Morning! Everyone agrees that our beds were plush and comfy and most of us slept relatively well. We had breakfast in the hotel restaurant, overlooking the lake. Not out on the balcony, because it's already on the steamy-warm side.
I have eggs & baccy, because I loves them. Monica finds some vegan porridge that makes her happy. Mom is also on the porridge wagon, and Joe joins me in the eggs & baccy corner. I also like to start my mornings with a shot of Jack Daniels - that's brisky, baby! (Okay, it's water. But I like the bottle.)
We're supposed to check out by 11 a.m. Plenty of time for a bike ride! We go to the front desk to request some bikes. Glancing out the front window, we see three adult bikes, and two child-sized bikes. A man is at the desk, asking questions about the bikes, and he heads outside. We ask the clerk to check out two bikes. "Uh... I actually only have one adult bike available now." "Well, that's completely useless to us."
Turns out, the dad is taking the TWO adult bikes for him and his pint-sized 8-year-old son, who cannot even climb on the bike without assistance. Monica goes out to question his choice - "but you're giving your child an adult bike?", and he says, "Well, we won't be long."
The kid can't get on the bike. The dad has to hold it, while the kid climbs on, and once he's on, he can reach the pedals, but not the ground. He wibble-wobbles around in wobbly weaving ways, while wearing flip flops. Wow, you really are the worst dad ever! (I'm feeling judgy.) Sucky-Bad-Dad rides off, and anxious wobbley boy zigzags after him. There's no way this will end well.
I heroically resist the urge to shake my fist at them as they leave; nevertheless, it is possible that I am steaming with simmering rage in the steamy heat of an already steamy morning. That guy is a jerkwad. Also, he is obtuse, and entitled, and I dislike him somewhat.
Monica and I decide to go for a walk on a short trail, since that is the only option open to us. I am not really mollified, and despite my Deep Woods Off, the mosquitoes seem to know we're here. I AM LOOSING BLOOD. LOTS OF IT.
Eventually, my phone pings with a text from mom: "A man came back with a bike, with his son pushing a bike." Who could have foreseen things ending this way? We quickly head back and claim the bikes. At the time, this feels like victory!
We pedal off onto a wide gravel and grass trail, on what on what promises to be a lovely, scenic 10km loop. Yay! These are the upright "coaster" type of bikes - where you sit upright, no gears, and foot brakes (no hand brakes). It's okay; it's just nice to be out and riding.
At first, it wasn’t so bad. Wide and winding trails through the trees, a bit of undergrowth, but in general, it was happiness. We saw a deer. Yay! But then things got a little less happy, and a then little less. The hills got steeper. The roots got rootier, and they started creeping out more and more. And as time went on, and we passed the point of no return (that would be over the 5k mark, the point where it would now be longer to turn back than to go on), we began to realize the serious deficiencies of our bikes.
Coaster bikes don't have gears. And let me tell you, it is exhausting toiling uphill when you can’t change gears, and all you can do is labour and wheeze. But downhill is worse, so much worse, due to the stupid foot brakes. It’s not just that we’re used to hand brakes (which we are) – it’s that leaning back on the foot brake locks the wheels and also throws you off kilter as you try to balance on an awkward angle, while skidding and bouncing over tree roots.
Instead of safely braking and coming to a stop, what actually happens is that you find yourself flying off the trail and into tree trunks, or falling off your bike, or falling down into a ravine. Sometimes, you manage to do all at once: the bike slides, and you’re heading straight for a tree, so you try to brake, causing you to dramatically zoom off into a ravine, and you swallow a bug while screaming.
This is the kind of fun that’s not.
Did I mention it's hot? We have sweated off all of our mosquito repellent. The mosquitos are feasting. It is check-out time, and we still have 4 kms to go. If that mothertrucker at the front desk complains, I am going to kill him. After I finish taking my stupid-ass bike across a ridiculous leaf-strewn BALANCE BEAM which is the only way to traverse a muddy slough puddle. This place sucks. I hate it. I hate it a lot.
If I had been fortunate enough to come across a golfer with a cart, I would have happily beaten him over the head with his own clubs, stolen his golf cart, and driven myself back. Unfortunately, there were no potential-golfer-victims to be found.
We eventually emerged onto a gravel road, rejoicing at the signs of civilization. Pedalling back to the resort, a full-half-hour after check-out time, we staggered back to our room, with a glare at the desk clerk - "not a word, my friend; not a freaking word!" - and finally checked out.
You looked good at first, Elk Ridge, but I gotta say, it was all just pain and rage and sadness and blood loss.
 |
| When your water glass is cleverly disguised as booze.Or vice-versa. |
We're supposed to check out by 11 a.m. Plenty of time for a bike ride! We go to the front desk to request some bikes. Glancing out the front window, we see three adult bikes, and two child-sized bikes. A man is at the desk, asking questions about the bikes, and he heads outside. We ask the clerk to check out two bikes. "Uh... I actually only have one adult bike available now." "Well, that's completely useless to us."
Turns out, the dad is taking the TWO adult bikes for him and his pint-sized 8-year-old son, who cannot even climb on the bike without assistance. Monica goes out to question his choice - "but you're giving your child an adult bike?", and he says, "Well, we won't be long."
The kid can't get on the bike. The dad has to hold it, while the kid climbs on, and once he's on, he can reach the pedals, but not the ground. He wibble-wobbles around in wobbly weaving ways, while wearing flip flops. Wow, you really are the worst dad ever! (I'm feeling judgy.) Sucky-Bad-Dad rides off, and anxious wobbley boy zigzags after him. There's no way this will end well.
I heroically resist the urge to shake my fist at them as they leave; nevertheless, it is possible that I am steaming with simmering rage in the steamy heat of an already steamy morning. That guy is a jerkwad. Also, he is obtuse, and entitled, and I dislike him somewhat.
Monica and I decide to go for a walk on a short trail, since that is the only option open to us. I am not really mollified, and despite my Deep Woods Off, the mosquitoes seem to know we're here. I AM LOOSING BLOOD. LOTS OF IT.
Eventually, my phone pings with a text from mom: "A man came back with a bike, with his son pushing a bike." Who could have foreseen things ending this way? We quickly head back and claim the bikes. At the time, this feels like victory!
We pedal off onto a wide gravel and grass trail, on what on what promises to be a lovely, scenic 10km loop. Yay! These are the upright "coaster" type of bikes - where you sit upright, no gears, and foot brakes (no hand brakes). It's okay; it's just nice to be out and riding.
 |
| A deer! In the forest! With us! |
Coaster bikes don't have gears. And let me tell you, it is exhausting toiling uphill when you can’t change gears, and all you can do is labour and wheeze. But downhill is worse, so much worse, due to the stupid foot brakes. It’s not just that we’re used to hand brakes (which we are) – it’s that leaning back on the foot brake locks the wheels and also throws you off kilter as you try to balance on an awkward angle, while skidding and bouncing over tree roots.
Instead of safely braking and coming to a stop, what actually happens is that you find yourself flying off the trail and into tree trunks, or falling off your bike, or falling down into a ravine. Sometimes, you manage to do all at once: the bike slides, and you’re heading straight for a tree, so you try to brake, causing you to dramatically zoom off into a ravine, and you swallow a bug while screaming.
This is the kind of fun that’s not.
Did I mention it's hot? We have sweated off all of our mosquito repellent. The mosquitos are feasting. It is check-out time, and we still have 4 kms to go. If that mothertrucker at the front desk complains, I am going to kill him. After I finish taking my stupid-ass bike across a ridiculous leaf-strewn BALANCE BEAM which is the only way to traverse a muddy slough puddle. This place sucks. I hate it. I hate it a lot.
If I had been fortunate enough to come across a golfer with a cart, I would have happily beaten him over the head with his own clubs, stolen his golf cart, and driven myself back. Unfortunately, there were no potential-golfer-victims to be found.
We eventually emerged onto a gravel road, rejoicing at the signs of civilization. Pedalling back to the resort, a full-half-hour after check-out time, we staggered back to our room, with a glare at the desk clerk - "not a word, my friend; not a freaking word!" - and finally checked out.
You looked good at first, Elk Ridge, but I gotta say, it was all just pain and rage and sadness and blood loss.
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