How Does A Sensitive Person Survive In A Selfish And Corrupt Society

William James tried to show the meaningfulness of (some kinds of) spirituality but, like other pragmatists, refused to see religion as the basis of meaning or morality.

Charles Peirce: the American polymath who first identified pragmatism.




Nightmare Continued
Drinking beer with my old Professor


Dr. Gill came over to where I was sitting and asked, "Would you like some company?"

"Why not," I replied. And then after he ordered two beers, one for him
and me, he said, "Why did you get up and leave my lecture?"

I looked at him curiously, and then said, "I couldn't take it
anymore. I had to leave or scream. Which would you have preferred?"

"That's what I figured," he said. "Well, you've got my full attention
now; so why did you get so upset? Was it the lecture? Sometimes I get
carried away, you know."

"No. When I left you weren't even lecturing," I said. "You were in
the middle of one of your famous digressions. You went from `why
mechanical principles don't apply in social and psychological
situations' to describing a hike you once took in Washington State's
Olympic Mountains."

"Oh yeah, I remember that," he said. "I was talking about the natural
beauty of the place, and how I loved to get away from it all by going
there. But, why did that upset you?"

"There was more," I said. "You were describing how impossible it was
for a person to be sensitive in a selfish society. Where people cared
only for themselves, where greed, killing, and war were the norm,
where love and hypocrisy were joined at the hip, in a society like
that you said, `hearts turn to stone.' `In the darkest hours,' you
said, `thoughts of life turn into thoughts of death.' After that I left."

"I remember," came the reply, "but I didn't mean to sound like we
actually lived in that place. I was talking more hypothetically."

"It doesn't matter," I said. "You said it, and you meant it, every
word of it, I could tell. I didn't just get up and leave because of
that. I left because most of the time you talked as if `right and
wrong' were inviolable absolutes, yet other times you would go on and
on about how life was one big massive confusion. I can take only so
much of that. Which is it anyway? Who exactly should I believe--the
Pope or the pragmatist?"

"It's not as if a professor has to think for his class you know,"
Dr. Gill responded, "It's a professor's job to make the class think.
Some students like that method; it even excites them, while others do
not. I always thought you were in the group that enjoyed independent
thinking?"

"I do," I said, "that's the problem. I totally disagree with you.
When you start talking about how logical inferences will one day set
humanity free, my stomach starts to churn. That's bullshit. Logical
calculations are what nuclear bombs are made of--not human kindness
and compassion. The only reason I go to class is to see what
disagreements will arise. In fact, you seem to encourage them. It
blows my mind. I don't know how you can go on teaching when the whole
class doesn't know what the hell you're talking about. You're an
enigma! So, I say it again, which is it, the Pope or the pragmatist?
There's no time like the present. I really want to know. I need to know!"

"I doubt very much if behind Papal decrees you'll find much deductive
reasoning," Dr. Gill responded.

"What's the difference," I said, "its all about `authority,' isn't it?
Your paper scratching isn't science. Astronomers predict events. What
can you predict--headaches???"

His Eyes Were Open But The Old Man Looked Dead

Deserted Farmhouse
Quebec
The Nightmare

I put in a really shitty night. It was hot, and I had nightmares. In
one of the nightmares, I woke up to find a light coming from behind
the door in the other room. On my way to investigate I stumbled over a
pile of old newspapers. The door wouldn't open until I forced it. Upon
entering, I found myself standing in an immaculate room. In opposite
corners were antique lamps giving off an ultra soft light. The light
brought out the redwood floor's rich tones. A canopy bed stood in the
middle of the room. Lying in the bed was an old man who looked to be
more than a hundred years old. We remained fixed in each others gaze
until I looked away in fear. I wanted to run, but I couldn't. And then
came the voice that said, "If you have come for a visit you are
welcome. Visitors are rare!" The voice sounded strangely familiar. Was
this guy really my old college professor?

His eyes were open, but the old man looked dead; again I heard
the voice, "Well," he said. I didn't respond. I just stood there, silently
looking into his eyes, watching his breathing become more labored with
each passing moment. Finally, the silence was broken when he again
said, "What are you doing here?"

I looked back at him hard. How could this be? My Professor wasn't that
old, but that was certainly his voice. "What are you doing here?" I
shot back to him.

"Are you blind, I'm sleeping," came the response.

"I mean, you're not supposed to be here," I said, "you're supposed to
be back in Michigan teaching classes."

"Not anymore," he replied. "That was a long time ago. If you have
come for a visit, that's okay. I don't get visitors anymore."

"Well, not exactly," I said. "Actually I don't know why I'm here. I
mean, I don't know if I'm really here, or why you're here. I was
hoping you could tell me. It's all screwed up."

"Get on with it," he tersely replied, "You're either here, or you're
not, which is it?"

His face began to contort. The last place I wanted to be was in front
of an upset college professor and, as was common in dreams, at that
moment I lost dream consciousness. The next thing I knew, the dream
switched to a bar. I was drinking a beer, and into the empty barroom
walked Dr. Gill. This time he was his right age—60 something.

Spooky Deserted Farmhouse

Quebec
Biking Eastern Canada
July 4, `77


After a couple hours more biking, I saw what looked to be an
abandoned farmhouse setting back in a field. I felt the risk was
minimum, so I got off my bike and hiked up to the house. Standing on
the rickety front porch, I could see a room full of newspapers. Upon
entering the half opened door, I found the papers stacked a couple
feet high. They gave off an unpleasant odor, but the clouds had
darkened, so I figured I could live with the smell. After going back
for my bike, I made myself at home. I was feeling pretty good when,
through the broken windowpane, I saw a car pull up and three people
get out. They didn't look like owners. They were young. I figured what
the hell, getting kicked out of this place wasn't the worst thing that
could happen. The girl entered first, and upon seeing me sitting on a
stack of newspapers, screamed. The situation was pretty awkward. I
couldn't speak French and they couldn't speak English. As it turned
out, I figured out that they were making a movie and were looking for
a place to film. They were making a Dracula movie. In broken English
the girl said, "A good place to film, no!" I replied, "Yes," but what
I was really thinking was "Go away before you blow my cover!" After
they finally did leave, I waited to see if the farmer down the road
was going to show up, but after thirty minutes, I began to feel more
secure.

Actually, in another way, I began to feel less secure. The place
really was spooky. It was definitely suited for a Dracula movie; it
had multiple rooms and an eerie over all atmosphere. There were old
bottles and other oddities strewn about the place. It took me 15
minutes just to make room for my bike and sleeping bag. Also there
were noises. Most of the squeaks and creeks came from the next room.
When I went in to look for a cause, I found only a room with a metal
bed frame in it. I have to admit, the place made me uncomfortable, but
that wasn't the worst of it. Bugs, the kind you couldn't see, were
biting me. I would have left, but outside the rain had finally started
to come down. Instead, I climbed in my sleeping bag, and covered my head.

Quebec City Hospitality

Feeling a lot better
July ‘77

It was the sunset that did it, I'm sure. Come morning, I decided to
keep biking. I was up around 7 a.m., and after campfire coffee and
toast, and, in the midst of the solitude of my railroad sanctuary, I
was ready to greet the day—good or bad. It helped that the sun was
out, too.

Back on the highway, I spent a lot of time trying to piece my way
around Quebec City. Coming down a steep grade somewhere in the city, I
heard a ping. There went a rear wheel spoke. I continued riding until
I found an air compressor. While fixing my bike, I met an old lady in
the yard next to the gas station, doing her gardening. She invited me
in for dinner.

She introduced me to her husband and son. English was not their
preferred language. In fact, they really couldn't speak much. We
managed, though. They were special people, very nice. We had sirloin
steaks for dinner. There were leftovers, so I ate two. They were
delicious. I stayed a while, but conversation was limited. It was the
"good vibes" that kept me there. They understood my "getting out of
town problem," so they told me to follow them. As I followed on my
bike behind their car, they drove slowly until we reached the road
sign that read, "Montreal." Thank-you very much nice people!

I needed that. It was a surefire attitude lift. I rode away from
Quebec City feeling a lot better than when I arrived. Out on the
highway, I still had the wind to contend with, and the sun disappeared
behind the clouds around 4 p.m., but I felt really, really, good. When
the rain clouds rolled in, though, I started to look for shelter.

Torrents Of Rain

Railroad Bridge Outside Quebec City
July

I don't believe this weather. All last night it was clear. I slept
out under a beautiful moon. This morning the sun was shining and
everything looked great. Then all of a sudden this—I have to stop
writing and prepare for rain. The sky is completely covered in clouds
now, and I'm starting to battle strong winds. Looks like another good day!

Evening: Well, about half hour ago, I was ready to ride into Quebec
City, get on board a train, and not get off until Michigan. In fact, I
still might!

The wind blew hard this morning; I couldn't even pack up my bike. I
had to carry everything behind a near-by house in order to pack up. At least
I didn't have to walk very far to get back to the square--thank God. I
managed to take shelter under a gazebo until the rain stopped. All day
I peddled in 3rd, 4th, and 7th gears. That meant for ten hours I had
to push through 30--40 mph winds. It was similar to when I had food
poisoning only this time I wasn't sick. That wasn't all; Ma
Nature threw her torrents of rain at me, too. If somebody would have
given me a dime for every time I put my rain gear on, I could have
bought a train ticket back to Michigan. At the end of the day—my third
day of riding wet— that idea sounded like a keeper.

Out of fairness to myself, though, I decided to wait a night before
making that decision. I bought a quart of beer and some cheese twists
at a party store. (The only good thing about Quebec was that every
grocery store sold beer--just like in the states.) Just before sunset,
and a ways off the highway, I camped under an old railroad bridge.
From on top of the cement supports, I could see Quebec City rising
above the horizon. It was a very pretty sight. Drinking my first beer
since Nova Scotia, and eating really good cheese twists, I was
beginning to feel like a human being again.

Right now things are pretty good, but for how long? After a good
night's sleep, I will seriously consider calling it quits. For a trip
that was planned as a scrapbook event to begin with, a train ride
home, it seems to me, would be a fitting ending. I just witnessed a
beautiful sunset, but it didn't affect me like in the past. I think
I'm getting sick of traveling with myself. What more can I say!

Canada’s 100th Birthday Celebration

My Stopover At St. Jean Port Joli
July, `77

It was as if someone had grabbed both my feet and tossed them up toward my
waist. It was a rude awakening at 5:30 a.m.! When I was traveling yesterday, I
wondered if the St. Lawrence had tides. The surrounding area appeared
as though it did, but I didn't pay close enough attention because I
was now scrambling to get out of the water that had just spilled over
into the spot where I was sleeping. I threw my sleeping bag farther up
the bank, and I got my bike to high ground before the flood. That was
the quickest incoming tide I had ever experienced. Yes, the St.
Lawrence Seaway is just that, a seaway. The tide swooped in on me, and
I did not escape dry. I now have my tarp and sleeping bag drying in
the sun, and I just put a couple more sticks on the fire. If the tide
comes in any further, it will flow over the three-foot bank that
separates me from the seaway. Last night was a full moon. Maybe that
had something to do with this high, high tide.

It was a half and half day, yesterday. When the rain stopped the wind
started. As I look over my shoulder right now, I see a cloudbank
moving in and the sun being blotted out. This has happened three days
in a row now, and two of those days I had to face rain. I wonder if
old Mother Nature is going for a three-peat. I'm beginning to think
westward biking is going to take some time.

Around 6 p.m. last night, I entered St. Jean Port Joli. There was
live music being played in the town square, so I decided to hang out,
catch up on some reading, and enjoy the music. This was a big year for
Canada. It was their one-hundredth-birthday celebration. There were
art exhibits and special pavilions set up. Many of the celebrants were
dressed in traditional costume, and, after paying special attention to
the folk dancing; I decided to find a place to crash. That's how I
came to be here now, on the shores of the St. Lawrence; and, except
for the high tides, it’s been a delight.

While looking for internet pictures of St. Jean Port Joli, I stumbled upon the photo of the girl above, which, in turn, took me to her blog. Below, in her own words, is description of her experience peddling through some of the same territory I visited in the past couple blogs. Her bicycle trip (a joint venture with two other girls) set out from Vancouver, B.C. destination Halifax, N.S. Apparently, we—the girls and I-- are comrades from different times buy not dimensions.

[“From St. Jean Port Joli to Riviere du Loup we had the biggest headwind I think since the prairies, and it was COLD! A lot of putting my head down and realizing that my odometer was reading 11, 12, or 13 km/hr. It rained in the morning (surprise, surprise) but then only lightly misted and then even “cleared up” (well, was foggy and cloudy but stopped raining, blessedly)… The rest of the afternoon was spent battling a wind so strong you couldn’t concentrate on anything else but PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH. The fog obliterated any scenery along the Fleuve-St. Laurent beyond 200 m, so if you asked me if it was pretty, I wouldn’t really know!!”]

Back Into The Rain

Biking along St. Lawrence
July ’77

My first day in Quebec was not a happy one, but I feel better now.
I'm practically back to normal—meaning, I'm negotiating morning rain
once again. I'm in my cutoffs, and it's a warm rain, so I guess I'm
okay, let it rain. I'm presently traveling along the St. Lawrence
Seaway, and am enjoying the hell out of it. However, after traveling
four or five days in Quebec, I feel compelled to write down how
unfriendly I have found the French Canadians. The only thing I expect
upon making eye contact with somebody is some form of recognition, a
smile, a hand wave, anything, but here I encounter silence and a cold
stare. I do not think I am overstating my impression of these people.

There I have said it, and I will leave it at that until I get more
information. That kind of behavior, accompanied with an unwillingness
to speak English (French is the preferred language), effectively
alienates the outsider. I still have a long way to go in French
Canada, but I can say right now that I will be happy to say good-bye
to these people. Well, I'm off once again, back into the rain, which,
I might add, is a whole lot more hospitable than the French Canadians.

Bicycling Through The Food Poisoning And Rain

Quebec
July ’77

There was a youth hostel in Riviere de loop, so I looked forward to a
warm bed. When I broke morning camp, Riviere de loop was still
59 miles away. The sun had yet to peak above me, so
there was time to reach the hostel, but that was before the afternoon
wind picked up, and I found myself pushing as hard on the pedals to
go down a hill as it was to go up the hill. The rain hadn't started,
but when it did my already miserable condition became pure hell.

The fucking rain stopped me. But even if it didn't, the wind would
have. I just didn't have the strength to continue. I slept for an hour
under a carport roof. That was the second time that I had had to stop
and dry out. I was hot, probably from fever. I wanted a coke. I needed
a coke. I was burning up. I would have settled for anything to drink,
but I was in the middle of nowhere. I tried to make myself get on my
bike. When that didn't work, I tried hitchhiking again. No luck there,
either. Eventually, I did get back on my bike and when I passed a
motel I stopped to get a room. When the guy said $ 18.00 for a dumpy,
mildewed room, I changed my mind.

Back on the highway, I sank into a machine like trance. No sense, no
feeling, just work, work, work. At the height of my trance, the pain
in my aching muscles subsided, and I stopped suffering the cold, wet,
wind, but I also stopped being conscious. I snapped out of it just
before I passed out. There was nothing else to do except, push, push,
and push some more. It was only when I thought to myself, "You
son-of-bitch, this is a crime against humanity, a self-inflicted one
at that," that I realized, yes, I really was sick! Under rain, rain,
and more rain, I finally came to a sign, but I was too scared to look,
much too scared. The sign read, 21 miles to Riviere de loop.

That was it. I was drained, wasted, defeated, and crushed. There was
a café, so I went inside, and got my coke. The lady behind the counter
told me about a motel down the road. She said, "Last I checked, rooms
were $16.00 a night.”I don't care," I responded, "I need a roof over
my head, any roof." After I ate my soup and chicken sandwich, she
looked down at me while she was writing out my bill and said, "If it's
just a roof you want, you can check out the shed around back."
Somewhat surprised, but grateful, I thanked her and went out back to
see what she was talking about.

Nothing was normal. I was seeing things as if I were looking down the
wrong end of telescope. The shed was dirty and cluttered, but I
recognized it as home. After making a space on the dirt floor, I
crawled into my sleeping bag, and after ten hours of sickness and
forty miles of the most hellish biking of my life, I closed my eyes
and went dead to the world. In the morning I awoke soaked in sweat. At
7 a.m., after the sun was already up, I got some dry clothes out of my
pack and hung my sleeping bag out on the fence to dry. After putting
on warm clothes, I went back into the cafe for coffee. I felt a little
better. It was a brand new day.

Forty Miles Of Hellish Biking--Ten Hours Of Sickness

My First Day In Quebec

July 2, `77

My stomach sounds like a cement mixer. Why do I feel like puking?
Roll over; forget about it. It's still raining, and it's in the middle
of the night. Jesus, do I stink. 4:30 a.m. and I can't wait any
longer, I've got to take a shit. Whewww do I feel nauseous. My book
for toilet paper, and out into the rain I go. I hope I make it to the
outhouse in time. I hope it's an outhouse! God do I feel rotten.

Two hours later: I've lost everything, including my strength.
Diarrhea, weak, sick…bicycling seems an eternity away. The sun is on
the rise, but do I, or don't I? Boy do I feel shitty, but I'll try to
ride anyway. Great, just what I needed, an uphill grind—what luck! If
I think pine trees, grass, flowers—my nausea goes away, but as soon as
a semi thunders by, the smell makes me want to puke. This damn hill is
coming to an end. My strength is gone. I can't continue, got to rest.
I pull my bike over into the power line clearing, lean over my seat
and throw up. If I don't lie down I will pass out. Clumsily I throw my
sleeping bag on the ground, and fall face down on top of it. God that
feels good, but I'm very sick.

Two hours later: It's cold; no more sun. Rubbery legs and knotted
stomach, I'd better get going. Who am I kidding? I can't ride a
bicycle. I still feel like puking. Every muscle in my body aches. What
to do? Hitchhike, I'll hitchhike out of here, I will. Cringing at the
side of the road, head snapping wind, and eating dirt from the train
of semis' backwash, anything would be better. I mount up and
ride--down the hill. I hoped for a town, a store, a stream, anything
that would make me feel less rotten, but at the bottom all I found was
another hill.

Two more hills and I was a zombie. I did pass a restaurant, though,
and I went inside. I asked for bromo, or anything else for my stomach.
I didn't dare stay for coffee. I didn't want to throw up on the
counter. I left empty handed. Push the foot down, strain the stomach,
feel the head rush of blood. Repeat, repeat, repeat, soon even the
monotony of the climb was gone. My mind would not react. I lost my
senses in a thick fog of numbness. I don't know how, but I kept going.
All I knew was that I had to fight off the poison, probably from last
night's sardines-- food poisoning, a first for me. Finally, I reached
a small town. My stomach said no food, but I had to get some of my
strength back. I got a banana split, and ate it slowly. That was
another first for me; forcing myself to eat ice cream.

Searching For A Campsite

Quebec New Brunswick Boarder
End Of June

Back on the highway, biking wasn't bad. I had a strong wind at my
back, and the traffic was sparse. I need to thank Lady Luck for
looking after me. She, the lady, seemed to enter my life
just after Richard and I split up. I think during the time Richard and
I were together, his "easy come easy go attitude" rubbed off
on me. (I must remember to thank him for that when I get home.) Until
I met Richard I had always worried about not being able to find a
campsite, but not anymore. And this evening, in that regard, I found
myself blessed!

Around 4 p.m. I knew I was in for a wet night. The sky said so too, and
the weatherman told me so. I decided to check into a youth hostel that
the gas station attendant told me about. "Up in Edmondson, it's in the
oldest house in town. You can't miss it," he said. He was right. I
didn't miss it, but when I got there nobody was home. I decided to
keep biking. On the outskirts of town I came to a subdivision where
new houses were going up. A couple of unfinished houses looked like
possible shelters, but they also looked like possible hassles, so I
just kept pedaling toward the very dark horizon.

It was getting close to "bombs away" when I arrived at a park.
However, I found Mr. Ranger standing there with his hand out. He
said,"$4.50 please," and I said back, "I just can't afford that. Maybe
I'll find something further on down the road." "Okay, suit yourself,"
he responded, "but it sure looks like rain!" And I said, "I know, Mr.
Ranger, I know."

Back on the highway, it started to rain. At the same time, along side
the road, the forest had thickened. Putting up a tent became
impossible. There was just no room. I began to mentally prepare for
the worst when suddenly I saw a break in the trees. It was an
abandoned picnic area. Picker bushes had grown up alongside the
rotting picnic tables, but behind the tables was a dilapidated
building with a partial roof. Just as I reached the building, it
started to pour. I found myself a dry corner and prepared for a long
night.

I can't begin to express how lucky I feel right now! Apparently, a
long time ago, this park was used as the "Welcome to New Brunswick
Park" for people coming in from Quebec. Whoever's responsible,
thank-you!

Done With Being Young And Restless--Right Buddha Right

New Brunswick, Campground
June 29, `77

Hi there journal, another day—another dollar, or something like that.
Well, last night, after sunset, some friendly people came over and
offered me an apple, an orange, and we shared the cheese they brought
with them; the boys from the swimming hole also stopped by. They
brought beer with them. They were a little young to be drinking (early
teens), but boys will be boys. After the beer was gone (I helped in
that department), they wanted me to go with them to get more. Instead,
I told them I had a long ride ahead of me tomorrow. I wished them
well, and turned in for the night. In the morning (even before the
sun), two of the boys returned. They were staggering drunk, but still
very friendly. I noticed that their car door was smashed in, but when
I mentioned it to them they just shrugged it off. After a few moments
of shared comradery, the boys passed out on their respective picnic
tables. I went back to sleep, too.

When I woke up, the boys were gone. "The young and restless," I was
sure glad I didn't have to go through that one again (right Buddha,
right?). They were probably encouraged to leave by the mist that was
falling in their faces. When I got on my bicycle to leave, the real
rain hadn't yet begun, but it looked as if I was in for a wet, dreary day.

For more on how, in old age, I enhanced my connection with Buddhism see: http://bwinwnbwi.wordpress.com/2010/01/09/whole-universe-of-necessary-opposites-end-of-life-story-chapter-4/

Swim Breaks On The St. John River

New Brunswick
June ‘77

Biking was absolutely beautiful today. In 80 and 90-degree
temperatures, I biked on a good highway, through rolling forests,
while farms occasionally dotted the countryside. At no time along the
St. John River did the biking become difficult. Tomorrow I'll probably
see the last of New Brunswick. Too bad, it was so pretty. I did around
100 miles today, and there were sixty or so miles to go before I
arrived in Quebec.

I cooled off with a couple of swim breaks during those 100 miles.
When I came to one of the many steams that I passed, a ten-minute
break was all that I needed to keep me happy. Around 6:30 p.m., I saw
some kids diving off an abutment into one of the bays on the St. John
River. I immediately started to look for a way off the Trans-Canada.
Once I found my way back to them, it took only a couple of seconds for
me to jump into the water. While swimming, the kids told me about a
camping park. When I arrived there, I found lots of picnic tables,
with most of the people camped over in the pines. I was in the aspens,
enjoying the soft yellow sun-rays filtering through the softwoods.

I am now enjoying the end of a beautiful day. My trip home, so far,
has been the nicest biking I could have wished for.

Biking Along St. John River--Beautiful

New Brunswick

June 27

St. John was a larger city than Digby. As soon as I found a
store, I sat down on the curb and started eating my peanut butter and jelly
sandwiches. By the time I had finished, a group of kids had
crowded round me and started asking questions. On this trip I
have been getting along really well with kids--or maybe I'm just
noticing it more.

I spent the night at a little picnic-park area twenty miles west of
St. John. When I arrived, eight of the ten picnic tables were being
used, even in this weather—surprising. When it started to rain, I went
over and started talking with the people picnicking under the only
roof in the park. We ended up building a fire. They left after sharing
a couple of beers with me. Under that roof, I stayed dry, but didn't
sleep well. The traffic kept me awake—cars and trucks coming and going
all night long; don't ask me why. At one point, a busload of
cub-scouts pulled in. It was the longest bathroom break ever.

At least in the northeast the Trans Canada was a good highway to
bike. I even had to hitch hike on it. I broke a spoke, the same spoke
that broke back when I was biking with Richard. I had to hitch to a
gas station in order to put things right again.

Back on the highway, I spent a marvelous two hours biking along the
river. New Brunswick was very scenic, especially along the
highway that followed the river. I appreciated the sunshine even more
than the scenery. When I passed a huge log pile, I decided to stop and
enjoy the day. I camped behind the logs, where I had a good view the
huge lake (reservoir). That evening, over the water, there was a
gorgeous sunset. Earlier in the day, I had found a pay shower, so that
night the sun set not only on appreciative eyes, but also on a clean
body. It was great!

Things are looking good. I feel good. Good-bye Mr. Sun!

June 28

My calculations told me that if I limited myself to $3. a day, and
biked at least 60 miles per day, I would arrive back in Houghton Lake
22 days from now. I usually biked more than 60 miles a day, but that
was a good distance to target since I also needed some layover time. I
wanted to do my "easy time" in Michigan, though. I planned to bicycle
along the shore of Lake Huron and Lake Michigan before heading for
home. I figured I still had around 1316 miles to go, and I knew from
past experience that anything could happen. But, at least with these
calculations, I also knew that my goal was doable.

Please Make It All Go Away

On the boat to New Brunswick
June ’77 Pic ferry

The squish-squash of my feet, as I just went up to get my second cup
of coffee, reminded me that I started peddling at 7 a.m. this morning.
The harder I peddled the harder it rained. In order to catch the Digby
ferry I had to peddle in the rain for three hours. I made one stop
along the way. It was for coffee at a restaurant. A couple of other
cyclists were already inside and they motioned for me to come over to
their table. They were up from Maine for a two-week bicycle tour in
Nova Scotia. They had just arrived, so they hadn't experienced much
rain. The boy, across the table from me, had just started university
and was thinking about studying Philosophy. His parents didn't like
the idea, though. When I told him I was majoring in Philosophy, he
asked me, "What can you do with it?" I didn't want to get into that
conversation, so I said, "Nothing. Listen to your parents."


Now, getting back to why I'm leaving Nova Scotia. Feeling bad about
not being able to see the attractions had not been the worst of it.
Sure I could stick around and tour Cape Briton and Prince Edward
Island. Their beautiful I'm sure, but why? I have never been into
collecting experiences. Even in Hawaii, I didn't go to all of the
islands because it got to a point where I felt like I was collecting
experiences. That's not what it’s about, that's not the important
stuff. What's important was the learning. If I couldn't learn from my
adventures then I had no business "being there". This trip was not
born out of that kind of thinking. Rather, it was born out of the
opposite kind of thinking. It was conceived and finalized as a mere
exclamation point to the whole Castalian process. No higher
justification was needed. It was like going into same classroom over
and over again, sitting in the same seat over and over again, -- the
lecture begins and I don’t care why. Shame on me! Right from the start I
treated this trip as something to be done away with. My Castalian dream
wouldn't be complete unless I turned my free time into an
adventure--study in the winter, travel in the summer. Instead of
greeting each occasion as something to be achieved, I have turned all
occasions into something to be done away with. Except for the East
Coast, I have pretty much seen all the United States, but now the East
Coast is just another notch in my bicycle tire. If that's not
collecting experiences, I don't know what is! Everything about this
trip has been pure hypocrisy! Please, make it all go away.

Shame On Me-A Trip To Be Done With

On A Boat Somewhere In The Bay Of Fundy
June 27

Last night, bicycling against the wind, fighting off the evening
chill, I wondered if the crazy day was going to turn into a crazy
night. The clouds were low in the sky; rain was about to fall. I was
alone on the highway, and for good reason. Nobody wanted to be out in
this weather. When I came to a roadside picnic area I stopped to check
for a shelter. The picnic tables were on a rocky cliff overlooking a
river gorge that opened into the Bay of Fundy. From the top of the
cliff, I could see an old fishing shanty at the bottom of the gorge.
It was built along side a small river/creek flowing into the bay. The
shanty had a partial roof. Getting down there was the problem.

I locked my bike to a tree just out of sight from the highway, and
started down the steep ravine. I got a few extra scratches and a
little dirty, but it was worth it. The shanty had a clean, dry, wooden
floor. The partial roof was enough to keep the rain off, and the
partial wall permitted me a beautiful view of the incoming surf. I was
the only resident on the small beach, and the steep, rocky cliffs
above the shanty pretty much guaranteed that I would remain the only
resident. The sound and nearness of the surf transformed the day's
chaos into a heeling, peaceful, time-out. I almost expected to see
Gnomes running about; the place inspired such a feeling of magic. I
had suffered, true, but this was my reward. Sitting there, looking out
at the beautiful receding tide, I realized that I was not leaving Nova
Scotia for external reasons. Sure rain, lack of money, and dirt, all
influenced my decision to leave, but I knew that none of that could
make me say, "I can't take it anymore. I'm quitting, giving up, going
home!" But, I was going home and there was a reason—a good reason….

Right now I'm somewhere in the Bay of Fundy sitting on a warm ferry
heading to New Brunswick. It's raining out, but it's nice in here. I
hope my wet jeans dry some before I have to get back on my bike.
There's no chance, however, of that happening for my soaked feet. The coffee
I'm drinking is good, just the way I like it, hot, very hot. If it weren't
for the rain, the scenery would be good, too. But even without the
rain, all the aesthetics I needed right now were pencil and paper, hot
coffee, and a dry place to write.

Instead Of Money--Two Bologna Sandwiches

Starwalker is a friend of mine
You've seen him looking fine
He's a straight talker, he's a Starwalker
Don't drink no wine
Ah way hey o hey...



The Pow Wow

June 27, `77

Herb never did get gas, so we caught him at another gas station as he
was, once again, filling his tank. This time the bike stayed upright,
and because Lenny was in the bathroom, I ended up paying the $2.50 for
his gas. When we finally reached Yarmouth, nobody knew the directions
to the Pow Wow. I began to wonder if the Pow Wow even existed. We
never did find the place, but in our wonderings, Herb's wife finally
found us. We followed her to our final destination.

The Pow Wow was located at the dead end of a gravel road on the
Indian Reserve. There were five houses scattered along the road, one
of which belonged to a very unfriendly Indian. There were no
trespassing signs everywhere, and he was sitting on his porch with a
rifle in his lap. The Indians at the Pow Wow itself, which was
supposed to be filled with Indians from all across Canada, looked to
be of the local variety and numbered about forty. Herb showed no
interest. At first I thought he was disappointed in the turnout, but
after we found a place to set up camp, I got the real story. Alcohol
was not allowed on the Reserve, and we were camped on the Reserve.

After I pulled my bike from the back of the truck, I was ready to
leave. But I had come so far and at such a cost that I couldn't make
myself leave without at least checking out the Indians. I walked right
into the middle of the Pow Wow. There were some young Indians off to
the side playing Lacrosse, but a large black kettle with a woman
standing over it marked the center space, so that's where I headed. As
I walked up to the lady stirring the kettle, all eyes were on me and
they weren't of the welcoming variety. It didn't take long to find out
I was not at a Pow Wow, I was at an Indian Unity Meeting. The lady
stirring the pot came all the way from Cape Cod, and in as nice a way
as possible she told me that I was not supposed to be there. That was
not what I wanted to hear. Actually I felt more Indian than the
Indians that I came with, but I really couldn't tell the lady that. I
was about to say goodbye when a not so nice Indian, the Chief maybe,
came up to me and in non-flowery speech informed me that I was not an
Indian. I could have argued the point, but I was well aware that this
day had run its course and what was left of my energy had to be
directed over the horizon.

I went back to the Herb family to bid adieux, get my bike, and ride
off into the sunset. So as not to be seen drinking, they were camped
on the other side of the swamp from the Pow Wow, errr, Unity Meeting.
Ma Herb had stopped at the liquor store and packed Herb's cooler. I
was handed one last beer. Conversation never got around to the Pow
Wow, but I did find out where Herb got his money. The new motorcycles
and truck were bought with the $25,000 that he had just won in the
lottery. Herb was one rich, drunk, Indian. Before leaving I asked for
the money I had spent on the family during the trip down to Yarmouth.
Herb replied, "On Monday, when I get to the bank, I'll give you the
money." I was offered two bologna sandwiches, instead. I accepted
them without a second thought.

I just ate them. They were good. I'm presently thirty miles from
Digby, and the ferry over to New Brunswick, heading for home. I am not
depressed from this day's events. Actually, when I think about it, I
have to smile. It had been insane, but at least now, I'm headed for
home. I can't continue this trip. I'm tired of biking, tired of being
dirty, tired of eating shity food, tired of everything, but most of
all, I'm tired of looking for a campsite when its going to rain at any
minute.

Memorable Motorcycle Ride

Down To Yarmouth
June ’77

We put my bike in the truck, and I climbed on the back of Lenny's
motorcycle while Butch, Herb's 7 year-old, climbed on the back of his
dad's motorcycle. Oh, and before I forget, there was one other thing
that helped me decide to go to the Pow Wow. When Herb was trying to
get me to go with the family, I told him, "I can't afford to spend
much money since I was running short on cash." Without hesitation,
good old Herb shot back, "Don't worry about money, just get on board.
It'll be fun; you'll see." Anyway, things began to look a little
tilted when Herb took off on his motorcycle at 80 and 90 mph. Lenny
and I were right behind.

At our first stop, Mrs. Herb was not happy. She made Butch get off
the motorcycle and back into the truck. She told her husband to slow
down. Herb, now upset, took off at 110 mph. Lenny stayed with him up
to 100 mph and then backed off. Thank-you Lenny. We left the truck in
the dust, as we careened around the winding curves on the two-lane
road at 45-degree angles. I was now having second thoughts about
wanting to go to the Pow Wow. Apparently, I had put to much faith in
that coffee Herb was drinking when he convinced me to ride along;
after all, when I met him, he was stumbling around on the side of the
rode. When Lenny and I caught up to him, he was coming out of a
roadside party-store. In his hand was a brown paper bag, which turned
out to be cheap whisky. The bottle got passed around before Lenny and
I could even dismount. I had two drinks before the empty pint had to
be broken against some rocks (Indian superstition I guess). Once we
took off again, I became very irritated as I watched the same scenery
that had taken me three wet, depression filled days to bicycle, move
past me in the wrong direction. At least we had slowed to a reasonable
speed, 60 mph.

Our next stop was when Herb had to get gas. Both Lenny and I watched
in horror, as he was too drunk to keep his bike balanced. It fell to
the pavement, almost hitting the gas pump. All three of us struggled
to upright the bike. The shiny, new bike quite literally lost some of
its color after that. Herb told us he was too high to ride. High was
not the right word. Stone drunk would have been more appropriate.
Lenny looked at me and said, "Let’s get him something to eat." There
was a restaurant across the street, so after Lenny parked his cycle in
the parking lot, and then came back for Herb's cycle, we all went
inside the restaurant.

Up at the counter, after we finished eating our meal, Herb realized he
didn't have any money. I ended up paying for his fish and chip dinner.
Outside the restaurant, Lenny assured me Mrs. Herb would pay me. He
said she was carrying $350 cash. After lunch Herb still couldn't
ride. He wanted to lie down and sleep. As Lenny and I scouted out a
place for Herb to lie down, Herb got on his cycle and took off.
Careening down the highway after him, I longed for the feel of my own
bike underneath me rather than this vibrating monster that went 90 mph.

Searching For Lost Traveler’s Checks

On Wet Lawn Chairs Drinking Beer
June ’77

Up with the sun, errrr, I mean fog, I went to look for my traveler's
checks and on my way back to the canteen, I met Herb. He wanted
to help me search, so the two of us retraced my
steps back to the canteen. Just as I reached the canteen, on the
shoulder of the road, I found my black checkbook lying in the weeds.
Herb got all excited and wanted me to celebrate with him by having a
beer back at his campsite. I agreed, and followed him down a logging
trail, where we came to a camper. His family was still asleep. We sat
down in wet lawn chairs with our beers in hand. If it weren't for the
fact that I had found my lost money, that morning would have gone down
as the gloomiest in history. The mist was so thick, you got wet
through osmosis, not rain.

Herb and his family-- wife, three boys, and a daughter, were on their
way to a Pow Wow in Yarmouth. After our second beer, I found myself
searching my head for reasons not to take Herb up on his offer. He
wanted me to throw my bike in the back of his truck, hop on the back
of his motorcycle, and go with him and his family down to the Pow Wow.
By then he was already drinking the coffee that his wife had handed
him (he had had a few beers before he met me) and his 17 year-old
son was working on both of Herb's motorcycles. After the
Pow Wow he promised to take me all the way to Turo, which
was another hundred miles up the coast. He lived on the Micmack
Indian Reservation, which was not far from Turo.

It all sounded too good to be true. I really wanted to go to an
authentic Pow Wow, but my past experience with Indians, especially the
Montana debacle, where my drinking buddy deliberately ran over me with
his truck, made me think twice about spending time with Indians and
alcohol again. But, I told myself this had to be different. After all,
this was a whole family of Indians, a family that sported two new 750
cc Honda s, and an almost new camper. That had to say something about
responsible behavior. I mean accumulating possessions took money and
that usually meant you had to be able to handle responsibilities.
Anyway, I said to myself, "nothing ventured, nothing gained," as I
told Herb, "sure, I'll go with you back to Yarmouth!"