maybe, with great effort, do a single push up. We all know push ups, and the attendant Quivering Arm Syndrome, that palsied, twitching, just-shoot-the-bastard condition poisonous to self-esteem. Well, Quivering Leg Syndrome is four times worse, purportedly responsible for climate change and an America Last foreign policy. By the 47th hill, I’m pretty sure I melted Antarctica. By the 68th, The Wall was built.

Up and down, around and around. Set in subtropical rainforest, the unshouldered road proved a favourite for motorcyclists testing their skills on the hairpin turns. Would the rider hear my last word “Sorrrryyyyyyyy!!!!!” as he plowed into me coming around a blind corner at 120 km? Not sure... “All right, Mate?” No.

Slow. Agonizingly slow. Humidex: 400 Celsius. The teeniest incline and I fumble into granny gear, a beached whale on a bike, turning the pedals in hazy fatalism. Aussie grannies were walking backwards alongside me “Alright then?” No.

At the first pullover, I pulled over with the purest intention of flinging myself to the ground, possibly forever. Couldn’t. Why? Snakes and spiders.  Even Australians said “Ya gotta be careful, mate. The spider’s sit under leaves and if you disturb them, well… crikey…” The treatment for snakebite, if someone gets to you in time, is complete immobilization for three days, as the venom travels through your lymph nodes and any movement will only hasten the Grim Viper. They actually inject a drug to paralyze you. Then, if they can then figure out what kind of snake bit you, you might live. Such fun.

A pathetic snapshot: stopped, dying quietly at the side of the road, slumped over my handlebars in utter prostration. The sound of a vehicle…  I struggle up, pretending to fiddle with something in my handlebar bag, pasting a ghastly expression of contentment and competence on my last-rites face. “Just looking for my nitroglycerin! G’day eh!” Ughhh… At one point, once again teetering down the road, a cicada zoomed by my ear, inducing a cataleptic seizure of what-the-hellness. Wild-eyed does not begin to capture it… Some people would embrace the experience. Some people get their eyeballs tattooed. Please. Make. It. Stop.

To be continued…

Blunders Downunder

[Author’s note: I’m cycling in Australia for two months, I think. With the heat of the first two days of riding, a certain reframing of the trip may ensue. Let us begin…]

Toronto-Dallas-Sydney-Bundeena

On the way to the airport…

The car slewed definitely-lost-control right then definitely-lost-winter-tire-of-the-year left on the sorta-see-it single blizzardy lane of the 401 as we approached Bowmanville. With graceful movement and an economy of motion consistent with a frugal and righteous lifestyle, I righted the sliding ship of Subaru and carried on. My friends will tell you that at these moments of crisis I am at my best – no facial tics, no Tourette yelps, no tweets, no sudden fouling of a dubiously-chosen, speedo-style undergarment, only an outward calm so detached that a dullard observer might assume unawareness – dullards are asses.

At Toronto Pearson International Airport…

Pulled a facial muscle 30 minutes into my interactions with People in Authority during the ticket/bag/customs check-in process. The expression that finally did the damage was that one blending quiet deference without quite reaching obsequiousness, a gentle but intelligent bonhomie hinting at the warmth, wonder, and oneness of all Mankind, and a you-do-such-good-work-thank-you-for-your-service message achieved by pulling back and dropping the left side of the face while simultaneously arching the right eyebrow. When I heard the pop, I knew the season was over.

Five-hour layover in Dallas…

 One of My Important Questions: If you’re not leaving the terminal in Dallas and you’ve got 5 hours and half a Super Bowl to watch, how much US cash do you need (don’t talk to me about plastic, just don’t)? I had $70 in Trump funds but that had to cover the layover at both ends of the trip so I really only had $35 TF. Will I be sitting in a restaurant/bar, knocking back moonshine and talking trash with the secretary on her way to a cabinet meeting, screaming at the game and buying rounds for the house? Will $35 cover that? I wasn’t sure, so I secured another $80 from a CPF (Close Personal Friend, duh…). Best to be safe.

Answer to the Important Question: $3.23 US. Turns out, two McDoubles burgers with cheese from the Value Menu (in Australia, it’s called the Loose Change Menu) and refilling your cycling water bottle from the hork-filled fountain while watching the game from one of fifteen hundred big screen TV’s spread across the waiting lounges, only half listening to the guy beside you apparently divorcing his wife over the phone, will really stretch that travel dollar.

17 Hours Non-Stop to Sydney…

 Long, but not in a good way.

Sydney, where they do really good Australian accents…

 Customs Agent: Any mud, soil, or organic debris on your bike?

Fastidious-to-a-fault Canadian Cyclist: No, sir. We cleaned it at the shop.

Customs Agent: It’s a real problem introducing non-native organic contaminants in Australia.

FTAFCC: Yes, sir.

Customs Agent: Next!

In the moment, you can feel like you’re not really lying. You’re pretty sure you’re not lying and even if you are lying it’s only a little bit and what harm could it do? Well, when I unpacked the bike preparatory to assembly, a clod of dirt dislodged from the frame and cracked a tile. I may have broken Australia.

My sister-in-law Kathy has an old Aussie friend, Maxine, who visited Montreal 20 years ago and lodged, with her brother, for a few weeks at said s-i-l’s house (Kathy is technically married to Brother Geoff). Maxine has been anxious to wipe the hospitality slate clean for many, many years. I am the debris on that slate.

Maxine lives 25 km south of Sydney airport in Bundeena, a profoundly funky, waterfront village abutting Royal National Park, but works 10 km north of the airport at some place called the Sydney Opera House. Upon arrival, I was to decide whether to cycle north to her work or south to her house, dependent upon my ability to mix stimuli and sleep deprivation in a prudent manner. If I chose her work, where she’s a Fire & Safety specialist, she was on til 5 and could drive me and my bike home in her Outback (of course). She might also, y’know, show me around backstage where they’re currently performing Carmen, the only opera I actually know and, in my damaged way, love.

So the plane landed at 6 am local time. By the time Humpty Bike was put together, new sim cards purchased and activated, floor tile discreetly repaired, and the purchase of my first flat white rejected in a bid to show those doubting pricks at home that I can, in fact, live on $20/day, it was 10:30 am. What to do…

A little Bizet whispered in my ear. Decision made. I would cycle north to Maxine’s work (she said to just come to the stage door and ask for Maxine – WHAAATTTT???? THEATRE NERD ALERT!!!), say hi, go for a tour, nonchalantly take in the extraordinary architecture and ambience and then, because I’m strong and powerful and stupid, say to Maxine  “See you back at your place” and leisurely cruise the moderate 38 kms back.

Never listen to a little Bizet. By the time I got halfway to the opera house my sleep check light had come on and new plans were formulating at a rapid pace: “Maxine, is there a couch in the green room that I could lay out on for a few hours?” “Maxine, is there an in-house masseuse available to 3 degrees of separation slatepests?”

By the time I arrived at the, frankly, awesome-looking world icon that you may or may not be familiar with, I had decided that I’d probably done enough cycling for that day. I was hot, but it was a good hot. I was tired, but it was a good tired. The stage door entrance met all my celebrity-culture dreams. I walked my bike through the sliding glass doors and leaned it against the wall like I owned the place – a hazy fantasy of the world-famous, attractively-eccentric, Canadian tenor arriving for his gig on a fully-laden touring bike tripped through my head as I asked the receptionist for Maxine.

“Is she expecting you?”

“I believe so. I’m something in the way of an unpaid debt.”

“May I ask who you are?”

“Such a funny girl…” #tenorfantasy

The receptionist called Maxine. Maxine didn’t answer. The receptionist called someone else. “Oh,” she said, swivelling to me. “Maxine had to cancel her shift today because of a bushfire. She apparently left you a message.”

“Oh,” I said, starting to feel the beginnings of a little bushfire of my own somewhere in the frontal lobe region, “I should have checked my phone before I left the airport.” “A shame.” said the receptionist. “Yes.” said the Canadian #tenorfuckwit.

South to Bundeena…

 The last few hours of that ride/day are a little hazy, the way air can get a little hazy during the most humid month of the year in a country that does heat well. Among a series of hindsight poor choices, I took a different Google Maps Bicycle route south, a route presumably created by Google at a time of notoriously lax hiring practices. At one point, I seemed to be the only cyclist on the Sydney equivalent of the Gardiner Expressway. “But Officer, Google Maps says…” There were a lot of cars. They drove really fast on the wrong side of the road. I pedalled really slowly on the wrong side of the road. The shoulder wasn’t wide. It was a little scary. Had I not lost my last wit several kilometres earlier, it would have been a lot scary. Welcome to Australia.

Spoiler alert, I made it to Bundeena. A lowlight included, in an effort to escape the hellish non-Gardiner, circling an additional 10 km up and around the airport and actually passing the point where I’d assembled the bike that morning/two hundred years ago. Bill Murray posters advertising Koala Day were plastered over my broken tile. Crocodile Dundee appeared in front of me “That’s not a biiiiike…”

I looked it up on the Interweb later, and discovered that I’d taken a 15 km bike path around Botany Bay – THE Botany Bay.  Heatstroke Tunnel Vision (HTV) allowed me to appreciate 6.48% of the glorious seascape. Dagnabbit. On the other hand, the last three kilometres to Bundeena were via a very cute, very teeny ferry that auditioned for Thomas the Tank Engine but didn’t get a callback (“Not what we were looking for…” As if.)

Maxine has been an amazing hostess. Bundeena is beautiful. Everything off the bike in Australia is fabulous. Mental illness takes many forms. Stay tuned for developments…