So regal and decadent here
Coffin cheaters dance on their graves
Music, all it's delicate fear
Is the only thing that don't change
2.50 for an eyeball
And a buck and a half for an ear
Happy hour, happy hour
Happy hour is here
Well nothing's dead down here, just a little tired
Nothing is dead down here, it's just a little tired
Oh nothings's dead down here, it's just a little tired
Nothing is dead down here, it's just a little tired
Oooh, "Baby eat this chicken slow
It's full of all them little bones."
"Baby eat this chicken slow
It's full of all them little bones."
-- Tragically Hip
Waterloo, Ontario.
All bikes are compromises, singlespeeds especially. I contemplate this
as I cruise up the gravel rail trail past the old Seagram's
distillery. I am living up here for the fall in a bleak-but-not-
uncomfortable furnished apartment in a bleak-but-not-too-depressing
concrete high-rise, full of immigrants and college students. Everyone
calls it "the ghetto". All I do is work. Of course, I need a bike.
After a little thought on the subject, I decided to get out the
wrenches and re-work the singlespeed back to the way it used to be
when I used it as a New York City street bike. Ritchey speedmax semi-
slicks and a 36x16 gearing, too small for the street now that I'm used
to the fix, and too big for the singletrack,. But it's serviceable on
both. I have no idea where to ride, so I cruise out on a nearby city
trail, which is marked as a section of the "Trans-Canada Trail". Cool.
Maybe I'll just bring my credit card and ride all the way to
Vancouver.
Maybe not. I soon discover that, like most projects of its kind, the
"Trans-Canada Trail" is more wishful thinking (and a small budget for
signs) than an actual trail. I ride short sections of gravel trail and
lots of street connectors up through the outlet stores and dinner
theatres of St. Jacob, then more trail through the picturesque
Mennonite farm country until the trail (and, evidently, the sign
budget) dry up at a closed-down flea market ringed with Winnebagos. I
circle around the quiet streets a few times, looking for the way.
Locals cruise by in horse-drawn buggies. I turn around and head back
home across the pretty farmland, quads burning slightly and my nose
full of the smell of manure.
Back downtown in Waterloo, I cruise the SS into the bike shop on King
Street and buy a ridiculously overpriced bottle of Tri-Flow. The
exchange rate is killing me. I went out the other night and had three
pints of beer and a hamburger and it was almost $30 with the tip. The
nice slacker bike shop guy asks, "Are you coming in or heading out?"
"Coming in."
"Where were you riding?"
"I was trying to find the Trans-Canada Trail."
The slacker bike shop guy gives me an extremely strange look. He is
beginning to sense that I am new here.
"Have you been out to the Hydro Cut?" he asks.
"The what?" I have no idea what he is talking about. He might as well
be speaking Farsi. After a bit of conversation I conclude that there
is some local urban singletrack to be had, perhaps on some Water
Company property. I get some vague directions.
It turns out the directions are good enough. A few miles from my
apartment is a stretch of power lines coming into a substation, with a
small parking lot full of cars obviously owned by mountain bikers.
"Hydro". Right. "Hydroelectric". Welcome to Canada, eh? The trail runs
alongside a huge construction site for a half mile or so, then plunges
into nice, twisty singletrack in the trees. The place is full of
trash, and there is a sick-sweet smell remarkably like that of a
large, dead animal. I hold my breath and carve the turns on the rigid
SS, hump the switchbacks up the little hill in too big a gear for the
purpose. As I crest the hill, I find the source of the smell, a large
landfill buzzing with gulls and bulldozers just across a chain-link
fence from the trail. The trail plunges back into the trees, and I am
treated to a lovely nest of loops, all beautifully designed with rocks
and roots and logpiles and narrow plank bridges. These trails are
obviously designed by, and for, mountain bikers. They're perfect for a
rigid single. I get totally lost. I gradually develop a large grin.
The clientele on the trails is very diverse, from Serious racer-boys
to frat dudes on really expensive bikes, wearing sneakers and
backwards baseball caps, calling each other on their cell phones. I
even see a couple of guys on cyclocross bikes.
I finally find my way back to the lot, largely at random, sweaty and
refreshed. I stop and chat with a guy loading his bike onto the rack
on his Honda Civic.
"Better go get something to eat," he says. "I'm coming back in three
hours for a night ride."
Right on.
CC
Can-Am singlspeeders kick ass.