The Spoked Traveller | Transitions
Trails and advice cycling around the world as solo female cyclist and adventurer
mountain bike, adventure travel, cycling travel, bike tours, outdoor, solo travel, female mountain biking, badass female cycling, female travellers, women travel, adventurous
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Transitions. The proverbial stop-overs in life. Leaving one person, place, thing and moving onto the next. But not knowing what is next. Spooky? Life.

Made the big move to Toronto last weekend (UHaul full of bed etc…) and make the big, big move this weekend. Cleaning up, repainting walls, filling in holes, covering some spills. For the next few weeks, between homes. So, it got me thinking: what is home? Is it just a place where you hang your coat, sleep? Someone once told me that the town where you live shouldn’t matter: home is a state of mind. But why do I feel so weird about this move?

I leave London all the time. In fact, every summer for the past decade, I pack my bags and go. But why has this ‘permanent’ move got me so whacked out? Maybe it’s because I have always returned to London. In its weird little way, this place has gotten under my skin and become my home, my base? Gasp? Wash your mouth out with soap! I hate this place. Or that is what I shouted from the mountain tops for years. But I have carved out a community here–despite its reputation as not the friendliest town, London has some people and places that have become home.

For one, Wortley Village. I walk to my yoga studio; I talk to my neighbour whose life is almost polar opposite to mine: she is getting married again, has the most adorable home and is a mom. I will miss our ‘getting-into-the-car’ conversations.

I will miss my coffee shop, which is also in transition. The East Village Cafe on Dundas. The old one was a small little spot that served a mean Mexicano near the Aeolian Hall. Every Saturday morning I’d be fixed to the church pew chair marking paper after paper. Coffee after coffee. Paper. After. Paper. Now, the shop has crossed the street to a bigger, better and beautiful location. It’s not officially open, but Linda said there is a chair in the corner reserved for me when it does. I asked for a plaque. One day last year I spent the day helping them clean out some cupboards for a little music event–an event for regulars only. In the afternoon, I looked up from cleaning to see the snow falling on Dundas Street through the giant floor-to-sky windows. Cars zooming by, snow falling, people walking… inside this cafe, watching the world go by. That night, Linda poured me a glass of red as Reid Jamieson and his wife sang from the tiny stage in the corner. The snow still falling outside, and inside, all of us, quietly listening. Great things are happening in this place.

I love my bar: The Morrissey House is more than a local watering hole. Aaron, Walter, Trev, Paul, Ollie, Mike, Len, Andy, Jimmy, Amy…and of course, Mark. Ahh Mark, you wonderful red-head you. Nay, not a lass that can tame that one. I can step through those doors any day of the week and one of you is there. It’s like you’re waiting for me? No? Ok, it just feels like it. I love how I can stop in for a glass of wine for half an hour, or stay for an entire Sunday afternoon sitting at the bar, and then when I leave, I give my boys a bear hug goodbye. Who doesn’t need a hug?

I will miss you London, Ontario.

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