A mental battle ensued. Should I stay home to tango with the yellow trefoil in the lawn or pack a swim suit and towel onto my bike and ride to Port Bruce for a dip? Tick, tick, tick. Oh, what should I do?
Drip. 155 degrees. I reached for the key to my motorcycle.
During rides, after getting cooled off a bit, I usually stop five or six times over the course of a few hours.
I stop to take photos of birdhouses. I stop, then climb into ditches and listen to fields of early wheat. I stop for coffee (I always stop for coffee).
And yesterday I stopped after crossing a rare old bridge east of Sparta, Ontario.
I parked at the edge of the tarmac road. Dust and grit - from 3 miles of rough gravel road just ended on the opposite side of the bridge - dropped from my jeans and jacket as I swung my leg over the bike’s seat, and an unholy heat hit me like a hammer. And yet I stayed to listen to a creek, count the buzzards high overhead (six) and admire the rusting iron span.
Oh, the bridge shows some age. And there are few left like it on the many roads I travel in that region.
The creek bed is wide but shallow to the north; narrow and showing its gravel bed to the south.
Shadows of buzzards race across the wooden planks. The sky is so bright I cannot look upward for more than a few seconds at a time.
Drive slowly, the bridge says. Solid lines of strong iron ahead. Rivets beyond count.
The creek has seen better days but time passes slowly here. Find a way down the bank to the water's edge. My shadow will cool your skin. Then take those heavy boots off, my boy.
You’re packing a towel. Skinny dip.
Twenty minutes later I was on my way, knowing I’d come back to wet my feet - and other parts - another time.
["Pack a towel. Pack a pole. A few minnows": photos GH]
I’ll pack a fishing pole and a few minnows too when I return.
Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn are miles ahead but I’m catching up.
***
Please click here for a few more motorcycle miles.
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