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It was pitch black. Dead of night. I had just crossed a bridge I never knew existed. Terrified in terra incognita. Getting ready to jump into a great, wide open.
You never know what will happen, what you’ll learn.
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I don’t remember when I crossed that bridge. But it was either the summer of 1974 or 1975, just after I had bought my lime-green CCM Turismo 10-speed bicycle.
Every now and then throughout that summer – and always in the early morning so I could avoid the sweltering southwest headwind – I would jump on my Turismo and pedal, southward, fast as I could, the 30 miles between my house in Sarnia and my grandmother’s house on the south side of Gillard Street in Wallaceburg. I would stay at my grandmother’s for one night and then, the following afternoon – so I could catch the push of what h