Slapped With Pigeon Shit

Coastal Mountains, British Columbia
July, ’80


Very carefully I climbed over the barbed wire fence that was between
the barn and me. Then I lifted my bike (around 75 lbs.) over the fence
and carried it. I didn't want to wake up with another punctured tire.
After trudging through a field of knee high grass, I walked the last
fifty yards across ankle deep mushy cow dung. When I arrived at the
barn soaked from the waist down, I found so much water falling through
the roof that I had to put up my tent anyway--inside the barn. I
actually had a hard time determining the driest spot to erect my tent.
Finally, after shedding my wet pants and crawling into my tent, I
realized that I hadn't noticed the roosting pigeons in the barn's
rafters. Lying in my damp (almost wet) sleeping bag, and listening to
a mixture of raindrops and pigeon shit slap the outside of my tent, I
had finally arrived at day's end of the worst bicycling imaginable, and,
as such, I vowed I would never spend another night in the rain.

I'm sick of being in, riding in, and feeling rain in my face. Right
now I'm going to take off this wet jacket and crawl further down into
my warm sleeping bag (yes, goose down is warm even when wet) and
block out from my mind this whole mind-numbing experience. And don't
give me that crap about "been there done that" because I refuse to even think it!
I'm wet, miserable, and sick to my stomach. Goodnight!