It has been a long flight from Toronto but I am holding up well. I am sitting with my carry on bag in a lounge in Heathrow airport waiting for my connection to Lisbon in two hours.
Yesterday I rode my bicycle to my parents place in Malton, which is next to Lester B Pearson (formerly Toronto International Airport), to test out how all the bags felt. Everything was fine. The weather was just above freezing and the roads were clear again. It took about an hour and a half from my house near Dundas and Broadview to reach Malton.
I spent last night and the following morning with my parents. Dad went to bed early, like he usually does on Sunday nights, and he was off to work shortly after I got up. Mom fawned over me the whole time I was there, asking if I was hungry, if I wanted food for the flight or if she could run to the store for any last minute item. If anything, she made me more anxious than less.
I called Mike too last night. Everything is ready on his end. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you in three days,” he surmised in an understated, optimistically cheery voice, his usual substitute for enthusiasm.
In the late afternoon, before it grew dark, I packed up the bike and rode to the airport to wait for my 9 pm flight to London. The access route into the airport was never intended to accommodate bicycles. Mom was worried about that and wanted to drive me there, but if I was going to criss-cross Europe I was prepared to cycle these first six km on my own. The traffic was a bit dicey but I made it safely to the departure level.
Inside I took my bags off, stuffed my handlebar bag into one of my front panniers for my carry on. My other rear pannier, both front panniers, my sleeping roll and pad went into a disposable cotton duffel bag, which comprised one of the two items I was allowed to check in. I checked it in first, then returned for my bike which I had locked up nearby. It was my second item.
Before I checked it into special baggage, I taped foam tubes meant for pipe insulation around the main parts of the frame, let half the air out of the tires so they wouldn’t explode in the de-pressurized baggage compartment, loosened the curl-down handlebars, turned them sideways and curled them around the cross-tube so that the front wheel could not turn more than a couple inches, taped the pump to the frame, removed the pedals and reattached them on the opposite side of the crank shanks so they extended inward towards the frame instead of away from it. These are the basic airport requirements I have had practice doing on previous trips.
In the past they have also asked me to put my bike into a box, but my touring bike is a few inches too long for a regular bike box and I had no way of carrying a box to the airport. As I have done in the past, I feigned irritation and told them the travel agent had said boxes would be available at the airport. Miscommunication on this issue is common and they eventually accepted my bike as it was.
On the flight, I was seated in the middle seat on one side. On my left was a young American woman, about 30, on her way to Moscow. She seemed intelligent and caring, but more interested in catching some sleep than chatting. On the other side was Ken, formerly university professor of business administration at McMaster University in Hamilton. He is retired at 52 now, enjoying life at his home near Long Point on Lake Erie bird watching and carving wood.
He talked for a while about lifestyles and life choices and came around to talking about his marriages. His second wife was his greatest relationship. His emotions were close to the surface as he shared that she died of cancer ten years ago. His doctor and best friend helped end her suffering sooner by giving her an overdose of morphine, which at the time he knew would be best but which he has always regretted for shortening his time with her. He admitted he hadn’t gotten over her and hoped he never would.
He shares his house and life with a new partner now, a woman ten years younger. She knows she is sharing the house with his wife’s ghost but she doesn’t mind, and he needs the companionship even if their relationship never reaches the same level of commitment. So, only a couple hours into my trip I have met my first really interesting person.
Ken’s stories haunted me for the rest of the flight. I half dozed for the last couple hours, waking from time to time, each time surprised that being on an airplane was not part of my dream. When I was awake I kept my eyes closed. It was still dark and I didn’t want to talk. I folded my arms across my lap and, with the fingers of my right hand, felt the hardness of the Allen key in my left pocket, the tool I needed to reassemble my bike. I traced its outline with my right forefinger like a religious ritual, as it was the key to my future.
I am really in London now, surreal as that seems since I can’t see any of it. I expected I would need to collect my duffel bag and bike here in Heathrow and carry them over to another terminal but I have been assured that the airline will do it for me. I am a little uneasy about that. From last experience I have learned that special baggage is sometimes forgotten or loaded on the wrong flight. I have had to wait a couple days for my bike on other trips so I am hoping it will work right this time. If not, I have a day and a half to wait before Mike arrives anyway. That should be enough.
PHOTO: Me, March 3, 1991
1 comment:
My bike was too long too but a bike shop cobbled together two bike boxes to fit it all in. Way oversized but the airline still took it.
Post a Comment