roadtripping.

A tour of the Niagara Peninsula: proof to the innocent that bicycle camping is actually fun.

continued from page 3

Of course they didn't. We stood around, finally started walking back to the bikes, it was after 1 a.m. and still the falls showed no sign of slowing down. By this time we were both tired. Greg started yawning, which got me yawning, and when I yawn I sound like a gorilla from another planet. We decided that, since we were so tired, instead of riding back along the shore road, we would take a short cut up Victoria Avenue, which went straight to our campsite. The easiest way to get to this street without getting lost was to ride straight up Clifton Hill, the neon gauntlet. Did I mention that this little street is so steep it's almost vertical? At this point I was so tired I didn't care. It may be a steep climb, I told myself, but it's only a block or so. We hopped on our bikes and headed for the hill. Once again, I dropped into my lowest gear and almost kept up with some of the more elderly pedestrians. This was no mean feat considering how exhausted we were. I thought my legs were going to turn to jelly, but kept reminding myself that if I stopped to rest (the climb turned out to be a little bit longer than i anticipated), I'd never be able to get going again, and would no doubt fall asleep on the sidewalk. So I made the big push, finally reached the crest, signalled my right turn onto Victoria, and coasted. I was coasting pretty slowly, but I didn't have the energy to pedal any more. I waited for greg to whiz past me. I waited some more. I turned around, but didn't see him. Finally, I just stopped and stood at the side of the road peering into the darkness until I saw the flash of his headlight.

By this time, my blood was flowing and my energy had returned. when greg finally caught up with me, all he could do was express his amazement at how I'd raced up the neon hill of doom. "You dusted me! Completely!" There happened to be a bar handy, so since neither one of us was tired anymore, we decided to order a pitcher. We sat on the patio and listened to the melodious sounds of drunken locals doing karaoke wafting outside. Here, as everywhere, our waitress asked us where we'd ridden from. As always, the reaction was amazement when we told her. "I can't ride half a block on my son's bicycle," she said, blaming her knees. Greg, cycling ambassador to the world, launched into a dissertation on why cycling is good for knees, doctor's studies that prove this, etc, etc. Sometime after last call (2 a.m. in Ontario) we started to feel sleepy again and rode home.

The next morning we ate our beans, and after a brief daylight tour of Niagara Falls, we headed back north to Niagara-on-the-Lake. We hadn't seen all of the riverside trail, as it forks in some places, and wanted to ride it again. The skies continued to be blue and clear. This time we took a detour on the trail that led us down closer to the water, in among the tall trees, under the dappled sunlight. We stopped on the way at one of the many wineries to do a bit of tasting (some places charge a quarter a glass, at some places it's free) and pick up some supplies for later. when we arrived at the all too picturesque town of Niagara-on-the-Lake for the second time, we found it even more crowded than before. We were a bit grumpy, due to hunger, and set about trying to find room on a patio where we could keep aneye on the bikes. This involved staggering up and down the packed main street in our tourist clothes, bikes in tow, with much difficulty. This resulted in more grumpiness, which on Greg's part was compounded by the amount of attention I was receiving for little summer dress #2. It was at this point that I realised what bothered me about the town: It was so quaint there wasn't even a single person wearing blue jeans. Nor was there a pick-up truck to be seen (and as a native of small-town Ontario,I know what an integral part of small-town life they are). Part of me wanted to search out the seedy underbelly which must exist in Niagara-on-the-Lake as everywhere else, part of me wanted to get the hell out of there. Finally we found a quiet shady patio where we could enjoy some lunch. This improved our mood greatly, and we headed back west roughly the way we came, intending to camp at Ball's Falls.

Our ride back featured an amazing interruption. Around sunset, we were approaching the Welland Canal (which is generally considered easier sailing than the niagara river) when the draw bridge rose. A huge ship was about to pass through. I couldn't imagine a bigger ship passing through there, since it scraped against the canal walls as it passed through the locks. If you've never seen one up close, you can't imagine how big these things are. The writing on the side was in letters easily three metres high. It moved like a slow wall before us, as we stood surrounded by excited kids, everyone including ourselves waving at the sailors watching from the deck. Incredible as it was, it did eat up our last hour of daylight riding, and my knees were bugging me again. For most of the time i had been drafting Greg, so he let me set the pace for a while at a speed my knees found acceptable, a pretty respectable 22.5 kmph, according to the computer.

Soon we were back at Port Weller. As we were riding through town, Greg, as usual, was cheerily greeting every human and dog we saw. most people just smiled, but one fellow, sitting on the balcony of a bed and breakfast with a couple of women, called out: "Hey! come back!" Greg being Greg, we did. The fellow announced that he had something for us, which he proceeded to throw as though he were auditioning for the major leagues. The missiles turned out to be popsicles. He asked, "where're you from?" when we told him, He insisted on getting us a can of scotch broth (which he'd just brought back from Scotland) for our trip. We thanked him, ready to head on our way, when he launched into a monologue on his travels, our travels, and life in general. He said "Where're you from" a couple of dozen times. We were too polite to just take off, although we tried to explain that it was dark and we had to get to our campsite. Finally he went back inside to get us some crusty bread (which we needed to go with the scotch broth, according to the label on the can), and some corned beef hash. "You can't go camping without corned beef hash." At this point one of the women advised us that we needn't be so polite, and that if we didn't take off, he'd keep us there all night with his stories. We thanked her and left.

continue to page 5

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