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What made much of that time liveable for me was the bike. I never thought of it as merely transportation—it was an access to another emotional realm. As I said to a young mother in a bike shop, while she looked for a machine for her son, “I could sell bikes, purely on the basis of what they’ve done for my body. They’re wonderful. I’ve never been depressed on a bike.” Of course it helps to be in good shape. But even if you’re not fit when you buy it, you will be soon enough if you use it every day. The first week I had mine, I must have pedaled at least 250 miles, out into the green and quiet farm country, northeast of Toronto. I measured my distance on the map very carefully each time I returned home; my longest run that first week was 78 miles. But it must be remembered that the mechanical advantage provided by a multi-speed bike gives the cyclist a far greater ratio of distance-to-energy than a hiker would have, even if the hiker’s entire jaunt runs down a gently sloping trail. That 78-mile trip seemed to take no more out of me than a 12-mile walk—and without the pains from the need to support my body as well as push it along. To me, the guilty glory of cycling is that you can move like the wind sitting down, while the exercise you’re getting is smooth and steady—great for the body, once you’re used to it. (Wishing to preserve the bike as a going concern, I seldom go off-road.) The amusing irony of all this is that I had conditioned my legs long before I got the bike, by walking. For several years, I tried to average twenty to thirty miles a week on foot. This was mostly in the city, regretfully, but it’s far better to stay in shape in a noisy, oppressive setting than not at all. I can recall one day in the mid-eighties when I was feeling unbearably restless and craved some exercise. In the afternoon I could stand it no longer; I put on my walking shoes and headed downtown to an intersection 3 1/2 miles from the house, then back—a seven-mile stroll. I felt better, but that evening, the fit came on me again and I repeated the same walk in every detail—same route, same destination—for a total of fourteen miles. I felt better and then could sleep. I once drove a younger friend up to the woods just outside Algonquin Park on a Labor Day weekend. On Sunday, we had the whole day to ourselves, and I convinced him to walk with me over to a small lake, along dirt roads, and back to camp. He was willing. I didn’t measure it in advance, but the whole hike, there and back, turned out to be 17 miles—broken up by our circumnavigation of a small lake in a “borrowed” canoe, which he allowed was the high point of the day—and when we returned, he was obviously weary, but exclaimed, “My mind has never been this clear before!” Exactly.
When I was in the woodlot, I kept the bike across the fields in Boss’s garage. I had considered keeping it at the campsite, under a tarp, but I didn’t want to spend several hours a week polishing rust off of it. The garage was not the safest place in town, but as I say, it did have a leak-proof roof. So on the days when Boss didn’t need me, if the weather was fine, there was always the bike. I had instant access to the same country roads which I used to spend an hour getting to from downtown. It was a constant temptation to disappear over the horizon on a whim—about all that was usually required. I’m still surprised at the number of things I found along those roads that one would never expect to see in farm country—things which neither Boss nor anyone else in the village had ever mentioned. |
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