The Brother-In-Law of Invention, Co-Starring "The Janes"

Our lunch had been slow, like the town we had landed in, and we sat at an uneven picnic table shifting gravel under our boots. Thrill-seeking insects dropped by to test our off-road reflexes, and we chugged back coffee to wash down the exclamations of our ride this far. Yes, we liked the boats, the commercial fishing ones with the clever names tied to the dock; yes, we liked the yacht club with their adorable Jr. sailing program and unpretentious saltwater pool.

We got up to leave the town that would forget about us as soon as we placed our order at the counter, and we became a number, the trio of vagabonds who had formed our ragtag group that morning. Mounting the bikes again, we ducked under the shadow of the metropolis of motorhomes inching their way along Main Street. We kept pace with the sidewalk shufflers and crept toward an uncluttered view of the coast, while salt from the ocean breeze seasoned our faces.

At the edge of town, we broke free from the bottleneck and tackled the roads like we’d been kept in at recess and had extra energy to burn. Somewhere between digestion and the next town, Jeff’s coffee kicked in and led us over blind hills and around cottage country so fast that the ticks couldn’t stick to us even if they tried. Eventually we landed at a Tim Hortons, for a dose of patriotism and a discussion. I was having more fun on the group ride than I’d expected, and his sudden announcement came just as I was getting attached to the idea of riding companions. “We have some decisions to make,” he said, and reached into his expansive mapped-out memory log to recite ways to reach my campground. Our decision to split came down to a matter of free time. He and his nephew worked the next day, so we broke up at Tim Hortons, but used their washrooms first.

I adapted easily to the liberation of a self-guided tour. I became a sightseer, pulled over to reference my map frequently, stopped for more pictures, and dropped the worry of having a new rider in my rearview. I felt untethered and bounced along the roads until late in the day when I found the sign pointing to my campground. The heat had pressed the last bit of energy out of my eye sockets, and I was looking forward to crashing for the night. A dirt road led me to the check-in cabin at the entrance, which was guarded by a white metal gate. On the porch stood a woman in safari shorts and a golf shirt, the gatekeeper's uniform. Her directions led me to the bottom of a hill, and as I arrived, I began to doubt my interpretation. The bottom of the hill offered an expansive lake, and where I was supposed to turn left had been blocked by a tangle of trees. Full of exhaustion, I rocked my bike back and forth, and as my front wheel climbed the hill, it slipped on a rock hidden under a spongy blanket of moss. This wasn’t the crash I was looking for but merely the one I got.  

Jumping free from the frame, I hit the kill switch and closed off the carbs as they leaked fuel from my bleeding beauty on her side. Out of the gas cap trickled a small stream of gasoline, which ran like tears into the ground, as I bent down to pick up my mess. A group of innocent bystanders camping nearby saw my predicament and put their competitive domino game aside to win the collective Good Samaritan Award. We brought my bike back to its proper position on the count of three. Remember, the kill switch is on, remember the carbs are closed, remember to say thank you. We walked through the woods to my site, and I joined in on their endless round of high fives, which when we’d reached the count of 25 seemed satisfactory; I would have given them 100 if they’d wanted them, but they turned away and went back to their game.  

Inspecting my bike for damage, I removed the Cravens from their side latches and checked their new plastic mounts. The night before was supposed to have been my first night camping, but thunderstorms had made their way to the Valley, and I had jumped on the chance to wake up in a dry bed instead of floating in a puddle at a campground. Jeff had offered a spot in his basement, a soft mattress that looked so inviting that it was broken in as a wrestling mat by his dogs before it became mine officially. Besides offering the bed, he noticed that my Craven rubber mounts were worn and had retreated to his workshop to find a solution. The type of caregiver who wants to look after you with his inventions, he reappeared with four new 3D-printed mounts. Things had fallen apart that evening, and my next piece of gear to snap was the handle, so a leather replacement was made on his industrial sewing machine. So far, his fixes had lasted a day in the wild and a drop in the mud and were holding up well.

I thought about the kindness of the homemade solutions as I set up my tent and placed my earplugs on my leather jacket as if they were pillow mints, thinking when I came back to my tent I’d feel like I was in a luxury hotel. When I emerged, my neighbours had sent over a scout, the grandfather of the group who invited me for smores. I was feeling lonely that night, not an emotion I’m used to, so I accepted the after-dinner invitation. I checked my teeth in the side mirror, applied some bug spray cologne, and made my way over with the only item that felt worthy of sharing, a half-eaten box of fresh cherries. The Janes welcomed me with open arms and stuck a stick in my hands with a marshmallow on top. Fired and squished between crackers and chocolate, I attempted to eat the taco of the camping world while making new friends. It didn’t seem to bother them as I dripped food on their lawn chairs, and their dogs cared even less about the wonderful mess they’d get to clean up later. When it was bedtime for the kids, I walked back to my tent.

Grandfather Jane appeared minutes later, this time with a bundle of kindling he had just chopped and some newsprint for a starter. “Hope you have a rager,” he said and walked ten paces back to his place. Their generosity was a lot to take in, and I let it settle around me until it got cold.

Maybe some day you’ll meet your own family of “Janes” when you need them, or maybe you’ll be the Janes in someone else’s life. They were another reminder of what family can be like when you’re on your own and absorbed me in a hug after a fall they hadn’t even witnessed. The evening shifted slowly into darker shades, and the campground held a quiet intermission before the nighttime creatures emerged. We had all stopped travelling for the night, but the sky never stops, and I spent the evening on a rock above my fire, watching satellites and stars move across the sky..