on the mud of existence

and the zen of old renfrew road

Old Renfrew Road is always muddy

Zeke’s words were at the top of my mind as I bolted from bed and saw just how wet everything was outside.

I’d been warned that at least ten kilometers would be an utter slog. In reality, I had no idea just how bad it could be.

We started out through the park. The usual route over Shubi park’s familiar crusher dust covered pathways. Then we took the first climb up towards the gas line road. It was a maximum effort push starting off fifteen kilometers of punishing cobbles and large, angry gravel.

The gas line road is a great intro to the kind of riding we do. Its surface is one that hates both bikes and cyclists alike. The constant rattling of the jagged rocky ground has sliced open many a tire sidewall. On our last ride out that way, the left crank arm fell off my bike pedal and all.

And the bumps?

Well, they don’t just rattle out your fillings, they take your teeth with them. Hell, once it was so bumpy it shook both of my eyes out of my head.

It’s true.

Now a days, I wear glass eyes so people won’t find me freakish - though I do love going into grocery stores with them pointing in different directions. It’s fun, asking where stuff is and unnerving teenage shelf stockers by walking off confidently in the exact opposite direction they point

As we passed the quarry and were on the approach to the airport, the skies opened up. We were soaked at the one hour point of what would turn into an eleven hour epic ride.

At the sixty kilometer mark we hit the muddy section of Old Renfrew. Things got dark. Sure there were sunny skies but my disposition turned more sour than a lemon soaked and vinegar and wrung through the arsehole of a Presbyterian Ministers wife.

The mud was sopping, red clay over six inches deep. My tires sunk well below the rims. My gears screamed and ached with every grinding pedal stroke. There was no solid gound, no dry patches, no decent way through this sticky hellscape of earthen diarrhea.

On top of this? We were traveling uphill and into the wind.

I wanted to just fling myself on the ground and give up.

I wanted to starfish - if only for a moment of respite.

But if I had?

I would have been even less comfortable than I already was.

I needed some form of escape. I tried fantasy.

Well… This would be ripping fast if we ever can back here after a long dry spell. In August maybe?

Zeke our grand poobah of pain wasn’t havin’ any of my hopium.

Well maybe - But this section never ever really dries up. And beside. This is what we’re riding today. So ride it. There’s more to come.

Fuck you Zeke for being a realist who anchors himself into the zen of the moment.

I wanted fantasy. I wanted escape.

But that prick knows something. Fantasy is no escape. When I’m in the water, I’m wet and in the water.

And when I’m in the mud?

Well there’s no escaping that - no matter how much you want to reach for the stars and sun, the mud of existence is a truth that you never really get rid of no matter how hard your scrub.

And?

If you can resist the urge to wallow in the shit, life will likely be more comfortable in the long run.