Table of Contents | The Mountains | The Prairies (II) |
Bar-B-Qued Burgers
Everyone was up early, away from the hostel and on the road by 0700 hrs today, Monday, July 8, our 12th day of the trip. Passing a few elk on Tunnel Mountain as we departed the hostel, Bob and I descended the mountain's flank to the Bow River Valley floor. Gingerly crossing the Texas gate at the edge of Banff townsite, then turning onto the four-lane Trans-Canada Highway, we were again enjoying life in the sun. Good tailwinds greeted us as we resumed our eastward journey, and within the hour we were through the gate and outside the boundary of Banff National Park. (Map of British Columbia & Alberta) At Canmore we switched to the old highway, 1A, staying on it as far as Cochrane. The initial miles of this journey, from Canmore to Exshaw, are magnificent—a series of hills and turns, then past a couple of pretty lakes guarded by a saw-toothed mountain range. Bob and I had lunch beside a gas station/convenience store on the Stoney Indian reserve accompanied by two mongrel dogs, silently waiting at our feet for scraps. Towards the end of our lunch the store manager came out, looked their way, tapped on the tarmac with a long staff and the dogs hightailed it into the woods. The man never spoke.
Christine, leaving independently from her hotel, stayed on the TCH right to the Cochrane junction, joining our route there.
Since Vancouver I had been anticipating the enjoyment of an ice cream cone in Cochrane, one of MacKay's famous home-made flavours. By promising to buy one for Bob I persuaded him to ride the extra couple of klicks into town. I leisurely enjoyed my double-decker cone while sitting on a bench across from the store, watching the busy little town. This ice cream, Cochrane's primary claim to fame, is truly one of Canada's finest. Bob had his ice cream in the form of a milkshake, or malted in his words, which he used to wash down the sandwich bought next door.
Briefly fighting the strong headwind that had carried us from Banff, we retraced our steps back to the junction of Hwy 22, then turned north. With the wind now on our left we struggled up the big hill out of town, turning east a few kilometres later onto County Road 567.
As we rode away from the influence of the mountains and onto the open prairie, the wind swung 180 degrees, directly into our faces. For the most part Bob rode first, but on the flat sections I took the odd turn at the front whenever he tired. On most uphills I came around him and gave him a pull, which he seemed to really appreciate. It was here I learned how strong Bob truly was on the flats. I was content to stay on his wheel for likely 2/3 of the remaining miles that day, happy with simply being pulled along in his wind-shadow.
We were finally on the prairies!
The prairies were new country to many of our group, and it had been fun listening to the voices bursting with excitement in anticipation of seeing these "tabletop flat" lands. However, across central Alberta, around Airdrie in particular, the land is a series of big rolling hills separated by the occasional deep, steep, creek valley. What a shock this undulating terrain was to those who thought the topography would be completely without hills! Bob started moaning very early about all the hills that didn't belong there. It was a common topic around the supper-table that evening, together with the strong wind.
Also receiving its fair share of discussion was the complete change of scenery. Gone were the mountains, but nearly as noticeable was the almost complete absence of trees. Only along creek beds or where planted as windbreaks surrounding farm houses were they growing. The rich, black farm land held its own beauty, however. Bright green fields of young wheat contrasted with the brilliant yellow hue of ripening canola, a Canadian hybrid of rape. The canola fields were in full bloom, often stretching to the horizon. This crop is still relatively new to the world, and several of our group had never heard of it. Fewer still had seen it. Cameras were busy that day taking highly-prized photos of their owners standing amidst these almost surreal fields of sunlight.
After two or three hours of tough slugging into the relentless wind we turned north onto Highway 9, just south of Irricana. Better. But even the crosswind made us battle for the final 15 kms to Beiseker and the campsite. Over the next two or three days we would be following Hwy 9 right to the Saskatchewan border.
We'd left Banff at 0800 and arrived in Beiseker at 1630 hrs, having passed everyone along the way. Ken and Annette were getting water from a farm house just beyond Cochrane when we overtook them, having elected not to go into town. Marny, Paddy and James were catching their wind at the road's edge, but we had obviously missed the others when they were off the road somewhere for food or water.
By declining our invitations to join-on as we rode past meant that for many the long ride had been a singular effort. They missed the luxury of sharing the effort of fighting the wind by leading for a bit, then getting a respite by tucking in behind, drafting for a few minutes and recovering while another person struggled at the front. Riding a tight paceline was still a new and difficult skill for much of our group. Consequently, many had made extended, independent efforts throughout the long day. The hills and the wind had been much tougher for those who had fought the miles single-handedly.
Bicycling is hard work, requiring many calories. My sustenance for most days was two or three sandwiches, a couple of bananas, and some GORP. (Legend has it that members of the Sierra Club"invented" GORP for use as a trail mix. It is an acronym for Grains, Oats, Raisins, Peanuts. The van stocked sunflower seeds, rolled oats, raisins and peanuts. I preferred mostly the latter two with just a sprinkling of the former.) It seemed to sustain me, and digested easily. Today, though, for the 183 kms, I had made four sandwiches, giving myself a variety of two peanut butter and jam, and two PB and honey. An apple supplemented the customary two bananas. The ice cream cone at Cochrane contained yet more fuel. I was still starving by supper time!
Eating an orange or two immediately upon arriving in camp to replenish my potassium levels soon became a habit. Another practice I developed out of need was occasionally salting some food, something I never did in normal life at home. But no cramps developed en route, except for the calf muscle with old scar tissue mentioned earlier. On the other hand, Bob was a walking pharmacy. He took 9 pills daily, including many vitamins, all manner of trace metals such as chromium, and ended his daily ride with a carefully measured cupful of Ultrafuel. It worked for him—he had no physical problems at any point.
Bob and I had barely erected our tents at the campsite when the Beiseker welcoming committee showed up, greeted us and proceeded to cook supper: bar-b-qued hamburgers. The women prepared around 100 in all. Their timing was good—the burgers were ready just as other cyclists began riding in. The long distance, the big rolling hills east of Cochrane and the steady headwind had really punished most people. Surprise, relief and thankfulness was the cooking team's reaction upon learning that supper preparation, by them, wasn't necessary tonight. Starved from the hard exertion, we devoured most of the food, putting the few scraps into our fridge for a snack later. Ray rejoined us here in Beiseker, just in time for supper. Debbie drove down with him, bringing a fabulous chocolate cheesecake—the piece de resistance for tonight's supper.
The community was really warm to us, giving us town pins and taking our photos for the local paper. Their hospitality didn't end with our departure. They sent 13 copies of the press photo and write-up to our mail drop in Kenora, a personal copy for each of us.
We were all in bed early. Except for the tiredness, nobody had suffered any physical problems. Reaching Drumheller tomorrow was an exciting thought, as Lynn would be there, and hopefully Ayrie as well.
Family Reunion
A short day today, 78 klicks, which is a much needed easy day, with a full rest-day to follow. (By the trip's end most people felt that the ride from Banff to Beiseker was the hardest single day of the trip, but several other days were also very strenuous.) It was sunny, dry and hot when we set off and the temperature rose even more as we travelled. We bucked a strong crosswind much of the day, but nothing compared to the headwind of yesterday. Bob pulled most of today. He rode to his watch—the first break at 60 minutes, not before, and right on the hour after that. Getting him to stop for a scenic view was at best difficult, at times impossible. Approaching a posted viewpoint overlooking Horseshoe Canyon I called up to him that I was going to stop. Getting no reply, I repeated my intentions of stopping for a look. When he rode passed the turnoff without even slowing I just hit my brakes and turned in to the parking area. Very impressive it was, this canyon, a huge gouge out of the seemingly flat prairie, shaped indeed like a horseshoe. Off to the side I noticed that Bob had pulled over at the road's edge about 200 yards farther along, perhaps when he dis- covered he was now riding alone. He had his camera out, taking pictures from his vantage point on the highway.
Bob mentioned that he was having problems with his STI rear integrated shifter/brake lever during the afternoon. He was finding it difficult to gear down at times, but had developed a way to work around it. I couldn't notice anything riding behind him, so thought little of it.
The entrance to Drumheller on Hwy 9 is a steep downhill, and all conditions were right for a fun descent. We plunged down, letting the bikes go as they would until we caught up to an automobile, forcing us to brake. Unable to pass due to oncoming traffic we rode its bumper for the remainder of the downhill, frustrated by the enforced speed restriction. It proved to be the fastest speed either of us would attain, about 78 kph.
Lynn had our family booked into a motel but a quick check showed that they hadn't yet arrived. We continued on through the town, passed the huge dinosaur sculpture in the town's park, then an additional 10 km to the RV park on Dinosaur Trail, beyond the famous Tyrrell Museum. Not having to set up a tent that night was such a pleasant feeling. I sat at a picnic table, relaxing as I watched everyone else settle in.
Proudly introducing my family when they arrived, I was especially happy to see that Ayrie had found a way out of work and had made the trip. Lynn had also brought our cat, Bailey, (who ignored me), and our dog, Hoover, (who made a big show about seeing me again). I showed Lynn and Ayrie our set-up, gave them a brief tour of the van, then we went into town for supper, giving me the first real opportunity to share my experiences thus far.
A quiet evening for our family - mainly supper and a walk around town. This stroll included a mostly one-sided conversation with a totally blitzed Jeff on a bar patio. Ray was apparently with him, but somewhere inside, I guess, as we didn't see him. Jeff had previously made an arrangement with us. We were to drive him back to the camp- site whenever he wanted, but he now told us it wouldn't be necessary. His drinking buddy, a "local Yokel" was taking Jeff to his ranch to "ride a horse." In Jeff's words "I called his bluff on it. I didn't think he really had a horse, so now I guess I'm in it!" Oh yeah, I thought, what has Jeff got himself into now? He did go to the ranch, and he did ride the horse, but he did regret it the next day as a horseman he is not. (Jeff is a great guy, willing to try anything, with a mind that is forever challenging common beliefs and considering alternatives to established methods. Very different from my ways but we got along great.)
I took advantage of not having to sleep on the ground, and used the motel bath-tub to check my Therm-A-Rest self-inflating air mattress. These are a terrific device; they fill themselves with air to about 95% capacity, requiring only a couple more puffs to make them really firm. Mine had seemed soft the last few mornings; my hip bone felt like it was touching the ground. Sure enough, a stream of bubbles led me to a small hole. Using some Shoo-Goo that I bought on the recommendation of a hardware store clerk, I patched it. Perfect. I had no more problems with that hole or the mattress for the remainder of the trip.
The campsite at the RV park was very plush, with a pool, good grass, etc., but terribly inconvenient for cyclists. Realizing the awkwardness of their being so far out of town, I drove to camp about 1000 hrs the next morning. Maybe a few would like a lift to town, to shop or even just browse. Barely out of my car, I was bombarded with tales of the incredibly high winds and heavy rain that had hit them during the night. A couple of the tents had leaked badly, Randy and Patti's in particular. James hadn't pegged his tent down and it had nearly blown away. Forced to take action, James had moved it and pegged it down in the height of the storm. Ray had been out in the wind and rain, laughing and celebrating the storm's fury like a man possessed. Lynn, Ayrie and I had slept through it all, with only the wet streets as I drove to the campsite to show that any rain had even fallen.
But all was well, and I took four people back into Drumheller. They shopped and had lunch. Later I ferried them back out, taking some photos of them standing by a big dinosaur statue on the way.
A couple of bike were in desperate need of repair but the town lacked a major bike shop. Enquiries led us to a backyard shop run by Jay, The J-Man, as he so proudly called himself. Ray had Jay repack his rear hub and his headset and was seemingly pleased with Jay's work. Except for his constant chatter. (This backyard mechanic would later prove to be very costly to Ray.) Listening to Ray's report of Jay's work, Randy decided to give him a try on the way out of town the next day because one of his wheels needed truing. I put off doing my usual rest-day bike maintenance in order to be with my family, knowing it could be just as easily be done the following night.
My Mom's health greatly concerned me throughout the entire trip, as she often must be quickly under a doctor's care. I phoned her at her home in Regina while I was at the motel, learning she was doing just fine. I had phoned her once or twice before this and sent the odd postcard to her, but I was just beginning to appreciate how intently Mom was following my progress. I resolved to keep in touch more often.
This was to be my last night under a hard roof for quite a while, until we got to Thunder Bay actually. The reunion today with my family was indeed an extra bonus. We treasured our time together.
Pot Luck
Saying farewell to Lynn and Ayrie was a very tough few minutes that morning of July 11, our 15th day on the road. They dropped me off at the campsite about 0600 hrs, and we parted knowing we would not see each other until September 3. Cycling today was difficult—I felt depressed and really not with it.
However, Randy and Patti were going to see "The J-Man" on their way out of town, and mostly to be in the company of others I went with them. Once at Jay's I had him swap chains as my scheduled maintenance called for, thereby keeping my hands clean while getting the job done. He wanted no payment but Randy and I both gave him a few bucks for his time.
As with 99% of campsites, getting out of them meant climbing a hill, and this was true again today. To make it worse, the road up the hill was under construction. A bit of gravel, some "shaved" pavement (those horrible gouges that run in the direction of travel) and a couple of friendly sign people later, we crested the hill onto "flat" prairie. We were on Hwy 56, looking to pick up #9 again. Bud's maps gave no mileage indications but were usually close to scale, so we estimated 10-15 km to the junction. I forget how far it was but we rode into a strong headwind for so long that we finally stopped to asked directions at a weigh scale. Closed, but a passing motorist stopped and chatted briefly with us on its parking lot. The junction we sought was "just ahead." Learning that we were not locals, this friendly man suggested that since we were so close we should visit a nearby filming location of some recent movies. "Just 8 miles farther north," he said. We appreciated the thought, but had no desire to pedal another 12 km into that headwind, nor to add one extra kilometre to an already long, 142 km day. An easy few minutes in a car, but on a bike? Well over an hour of hard work, round trip. Thanking him, we continued along our original route. Once onto #9 cycling conditions improved greatly. A great tailwind propelled us for the rest of the day, as it and would for the next three days. Riding with Randy and Patti today was good for me. I needed the company, and their friendliness helped me overcome my "leaving-my-family-behind" blues. The many kilometres to Youngstown passed without incident; we just enjoyed the cloudless blue Alberta sky, and the tailwind.
The campsite at Youngstown was a very small field tucked away in the corner of this very small town. But the people of Youngstown are very big-hearted. On Ray's ride in '93 the weather had been so wet and stormy that the town insisted they camp inside the normally-closed arena. This year they cordially invited us, urged us actually, to attend a Pot Luck supper, held in the arena to honour and say farewell to Jim and Mary. This couple were town-builders, having lived there for 81 years and being extremely instrumental throughout most of the town's development and history. They were moving to Red Deer to be close to their son.
To prepare for this "feast" we all had a shower. Actually, we always did, but tonight the shower facilities were about six blocks away, across town in the junior high school. Opening the school for us was surely another indication of the town's friendliness. Not to look a gift horse in the mouth or anything, but we all had a good laugh when we attempted to get clean. No problem at all from the waist down. However, we had to kneel on the floor to be low enough to get under the bellybutton-high shower heads that were just perfect for the younger, smaller people who used the school. Bob had the best solution. He pulled a wooden bench over, sat on it, and showered away.
Shortly before we walked to supper I noticed Paddy was wearing a T-shirt that I couldn't recall seeing before. The writing on the back particularly caught my eye - "My Canada Doesn't Include Western," it said. This surprised me. Paddy hadn't made any political remarks up to this point, and this one did seem rather strong. "We are each entitled to our own opinion concerning the country's makeup," I told her, "but here, tonight, in small town Saskatchewan isn't a good time to be broadcasting your oposition to the western provinces." Now I'd surprised Paddy. Hurt and confused her, too. She had no idea what I was even talking about. I explained that her T-shirt message was telling me that she rejected Westerners from "her" Canada. She explained, in return, that the T-shirt was a college thing, and that "Western" referred to the University of Western Ontario in London, Ontario, commonly referred to as "Western." Paddy further added that on her campus in Guelph there were many other T-shirts with similar messages, with the last word reading "Queens" or "McGill" or "Carleton," etc. Now clear to me, I cautioned her that since I had initially made an incorrect assumption there likely would be others in this small town who would also. While walking to supper I was happy to see that Paddy had reconsidered and changed her shirt.
Supper was a banquet! With over 300 people in attendance, many coming from miles away, we immediately recognized the high regard that the town held for Jim and Mary. Starting off with sheep farming, Jim later opened a garage that ran for many years, then he helped found the library. Mary worked in the library for years, much of it as a volunteer after she had retired. She also painted—a highly-treasured gift to a special few. Speech followed speech, then a skit, and finally a close friend read a touching, down-to-earth, beautiful poem which summed up their lives in this town. The food tables seemed endless and we hungry cyclists went back for seconds. In Randy and Bob's cases even more, but who was counting. Desserts were as varied as the main courses, and we enjoyed it all! (Later, the town women brought us some leftovers for snacks the next day.) The gathering was an exceedingly emotional experience for the townspeople, for the departing couple, and for us. It was an honour and a thrill to have been there and participated in this tribute.
Gassed
My bike was working well, my tummy was full, and I settled down to sleep. It wasn't to be, at least not immediately. About 2200 hrs two guys showed up, parking their junker between my tent and Albert's. Leaving it running, they attempted to start an old relic rusting away at the edge of our small camping area. The idling car was noisy, having virtually no muffler, and its fumes were so gassy and oily that breathing became next to impossible. Thinking that they would soon be on their way I suffered silently in my tent, hoping that I wouldn't die of carbon monoxide poisoning.
The car stopped. Finally!
Restarted!
Damn!
Should I go and complain? Would I get involved in a hassle? I lay there undecided, choking on the fumes. Then I heard a tent zipper. Ray, I thought, as he didn't seem to mind confrontations. But then I heard Albert's voice, our "Elder Statesman," asking ever so diplomatically if they wouldn't mind turning the car off as 13 of us were choking to death. That must have been the right approach as the guys packed it up and left a few minutes later. I was not really proud of my timidness but who knows how it may have worked out with a different scenario. Voices from every tent filled the night air for the next while, with everyone glad to still be alive and breathing. It was a real shame that this happened, as all else had been so great. No one ever blamed the towns-folk for the incident. The name "Youngstown, Alberta," will always induce memories of warmth and graciousness in me.
Voices in the Night
The next couple of days were due east, and long. This was to be the second day of over 140 km, with more to follow. Providing the tailwind holds the distances shouldn't be a problem. Highway 9, Alberta, became Highway 7 as we crossed into Saskatchewan, our third province. (Map of Saskatchewan & Manitoba )The paved shoulder abruptly ended and the road surface became very rough. Several miles farther into the province the asphalt smoothed out and we got the shoulders back, thankfully.
Bob pulled me along at a steady 35 kph, trading off the lead occasionally. He again commented on how it seemed we were always going uphill. I believe this was a result of being able to look 15 or 20 km ahead, seeing and contemplating the long gradual grades facing us, but never noticing the same equally long gradual grades as we descended them. Whatever the explanation, I got a chuckle out of Bob's ongoing whining about the Canadian prairies just being one big, continual uphill.
The time spent last evening oiling my shift levers, and the gear cables where they passed under the bottom bracket was making a huge improvement in shifting, I was noticing. Much smoother and quicker. A lesson learned. An ice cream cone for me and a malted for Bob at Flaxcombe, Sask., was the day's highlight. We had travelled 154 km that day, to Kindersley.
A well-kept, regional Park at Kindersley's eastern edge was tonight's location. Setting-up in the late afternoon it appeared like we had most of the large, grassy area virtually to ourselves. The van was close at hand near the washroom and shower facilities, and the location looked great. I pitched my tent away from the van in a remote corner as there was a noisy gravel road beside the shower house, and a street light that I knew would be on all night. (Nylon tent-walls tend to admit much external light.) Wise decision, for once. After supper and cleanup, which yielded nothing out of the ordinary, Jeff mentioned that he was hoping to take advantage of the town's proximity and see a movie. Ensuring there were no more cycling needs, and that somebody would be around for security, Jeff rode off for downtown on his 10-speed bicycle about 2130 hrs. He borrowed my bike lock to secure his bike.
All was quiet until sometime after midnight, perhaps as late as 0200 hours, when I awoke to distant voices talking loud and laughing much. Obviously a party. No problem to me as my dwindling hearing abilities turned it into just a muffled back-ground noise. Successfully returning to sleep, moments or minutes later the authoritative tone of Ray's voice broke my sleep. Things quieted down soon afterwards and I would learn the details over breakfast. Four or five guys, "permanent park-residents" on summer road-construction jobs in the area got home late. They were feeling good, it was a Friday night, and they wanted to howl. Nothing too out-of-the-ordinary, but it disturbed the entire campsite. Twelve sleep-craving cyclists in particular.
Ray's background included being involved in one-on-one confrontations so he hadn't waited too long before talking to these guys. He told them they were being too loud and too noisy. Quiet down, or he would call the RCMP. Asking who he was speaking for, Ray said "The whole campsite." Over breakfast he admitted that he was fervently hoping, and counting on, some of us rushing to his rescue if these guys got ugly. Reason prevailed, and they shut their party down for the night.
It seems every campsite has some quirk or peculiarity kept cleverly concealed until the wee hours, whose sole purpose is to disturb campers' sleep. Railroads are the first and most common bother, but barking dogs, poorly placed streetlights, permanent "summer campers," and kids are but a few others. We found them all at some point or another over the summer.
Cruisin'
Ken and Annette's early morning risings were continuing to grate on some people, so this morning, without any prior mention of their plans, they departed Kindersley very early, about 0630 hrs, on their own. Few heard them. They rode some 75 km into Rosetown where they bought their breakfast. The remainder of us enjoyed a pancake breakfast between 0700-0730 hrs, and we left about 0800. Continuing blue skies and tailwinds for July 13 as we rode out of town following Hwy 7, heading for Outlook, some 158 km distant. Very close to a century, Bob remarked.
Ray was with Bob and me as we left. Ray's fitness had been constantly improving since the trip's beginning, and he was now occasionally riding at speed for longer distances. (Just as a side note, Ray was a high-school principal who had lost one of his daughters, a 13-year-old, in a car accident just a few weeks prior to the trip. She had been crossing the roadway to re-board a bus on which her sports team was returning to Waboden, when a car plowed through five girls, injuring the others and killing her. I believe that Ray had signed up for the trip as therapy and for stress relief, and to give himself time to adjust and cope with his loss. He had slowly told us about the tragedy, opening up bit-by-bit after the first couple of days, and by now was much more open and comfortable when discussing it. His wife, Debbie, joined him several times along the way, until we entered Ontario.) Anyhow, cruising along in third place behind Bob and Ray, with Ray doing most of the talking, we switched to Highway 15 at Rosetown, which we would be staying on for much of the province. Following the note on Bud's map regarding a certain Rosetown bakery, stopping there for a doughnut was a given. Several others were already munching delicious-looking pastries as we approached. In fact, I think we all acquainted ourselves with that little shop that day. On the road again, Patti and Randy joined us when we overtook them, about 20 km outside Outlook. Riding as a team, we enjoyed a 5-member paceline from there right into the campsite. Bob always enjoys a fast paceline and we now rotated regularly with each of us taking short, strong pulls at the front. Randy was a former competitive cyclist and Patti was a strong rider in her own right, still doing time trials in Smithers. Both were comfortable in a paceline and the change-offs occurred like we had been working together for months. We only lost our cohesiveness on the hills, when Randy, now much above his competitive weight at perhaps 235 lbs, would shoot ahead without any warning on each downhill. This practice was a bit disconcerting to the rest of us when he would suddenly come flying passed.
A beautiful campsite and a warm greeting by Vern, a member of the town council, awaited us when we pulled in to Outlook, weary from another long day. Situated right on the bank of the North Saskatchewan River, this scenic area was neat and tidy, with clean, well-designed facilities.
Bob's STI rear (right) shift-lever had totally packed it in while climbing from the river-crossing leading into town, so he and Jeff drove off in the van looking for a bike shop. None in town. The local backyard expert took a look at it, knew he had no re- placement parts, and phoned Saskatoon. One of the big stores there had the parts, but the store would be closing at 1800 hrs. It was now 1630 and Saskatoon was 100 km away. Jeff and Bob departed hastily, without supper, for repairs. They made it. Bob replaced the Shimano 600-series lever with a lower quality 105, with Bob having to buy the complete 105 set of STI shift/brake levers. He griped about their expense compared to U.S.prices, but was thankful his bike was once again roadworthy.
It was our team's turn to cook. Randy and I helped Patti put together yet another delicious meal, this time a bean salad. Vern had cordially invited us to their town's "Cruise Night," taking place that night on the town's main drag. After doing up the dishes and making sandwiches for the next day Ray and I headed up the hill, looking for some entertainment. Twenty minutes of walking later we reached downtown. All two blocks of it. Both closed entirely to traffic. Moving traffic, that is. Lining the streets was a fine assembly of great old cars, dating from a '28 Model T to a '59 Dodge with huge tail-fins. A '55 Chevy particularly caught my eye.
Naturally there were many pick-me-up trucks being displayed, this being farming and ranching country, and an abundance of guys wearing cowboy boots and hats, jeans, and big belt buckles. For reasons I never did understand, the belt buckles totally set Ray off and he grumbled about them and cowboys for quite some time. We each sampled a piece of home-made pie, then had a beer or two while watching a magician on a low-bed stage. Everyone on the crowded streets was in a festive mood. One thought occurred to me - these small prairie towns seem to have so much fun, but most of it is self-generated. (Looking back, our unanimous opinion was that the country's friendliest area was likely the three-hundred miles straddling the Alberta - Saskatchewan border.) The culmination of this festive occasion and the biggest attraction for the locals was a street dance, due to begin at 2100 hrs. I didn't feel like staying for it and wandered back to my tent, but Ray seemed keen to stay. Until, after a song or two when he realized it was "pure country," and promptly left.
Phoned home again. Lynn, too, is lonely. Phoned my sister Mavis in Regina, who was out, but spoke briefly to her husband, Arley. From him I learned that Mavis and Mom are trying to arrange a visit with me during our next rest day at Fort Qu' Appelle, Saskatchewan, two days hence. I hope to see them, and hope Mom is well enough to make the short 100-km trip from Regina.
Albert Goes to Church
Hot, sunny, and dry says my diary for today. The strong tailwind continues, spirits are high, and we feel like champions as we continue eastward out of Outlook doing one mega-mileage day after another. We stay on Hwy 15, heading east, straight-as-an-arrow across land that's getting flatter day by day. Each morning Bob and most others enjoyed stopping at a cafe for coffee and a piece of pastry. Frequenting these shops are the locals who linger over their coffee while they analyse the world. Conversing with them is both unique and unpredictable. Always polite, they study our Lycra clothing, silently wondering what we're doing in the middle of nowhere dressed like that. Politely, they don't say a word until we open the conversation with some remark to them. Then the questions fly. "Are you riding bicycles?" was always first. "From where?"—"To WHERE?????" when they hear the word Newfoundland. I fondly recall one older gentleman, dressed in overalls, repeating our answer quietly aloud—"You're riding bicycles from Vancouver to Newfoundland..." He looked at us for a long second to confirm the fact, then he just sat back and chuckled heartily for five long minutes, occasionally softly repeating it over again to himself. Absolute foolishness it was, in his mind. Following any of these questions nearly always came "Why?" Which is understandable, I guess. The answer to Why isn't easy, though, so we quickly learned to say, "Just for fun" or "Just for a holiday."
It was somewhere about here that I confided to the others that my age was catching up with me and that my poor old brain became totally addled once I started cycling each day. I said this because of my inability, when responding to questions, to recall such simple things as "What was that day's start-point?" or "That night's destination?" Despite the many times I fielded these question, my mind went blank every time. Turned out that most of us were having the same problem. Marny, who was 32, said she had learned to answer "Vancouver" whenever asked where we had started, and "Newfoundland" at the other extreme, giving herself time to compose her thoughts regarding this particular day's journey. When pressed about the day's ride I would reach into my jersey's rear pocket, pull out and read my daily map, and reply with the correct town names. The continual daily progress from town to town kind of became blurry after a while. Each day was its own adventure, easily recalled in toto with a few reminders, but at the same time just one of many.
Bob's new shifter, the 105, worked 100% and he said he could feel no difference between it and the broken 600 model. Perhaps there is just a cosmetic difference in the quality between the two equipment groups?
Today was a Sunday. All the streets and shops of Nokomis were closed up tight when we arrived around 1500 hrs. We were using the town arena for housing and facilities, as we had in Sicamous, B. C., and it was an equally good set-up. We made use of the stove and fridge that were part of the hockey rink's concession booth, and team dressing rooms for our showers. The town had given Jeff a town pin for each of us, as Beiseker, Alberta had, as did several other towns along the way. I decided not to sleep inside the arena although large carpeted areas were available, preferring instead to pitch my tent on the grass beside the front door. In all there were four of us who slept outside that night. Once set up I went searching for some postcards. The only place open anywhere (anywhere being the entire business district along the four blocks of the single main street) was a confectionery, where I bought an ice cream cone. Remarking that they had no postcards, they directed me to the town's railroad and historical museum around the corner, where I found a couple. Museums really aren't my thing so I didn't pay the small fee to take their tour.
The long rides and hot days were beginning to take their toll. Christine and Patti, feeling very tired as the afternoon progressed, had taken a nap beside the road today while Randy had a dip in a dugout that was close-by. (Dugouts are manmade square-shaped ponds that collect rainwater, generally used as a watering-hole for cattle. Sometimes prairie farmers will stock them with trout for their own use, and infrequently, for commercial sales.) I doubt if Randy knew what purpose dugouts served, and I am sure I wouldn't swim in one, but he cooled off and suffered no ill after-effects from it. Patti's rear wheel went flat on her again today, the gun tape applied in B. C. finally wearing through. Randy by now carried an improvised boot, cut from a scrapped tire, and mended the cut properly.
This was Sunday. Albert was riding along, looking for a church to attend as was his Sunday custom. Late in the morning, approaching a major cross-road just outside Kenaston, he spied a small church just off the roadway. A check of his watch showed the time to be about 10 minutes after the posted service time, and intent listening confirmed that indeed the service was underway. Hoping that he could quietly slip in unnoticed, he tried the door knob. It wasn't to be. After several noisy attempts the stubborn door finally opened. Gaining entrance, Albert was somewhat taken aback upon discovering that he was just the sixth member of this morning's congregation. After his brief disruption, the minister continued. Albert reported that after the benediction the minister didn't get much chance to talk with his few congregation members. At the first opportunity they all gathered around him, asking questions and chatting. Visitors were rare to this small-town congregation, and a Lycra-clad cyclist was perhaps historic.
Very few were the Sundays Albert didn't make it to church.
He is having a ball on this trip, and such a remarkable fellow. So fit and active for his 68 years, and so even tempered. Never having slept in a tent nor camped out before this trip, he bought his tent in the spring, then slept in it once or twice in his yard, for practice. All of us regarded Albert as a great friend, and highly respected him.
While having a shower before supper Ray broached the subject to Bob about diverging from Bud's route and going through Winnipeg, rather than skirting the city to the north as the tour map called for. Ray explained that he wanted to take his bike to his repair shop in Winnipeg. Moreover, his wife would again be joining him in the city. To Bob, who never was high on camping, the thought of staying in a hotel room had instant appeal. As well, he reasoned, a professional massage would be possible, his first since the interior of B.C. Having won Bob's approval of the change, over supper that night Ray proposed this alternative route to the group. He added a few embellishments like: it was shorter by some 40 kms; it would bypass all the Whiteshell Provincial Park hills that the prescribed route would entail; and the campground at Ste. Anne, (just the other side of Winnipeg) was especially comfortable. (This was the route his previous tour had ridden in 93, so Ray knew it would work.)
Following some discussion we voted. Eleven opted for Ray's route through Winnipeg and only I dissented. There were two reasons for my decision. Firstly, I knew how flat and boring Highway 1 was from Winnipeg to the Ontario border, while a trip through the Whiteshell's scenic and unfamiliar country should be a terrific journey. Secondly, in Manitoba, the four-lane Trans-Canada highway, lacked a paved shoulder. Not even extra-wide lanes so common on most freeways. I also recalled that the sole traffic fatality of a TDF rider occurred on the TCH just east of Winnipeg in '94. Ray confirmed this. In my mind, Bud had seen the riskiness of riding the TCH in Manitoba and had found a good way around it. Initially I voted to go with Bud's route, but for the sake of harmony I relented and made the Winnipeg choice unanimous. Now it was up to Bud, as Jeff refused to take the responsibility upon himself. Jeff would phone Bud tomorrow.
That night I slept outside on the grass, along with Albert, Ray, and Christine. Only once were we bothered, about midnight, by curious, bored, local kids in a noisy car. Spinning their wheels in the gravel, yelling and honking their horn, they quickly considered their fun ended and drove away. Inside, a noisy overhead fan whose off-switch eluded all searches, bothered everyone else all night. Unanimously they regretted their decision.
James and Ice Cream
Today turned out to be a real change in my riding pattern. James was even later than usual getting up and having breakfast and only Bob and me were still in camp when James finally seemed close to departing. Not wanting to leave him behind, last and on his own, we waited for him, figuring to ourselves he could just sit-in between us and be towed along at close to our usual speed. We started off well—perhaps too well. Bob wasn't exactly pushing the pace but he was riding briskly, checking with James occasionally to see if the speed was OK for him. Behind us both, on his heavier mountain bike with its fat tires, James was keeping right up. Considering his extra burden, I was marvelling at his ability. Alas, about an hour into the ride he ran out of gas. Slower and slower we went, with James getting weaker and weaker. He struggled into Raymore, some 43 km from the start, admitting he hadn't eaten any breakfast at all. After a substantial breakfast at a local cafe he perked up immensely, and within 30 minutes he was able to hold on to 20 - 25 kph. We stopped for an ice cream cone at LeRoss a couple hours later, and from then on he had oodles of energy. I held my tongue for quite a while but eventually the burning inside got the best of me and I gave James a fatherly (motherly?) lecture about eating a good breakfast, especially when working hard, and how it wasn't fair to delay others because of his habits. Not my place perhaps, but it was over and done with and quickly forgotten. We ended up riding hard for the final 60 kilometres, averaging about 30 kph.
At one point today, two coyotes were playing close by the road, running down the ditch ahead of us for a couple hundred metres as we approached. Stopping, they watched us with curiosity as we passed, not frightened at all, just timid. Cute looking little things. Others had been reporting occasional pronghorn sightings for several days but I wasn't that lucky.
Suddenly, my handlebars became a problem. Bob announced it was time for a pit stop, and with my hands resting on the brake hoods in my usual riding position I squeezed the brakes on. The handlebars immediately spun forward and down, nearly pitching me headlong over the front of the bike. Barely keeping control, I struggled to a stop.
A word about handlebars. Handlebars on a bicycle do more than simply steer. They are one of three contact points with the bike; the others, of course, are the saddle and the pedals. Therefore, the hands on the bars share part of the weight-bearing, supporting a portion of the upper-body weight. Wherever placed, the hands always get tired and sore. Consequently, movement and change from one position to another is frequent. This is the true beauty of drop bars—the several alternative hand-placement choices provided by them.
Unlike the one basic hand position offered by the straight bars generally found on mountain bikes, the drop bars found on most road bikes lend themselves to three main hand positions: the tops of the bars; on the drops; and on the brake hoods. In general, hands are on the bar-tops when "sitting-up" (relaxing), but also when climbing major hills, because this position opens up the chest and facilitates breathing. The hands are generally in the hooks or on the drops when looking for speed - riding fast on the flats, during an all-out sprint, or when descending. Touring cyclists use this low position on the drops mostly when fighting a headwind, i.e. when the cyclist tucks down and attempts to reduce wind-drag to a minimum.
On the brake hoods, the third position, is the most comfortable. This creates a stretched-out, comfortable body position. The hands are comfortable because they are draped in a V-shape over the brake-hood, resting on the soft, fleshy web between the thumb and the forefinger. There are no nerves in this soft pad, precluding any cause of numbness to the hands. (Numbness commonly occurs when gripping the bars too tightly, compressing a carpal nerve.) When the hands are on the hoods, though, they are very far forward, supporting a substantial portion of upper-body weight.
Connecting the bars to the rest of the bike is the stem, gripping the centre of the bars in a circular collar. This collar must be extremely tight to securely hold the bars, otherwise they will rotate, causing a major problem to the rider. This was what had suddenly become my problem. The stem's collar had lost its grip on the bars. Riding as I was with my hands resting on the brake hoods, the handlebars had pitched forward and downward when I pulled the brake levers.
Dismounting after fighting my way to a stop, I tried to tighten the bolt that secured the collar, but it was already as tight as it would go. I decided to ride to camp with the bars loose, my hands resting lightly on the bar-tops, and work on it tomorrow.
From the day I first bought the bike the stem-bolt had always needed maximum tightening. A shim, inserted inside the stem last fall when this slipping problem first occurred, effectively increased the diameter of the handlebars enough to give the stem a strong purchase. They had held very solidly until now, so tomorrow I would add another shim. A fairly simple and quick repair, I thought, mentally adding this to my normal list of rest-day bicycle maintenance.
Bob, James and I continued steadily, without really pushing the pace. No one was in a big hurry that afternoon, in the heat of the day, with the temperature now above 30C. We were looking forward to reaching Fort Qu'Appelle and tonight's campground in Echo Valley, a beautiful spot of greenery on the otherwise brown Saskatchewan prairie. Echo Valley is a section of the Qu'Appelle River Valley, itself a prairie oasis stretching across perhaps half of the province. Tomorrow was going to be a day to just rest up. Reaching the campsite we noticed that Ray's wife had joined him for the rest day. They left for town before supper and we didn't see Ray or Debbie again while we were in Fort Qu'Appelle.
Annette's menu for tonight was lentil soup; it looked and smelled delicious. We had just seated ourselves to enjoy supper when eyes across the table and footsteps to my rear alerted me that someone was approaching. Not expecting my sister, Mavis until tomorrow, when I turned around I was totally unprepared to see another of my three sisters, Mary Yorke, waiting to greet me. She had just arrived from Saskatoon, roughly 300 km distant. Making introductions all around, I dumped my barely tasted soup, hoping silently that Annette wasn't offended by my doing so. We left to have supper together. Driving to a small restaurant in downtown Fort Qu'Appelle, Mary treated me to the finest meal available in downtown Ft. Qu'Appelle. Accompanying Mary on the trip were two of her grandchildren, who also lived in Saskatoon. For them it was mostly for the adventure of a day's car ride but also so they could see their crazy uncle (Mary's words) who was riding a bicycle across Canada. With a 3-hour drive home that night still ahead of them our visit was far too short, but it was a most-welcomed and fantastic treat to see them. I was especially glad that Mary had the opportunity to see for herself how our mobile city looked and to meet the other riders. Thanks for making the long drive, Mary, it was a generous, considerate and heart-warming surprise.
About 2030 hrs, walking along an established shortcut into town, Jeff and I skirted a ball field, crossing the top of a small dam on a paved path, then up a short lane-way into town. We were making our way to Trapper's Pub for a couple brews. Chatting as we walked, Jeff mentioned that he had just got off the phone to Bud, who had vetoed the idea of going through Winnipeg. Bud insisted that we stick to his original route. This meant we would be skirting the city to the north and camping at Beausejour. He would tell the others in the morning. (I'm not 100% sure of Jeff's duties. Was calling Bud every night a requirement? Most nights Jeff did call, leaving a daily report on an answering machine.)
Trapper's was a very quiet spot; we were home by 2300 hrs.
My odometer was registering 2,000 kilometres!
Tea with Mom
Expecting and hoping my sister, Mavis Peters, will visit today I started early. Annette and Ken, also up before 0700 hrs, took pity on me, with Annette cooking an omelette large enough for three. (Meals on rest-days were each individual's problem, never tasked to anyone. It worked out fine.) Many preferred a breakfast of cold cereal that was always available from the van's bulk stores, but the supplied powdered skim milk wasn't a great favourite. Some took to buying their own 1% or 2% milk on occasions when they planned to eat cereal. Lunches were often leftovers from the previous night's supper, or fast food in town if we were close enough. Most of us tried to be together for supper. We always attempted to find a decent restaurant for this particular meal, as a steak or some other treat was often our only big splurge of the week.
I cleaned my bike, exchanged chains, and added a shim to the handlebars inside the stem's jaw's circular collar. Each shim was a piece of aluminum, cut from a coke can. As a template I used the one installed by the bike shop, already in place. It seemed to work, the bars were again tight, and I couldn't make them rotate forward when applying the brakes. I then made a deal with Annette—I'd try to resolve a "clunking" noise she was hearing on her bike if she would include my few dirty clothes in her wash. I found her chainring bolts to be a bit loose, tightened them up, then took a brief spin on her bike. Everything seemed quiet and normal to me.
About 1100 hrs Mavis drove up, with her four kids along for the ride and a break from their routine. The usual round of introductions and tour of the van over with, I showed them my tent. Of course, kids being kids, they all wanted to get inside it, but looking at its tight confines and the usual rest-day mess I didn't let them go in, to their great disappointment. We all went to the lake for a few minutes. Mavis and I skipped rocks while the kids ran off some pent-up energy accumulated during the car ride.
Mom hadn't been up to making the car trip. As an alternative, Mavis suggested and volunteered that she drive us all back to Regina so I could visit Mom at her home. A great idea, and I immediately agreed to it. A quick snack to tide us over as we drove through town, then off to Regina. Mom was looking well, but pale and perhaps a bit weak. After chatting for an hour or two, Mom invited me to have tea with her in the lodge's central dining area. She looked so proud when she bragged that "This was her son who was riding a bicycle across Canada." I felt good about being able to make Mom feel so good.
In Regina I picked up some plugs for the end of my handlebars, as one had fallen out a day or two previously. Finding Ken's requested brake pads or Christine's sought-after postcards, however, met with failure. On the return trip, Mavis stopped at a farm where my brother-in-law, Arley, was working the fields. We had a brief visit, a quick tour of some of the farm's special areas, then back to Qu'Appelle for supper. The Kentucky fried chicken at the Colonels was a terrific change from my usual fare. Thanks Mavis.
Arriving at the campsite and finding no one I wandered off to a previously mentioned restaurant, thinking perhaps I could have a coffee with everyone as they finished their supper. I found them, but too late—the waitress was just bringing their bills. This was the second rest day in a row I hadn't eaten with the others, but I knew that from here in Saskatchewan until we reached the Maritimes I would have no more visitors.
I loved being visited en route. A change of pace, and the visits provided me with the opportunity to show others what I was really doing, rather than trying to describe it, which is not easy. However, non-cyclists seem to find the adventure to be a far greater accomplishment than I think it to be. People treated me like I was some kind of hero doing next-to-impossible things. Cycling across Canada is within the capabilities of most people physically, just few of us have, or take, the time required to put in the necessary training miles. It is very much a mental thing, as Albert proved. Believing you can do it—you do it. I am very proud of my accomplishment, but I am just an ordinary person who rode a bike.
Last night we had a short, heavy rain, then the wind blew from the east all day today. Are we now in a new weather system? We worried along with Annette that the super tailwinds we had enjoyed so far on the prairies were going to desert us, and we might be fighting a headwind tomorrow. Daytime temperatures had been close to, or above, 30 Celcius since leaving the mountains, and they showed no sign of changing. To us three prairie people (Ray, Christine and I) the dry heat was normal, but to those from Ontario it never seemed hot enough to be a 30 degree day. It was great weather to cycle in! We went to bed hoping the wind would swing back to the west and no rain would fall for many days to come.
Jeff's news that Bud had shot down the route change provoked very little displayed emotion, which kind of surprised me. The subject never surface again. My cycling odometer log showed 2,077 km; three of the 10 rest days were behind us; and everybody was healthy.
Over the next five days we would average 155 kilometres per day, which was to be the longest daily average of any one segment.
Table of Contents | The Mountains | The Prairies (II) |