May 14, 2004

I got on my bike yesterday after finishing breakfast and headed towards Stratford with a bellyful of ideas and $10 in my pockets. The trucks zooming by inches away from my elbow in the strong morning wind made me feel like road kill. But just when I reached St. Agatha and wanted to turn back, the trucks disappeared and the roads widened.

There, in those fields that smelled of manure and God, I felt free, and as I watched the power lines extend all the way into eternity I thought I could drift aimlessly on my bike for the rest of my life. My wheels bit into the burning asphalt and I flew down endless country roads, sweating and smiling.

It took me two hours to bike the 50km route from Kitchener to Stratford, which left me with seven hours to walk through the city looking for muses, coffee, and inspiration. I strolled through the park first and saw swarms of pensioners just waiting to be mugged. Placid and persistent, they invaded every single crevice of the park, their names even polluting the park benches.

I could only watch them for so long before I couldn’t take it anymore and headed towards the Stratford Art Gallery, where a grey-haired woman charged me $6 to let me see a collection of paintings by a 92-year-old granny who had a fixation with icebergs. Suddenly, I felt I was imprisoned in a retirement home.

“Fucking grannies,” I muttered as I exited the gallery and headed back towards the park to nap in the shade. I was sleeping rather well until termites got in my underwear and started tickling. Feeling angry, I sat on them.

For a while I wandered through city streets amazed by the odd juxtaposition of buildings: the courthouse, jail, and high school sat on the same street facilitating an easy transfer from one institution to another. I picked up a straw hat for $1 and had coffee at Tango by the window — inside the cafe I felt warm and comfortable as I lazily chased away a fly enamoured by my sweaty legs.

Straw hat fixed firmly on my head, I headed towards the Shakespeare Garden (this town is so fucking full of Shakespeare it makes you want to leave) and saw kids under bridges kiss for minutes, hours, before leaving hand in hand. School was out, the pensioners vanished, and I found my inspiration. I sat on a park bench (“in memory of Katie,” it said) and jotted down phrases I shall never use in my novel.

At sunset, I prowled again through the city, now filled with kids and bicycles. Everyone in Stratford seems to ride a bicycle and it made me happy. I watched the city swirl by: angelheaded boys on bicycles jumped over parapets; unshaven men smoked on street corners; fishers gathered by the lakeshore; cars speed towards Toronto or London.

Everything in Stratford closes at insanely useless hours. By seven o’clock everything except Tim Horton’s was closed, probably because the pensioners were all asleep by then. So I jammed my straw hat into my bag and rode another 50km towards Kitchener. At sunset, there are no trucks on the road, only speed and freedom. I think I can make it all the way across Ontario on a good pair of tires and a prayer.