Biking by the Lake at Night

The road home seemed longer in the dark. Full of shadowed bends and turns it plunged me into puddles of blindness. I was on the Waterfront Trail. Shrubs and trees morphed into shadow beings, eating the light. Rustling leaves sounded like the crunching of small bones.

My back was soaked and still more sweat dripped down my face. There was no time to reach into my pocket, grab the rag and mop my brow. The night was here, like the fear, it was too near. I could not peddle fast enough to outrun the blanket of obsura.

The lake shimmered on my right. I found no comfort there that night. Following that silvery shine seemed to be leading me to the underworld. I should have taken the bus home.

Spending the afternoon with a friend was fun. Caught up in the moment we decided to go out for dinner. The autumn evening was warm and dry. I came out on my bike and planned to return home the same way; but this time cycling on the pavement and only using the bike trail where it ran parallel to the street. I would be home in an hour, about the same time as taking a streetcar and a bus.

The main road was on my left. The cars seemed to go faster in the night. Were they too trying to outrun the dark? Two cars weaved across the lanes, no indicators, too fast they cut back into the right lane. Tires squealed as the cars speed into the lakeshore parking lot. One car overtook the other on the bend, accelerated and raced to the end of the lot. The brakes screeched again.

I pushed harder as my heart hammered in my chest. I had to go pass the parking lot. What if the guys in the cars need more fun? The doors flung the open, rock music blared, and four men emerged from each car. Cigarettes and white skins glowed in the liminal light.

I was almost near them. The men gathered around one car and examined its back under the streetlight. Beer cans were in their hands. Deep voices cursed. Then laughter. Marijuana perfumed the air. As I flew by, I saw that the bumper was hanging off the back of the car. There were four more parking lots to go.

I knew the route. I had cycled up and down that section of the Waterfront Trail hundreds of time. But never near midnight. I could not sprint home. It was too far.

The lights of the Palais Royale twinkled ahead. My legs and heart slowed as the warm bulbs drew near. Two women smoked on the steps of the banquet hall. Three men leaned against the railings, also smoking. They were the first pedestrians I had seen near the bike trail. Inside the hall people chattered in little groups, wine glasses in hand. A portrait of Billie Holiday caught my eye. I knew that one well. Mouth opened in ecstasy she sings in front of a microphone with white gardenias glistening in her hair. I heard her singing Strange Fruit in my head. Then I shuddered as I saw them hanging from the poplar tree.

Half way home I got off the bike trail. I was too jumpy to enjoy the lake breeze and the starlight shimmering through the trees. I reminded myself I had nothing to prove. I cycled home on a main road filled with cars, bicycles and more importantly people out walking in the autumn night.

Sailing on a Half Moon

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Dreaming of Cycling Around Lake Ontario

This winter, I am dreaming of cycling. A long summer trip, from one end of Lake Ontario to the other. And when that is done, there are four other Great Lakes to do.

Why not? The giant blue beads of water shimmer in my imagination. Straddling two nations, the lakes bisect two realities.

The southern lands, loved by the sun. Fields of rice, tobacco and cotton swaying in the wind. Crops picked by hands blacken by god, calloused by the shackles, blistered by the whips.

The northern earth, littered with snow. Too cold for whip-fed crops to grow.

Town and villages along the lake twinkled in the night. How to reach the northern lights, hiking without torchlights?

Blue body, the in-between border. Cross over, and find a new order. Cross under and drink the abyss. The taste of that first crossing filling the mouth.

I dream of cycling around the lakes. It’s adventure and a tick on my bucket-list.

50 Places: A Black History Travel Guide of London