For several weeks I had been planning and favorably anticipating attending the Canadian National Cycling Championships with a friend and meeting some other friends on course. I was a little let down when my friend told me, just before the event, that he had other obligations. I was a little more concerned when, already on the GO Train, none of my messages to the other friends had elicited a response. Ah well, being out alone isn’t new to me and it doesn’t generally prevent me from venturing forth. I met the obliged friend at the train station and he very generously brought me coffee and drove me to the ideal course vantage point, the brute of a climb Rattlesnake Point. In under a minute of being dropped off I heard my name called. There were my friends, fortune was smiling on me. Little did I realize this would be the last fortuitous event for several hours.
The race kicked off and the action got crazy right away, with a crash on lap one. Riders settled down a little and attacks were made. It was good racing. My friends left after about 4 laps. I was a little concerned, but had assurance that, if I really needed a ride back, I should just phone. My mobile phone battery has the lifespan of a mayfly, so I turned the phone off to be safe and happily soaked up the National Cycling scene, watched the podium presentations and pulled out my phone. I discovered, to my horror, that it had somehow turned on in my bag. I had enough battery to send two texts and then it died. I was stuck, atop possibly the worst climb in Ontario (let the arguments begin!), with no option but to start the long trek down into town and public transit. Why didn’t she just ride to the course? You may well be asking yourself. Well, here’s the punch line, I had been ordered off the bike due to a foot injury.
So I walked, and I walked, and I walked, on an unlit side road. Down, down, down into town, with support vehicles blowing past me well above posted speed limits. Rising from a steep drop somewhere in the darkness I could hear the sounds of the riders, somehow having restored their energy, partying to thumping beats and digital sirens. I marched on. Two young men did drive down and offer to take me back to the party. I politely declined but suggested they might be helpful in, say, calling me a taxi. The laughed and drove off in the direction they had come from. My white Pearl Izumi rain jacket must have caught their attention in the dark (and prevented me from being hit by other racing motorists). I began to feel a little sorry for myself, but then I watched the fireflys float through the fields and realized it wasn’t that bad. In fact, it was a nice night for a walk. Probably not the best thing for my injury, but we don’t have to tell my doctor about it.
Finally I came upon street lights, traffic lights, sidewalks; all the trappings of a civilized world. When I hit the first gas station I broke down and called a taxi out of concern for making the last train. The taxi took 20 minutes; I missed the last train by 12. With nowhere else to turn, I hesitated and then called my father collect from a pay phone. He promised to come collect me from the station. He never showed up. So I waited, and waited. Walked to the 24 coffee shop, walked back. Repeat. Finally, at 7:17 am I was on the first train heading home. Two hours fifteen minutes later I walked in the door to find a message from my father, left at 8:30 am. After hanging up the phone he decided that his headache (an issue he never mentioned while we were speaking) was too great for him to drive.
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After my ipod battery also died, I tried to entertain myself with the Teach Yourself Polish (minus audio tracts). I was so tired, I couldn't even remember why I was still doing this. Why I persevered in the learning of Polish. I contemplated leaving the book in the garbage bin at the end of the bench. I didn't, but I still cannot remember why I continue to torture myself with this language
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