OK, just a glimpse of the Trent Canal system, from Peterborough to Lakefield, 13.2 km, and an exploration of another trail, but surely one of the 'nicest' 13.2 km of Canadian bike trails. And mostly disregarding the actual trail. Better than a beeline through bush, you can use the pokey highway #32 that hugs the canal, slow and windy. Hardly a car in sight. 

The Trent River Truckin' Cycling Route touted online starts in distant Warkworth on the Trent river and sounds stunning, complete with a gorge, but the only way to get there easily is by car/taxi. Bussing in Canada is increasingly an anachronism, with many towns no longer serviced. Trucks and cars manage our travels and trade instead of boats and trains. So the spectacular is disqualified in my books. I learned my lesson last year trying to navigate on busy highways, with too many near-death experiences to count.

This year, I made rule #1: minimize highways. My route started in downtown Peterborough, the Rotary Greenway Trail, meandering alongside the Otonabee River, a clear view of the river and banks with modest homes hugging the road passed Trent University which cyclists use too all the way to Lakefield. A trip to an art gallery for cyclists. This was at 10am on Thursday, almost no traffic. A glorious morning – river, canal, more river, more canals.

Note the winch here (and in the cover photo the elegant hydraulic lever) still operated by hand to open/close the gates

I stopped for a late breakfast at Sawer Creek lock (#25) and lucked out to watch an obscenely luxurious houseboat going through. The Parks Canada summer students cranked the levers just like in the 19th c. I noted to James, 'You're standing on the gate chatting on your cell phone as you crank. 21st century meets 19th.' He was embarrassed when I asked about the history. I suggested 1860. Which it turns out is the average between 1830 and 1890, so I was sort of right. James only knew that it was now for recreational use only. 'Like the rail trails,' I prompted. 'Too bad, as it's far better ecologically. And a lot more fun. Like cycling.' 

Where would 'Canada' be without our waterways? The much more pressing Rideau Canal system was vital to holding Upper and Lower Canadas together after Canada's near demise in 1812. It was completed in record time in 1832, joining their respective capitals, Kingston and Montreal, together, bypassing the treacherous rapids at Cornwall.

The Trent-Severn Waterway never had the same strategic significanc. It starts/ends in Port Severn on Georgian Bay, linking to Lake Simcoe, and then a series of smaller so-called Kawartha lakes and rivers to Rice Lake, and on to Trenton on Lake Ontario. Construction started in 1833, but was abandoned as too complicated and slow for defense (useless in the 1837 rebellion). The first Canadian prime minister, John A Macdonald, revived the project in the 1880s and it was only completed in the 1920, just in time for cars-trucks to bring a rapid end to the age of canals and railways.

The car-drivers' Warkworth bike path is on the Trent river which starts in Rice Lake, draining into Lake Ontario. The Otonabee, where I was biking, is a tributary of the Trent, and connects the two watersheds. The route took me to Lakefield, where the Otonabee begins. It was noon and sweltering so I wanted to purchase a beer, a rare treat.

Traces of Ford

What better place to ask than the public library. As usual, staffed by smiling women, eager to help the few devotees of Lakefield's secular chapel. I quietly said, 'Just passing through but love libraries. I'm not a lush, but I'd like to buy a cold beer for lunch.' 'I believe Foodland sells beer now. Just across the street.' Ha, ha.

Premier Ford's pandering to the masses (or so he thinks). Beautify Ontario by bringing beer and wine to our grocery stores. The hypocrite. As city councillor in 2012 he said, 'I'm the only person in [Toronto City Hall] that doesn't drink — ever.' I was not in a position or mood to find the less-frequented LCBO. So thank you, teatotaller Doug, a cold pale ale. At least it's from Picton.

Library on right. Note the car parked in the middle of the road. Ahh, small towns.

Silk purses

The farther I got out of town, the more it felt like a real travel experience. The birds speak different languages there, the crows plentiful and pushy, lots of robins querilous, turkey vultures soaring. I stopped and a tiny golden fly, transparent wings with black dabs, stopped on my hand for a greeting. Does it have a sense of its own beauty?

Since 2017 when my planned US cycling adventure was brought to a Guantanamo-style end at Niagara Falls – it seems I'm a terrorist – I must make do with dull, dreary Canada. Well, it's only as dull as you make it. Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder. I'm a fan of Stendahl: The only originality and truth is in the details. Thank you USA for waking me up to reality. Still, there are probably 10-20x as many canals in the US, now recreational routes for boaters, cyclists and walkers, so that is a loss for an avid cyclist.

I realized drinking a large beer was not such a good idea after all. When I sat to snack along the Otonabee in Lakefield, I rememeber it's still illegal to drink a beer in public, despite Ford's penchant for encouraging alcoholism among his sheople. A local passed by – was his look hostile? I put the beer back in the carrier. And settled for water. The slightly complicated turns and turns (Water st, bridge, #29, #18, 8th line, 7th, #23) all took place without a hitch. Only a few kms on a killer highway, 7th line partly gravel, but no traffic, and when the gravel ended in pavement, it felt like flying.

I only had to walk up a few steeper hills. The few hard bits reminded me of my last grueling trip. The long uphill grinds are perfect for thinking hard thoughts. I realized that cyclists, like writers, are psychic masochists. We (I'm both) love to torture ourselves, cycling, writing, writing about cycling, as we realize unconsciously that life is all about suffering, so why not suffer healthily, whether it be in body or mind? And combine the two for even greater joy? At least in theory. Of course, everything is time-constrained. Carpe diem.

The final leg was the Bridgenorth Trail, obviously another stray bit of an old railway line – there are hundreds of such long-abandoned short lines built to transport lumber or ore to waterways or roads to extract precious resources. This looked tantalizing on Google maps, supposedly a protected area, but the reality was the first half was now used by big, growling construction trucks, taking turns grinding along the narrow path to a sand/ gravel pit in the middle, turning around and exiting in a great cloud of dust, as I experienced first hand, taking a big lungful of air as one headed towards me, screaming in its own mechanical agony.

A few bucolic kms after than and suddenly the end! I looked at my cellphone – 1:50pm. What?! 5 kms to Peterborough. So no night under the stars, as I cashed in my cards and decided to just go back to Toronto.  Mission aborted/ accompliished. Whatever. Mercifully, the road was graced with a wide paved shoulder and then a bike path, so zero stress. I had the GO bus schedule more or less pat, remembered a 2:50pm bus, so it was a race to the finish.

My trip suddenly had a new purpose: to get to the bus stop on time, no time for detours. A friendly lady explained I just needed to take Hilliard Rd and turn right on George to find Simcoe. So the craning-neck phase of watching for street names: Edinburgh, London, Dublin on the fringes, then George, Hunter, Charlotte downtown. Charlotte! The lady's thinking-aloud instructions included 'that's too far.'

I spied the church steeple clock. 2:45pm. Yikes! I turned around and snuck through a red light, Simcoe left, yes! the bus stop ahead and lots of people Yeah! I dismounted and disassembled the carrier and unused sleeping bag and tarp as the bus pulled up. I no longer risk leaving the carrier attached after a last year's (pointless) battle with the driver. 

Chile from north to south

I chose the front seat, stashing my carrier and backpack between my legs, not sure if I was grateful to be speeding back to Toronto midday. The bus filled up -- Friday afternoon, all head to the big city.

Halfway to Oshawa, a friendly senior got on at one of the mysterious 'park and ride' stops in the middle of nowhere. I immediately asked him why anyone would use them. 'There is no GO stop in Lindsay, so commuters to Toronto, Oshawa, Peterborough drive here and catch a GO bus.' Mostly the bus just goes there and then has to get back on the highway (with great difficulty) without picking up or dropping off. Poor bus drivers. Their life expectancy is lower than average for good reasons. Living by the minute, every minute, would drive me crazy.

Joe was an electrical engineer and former cyclist. 'Four fractured vertebrae – from cycling and a serious car accident. Biking even with suspension seat is still bumpy.' I quizzed him on adventures. 'The best was biking Chile from top to bottom. 6 months. Pinochet was still around so hardly any tourists. I did it when I was 40, still enough stamina, enough money. I always did contract work so I could take the time. The highlight was in the south, the Mapuche never were conquered by the Spanish. They still live their own lives, they don't Spanish, like probably the majority of South Americans.' So much for my pitiful day trip.

Joe was as pessimistic about the world as I am. 'Everything just gets worse, the more tech, the more tension. Life has become unlivable. I feel like I'm living in the Cohn brothers' No country for old men.' I asked what his last job was. 'Ten years ago, I headed the team to transition the Vancouver airport from analog to digital. Two years. My last real cycling was in BC.' We exchanged views about aging. 'I just want 10 more years, good years. Compis mentis,' I said. 

GO gossip

Two more bikes – real bikes – in our car, even though technically bikes are illegal from 4-7pm weekdays. As far as I'm concerned, this arbitrary restriction is officially to be ignored henceforth. I did the Toronto-Oshawa GO train at 7:05am, also strictly speaking illegal. What got me a warning fine was when the ticket inspector came by and I realized I hadn't tapped my Presto card in the bowels of Union Station as I scrambled to find the elevator to platform 10.'You  used the age card. I use it all the time,' Joe cracked. ' The point of inspectors is to catch the regular truants.' 

A classic train crisis – a family slow to get out at Eglinton, the doors closing with the son on the platform, the parents shouting, mother hysterical, the father running up and down our car. The son was smiling as we pulled out, as if he was glad to be on his own. Of course, cellphones solved the issue, with the father instructing his brother to rush to the station to pick up sonny. I'm sure sonny was delighted with this little adventure. It will no doubt make him the centre of attention for the evening.

Another silk purse out of a sow's ear. Make life an adventure!

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Denouement. The ride from Union Station is my time of recovery, up stately University Ave on the classy bike path. Our most beautiful boulevard, with dozens of flower beds and well-kept trees, where I've attend many a peace demo over the years – Iraq, Palestine, environment – its taste of civilization, war monuments, even a beautiful statue of soldiers who died (like my great uncle William Adams rip) in the Boer War. They wanted to remove it but it's beautifully handcraft Canadian art and a history lesson all in one. A fine ending as I return to still-imperial Toronto, but what do I see at Queens Park? I see Doug Ford's brutish, goofy mug incarnate in a monster, garrish maple leaf, rivalling Trump's flag fetish at the White House. And, like Trump, he plans to make the monster flag poles he had installed permanent.

Technically, Dougie, the proper flag is the Ontario ensign. Now THAT I would approve of. A lesson in imperial history much like the South African War Memorial by Walter Seymour Allward (1910).

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Read No-carbon footprint travels to Toronto's outer spaces for Eric's other cycling adventures in and around Toronto.