Table of Contents | Central Ontario | The Maritimes |
Bud, Where Are You?
One of Annette's top priorities today was to make certain that her kitchen was spotless before our departure. To this end she ensured that everyone was up and about around 0600 hrs, then hurried each of us through breakfast. At just past 0730 hrs a file of eleven cyclists assembled in front of their house ready to follow Ken across Ottawa. Several cameras captured this Kodak moment. Then we were off and away— bound for Quebec. Ken led. The route through Ottawa was interesting. Ken and Annette acted as tour guides, pointing out highlights as we passed them—the Rideau Canal, the PM's house, the Governor General's residence, etc.
Seemingly in no time Ken steered us into a rest stop overlooking the Ottawa River where he said "You're on your own from here. Just continue straight ahead along this highway." We were on Ottawa's eastern edge, clear of the city and once again following our map to the next night's destination.
Albert tucked in between Bob and me as we left the rest stop. We travelled along at a comfortable pace with Albert enjoying the easy cycling created by our combined draft. While we were chatting and taking in the scenery I realized that my newly replaced cleat was working perfectly. Both the fore-to-aft and side-to-side positioning seemed exactly as it had been and the pedalling motion felt smooth. No slippage was evident within the mount and even the annoying noise had disappeared. I was most happy about making the change. I can't recall ever thinking about my shoes again during the rest of the trip.
After an hour or so Albert dropped back. A short time later we collected Randy and Patti who had been riding with several others when some sort of dissension occurred regarding people's abilities to ride properly in a paceline. They had just broken away from the others when we rode by and immediately joined with us. The pace picked up a bit with all four of us taking turns at the front.
At the entrance of a small town, I forget whether it was L'Orignal or Hawkesbury, a construction crew was tearing up and repaving the main street. We stopped in the midst of both the town and the construction, taking a break at a Dairy Queen. The others went inside but I stayed outside, eating my sandwiches while leaning against a ledge beneath the store's windows. Some minutes later Bob came out, announcing to me that Annette's sister was inside. It seems she was trying to visit friends in this area, some 200 kms from her home, and had become temporarily lost, missing her road by a couple of miles. She had stopped in to this DQ to get her bearings and have a rest. Noticing my Tour du Canada jersey through the window she tuned her ears into the conversation of the three inside. Yes, she decided, this was very likely the same group with whom her sister Annette was cycling. Introducing herself, we all had a laugh over the odd circumstances that had brought us together at this spot. Assured that her sister would soon be coming along, likely within half-an-hour, she waited. The unexpected reunion surprised Annette totally.
As usual we were travelling secondary roads, but today our route was leapfrogging back and forth over a major motorway, Highway 417. Well aware of the scheduled long day we were closely watching our trip odometers and comparing them to our day map. The map's distances were usually excellent but on rare occasions the scale did stretch somewhat to accommodate important details. Judging from the map there appeared to be a fair distance remaining but all our computers showed that we had already travelled 150 kms. The campground, we thought, must be close ahead since we were still believing in Ken's predicted 160-km day. Randy, who was always ready for a race, said "Only 10 klicks to go, let's do a 10-K time trial." So we took off. Bob pulled the first 500 metres or so then we rotated lead riders frequently, keeping the speed close to 40 kph. As always, this kind of riding is great fun and before we knew it the 10-km ride was ending. Slowing down and looking around we still seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. I vividly recall coming to a complete stop, straddling our bikes and studying our maps. All our reasoning suggested that if the scale was anywhere near accurate we likely still had 30 more kilometres to go. It couldn't be! Bud, the organizer, had never erred so badly! Two or three klicks, yes, often, as calibration differed from one computer to another, or we rode slightly differing routes through towns, etc. But 30 klicks? No way! But what choice except to keep riding?
So off we went, grumbling under our breath, with legs totally spent from putting in the hard 10-K effort after our initial 150 kilometres. Sure enough, a few minutes later we came to an overpass crossing Hwy 417 that positively established our position. This confirmed our worst thoughts—we had another 30 kilometres to go. And today was going to be a short day because we'd started from Ken's house, not Carleton University! Barely passed the bottom of the crossing's downramp we turned left onto a tiny gravelled road running parallel to 417. The major highway was so close that we could see, and even hear the traffic. This bit of gravel would take us one kilometre to the next county road where we would re-cross Hwy 417, in the opposite direction. Bob goes totally ballistic! "Why not just ride down the *#@%ing highway???" he screams. His quote of the day at this point was "...let's get a straw effigy of Bud and string him up!"
We weren't the only ones having a difficult time. As we made our way down this little road a Loomis truck that was coming towards us pulled over. The driver flagged us down. We were technically still in Ontario but for most of the day the language of the people had been French. In stumbling words of both languages we learned that the driver was looking for the same town as we were, Rigaud. After studying our little map he turned around and followed us. He stayed with us for two or three kms until we had re-crossed 417 and turned onto Highway 342. Incidentally, this junction was right at the Quebec border. I gave a feeble victory salute to our sixth province when crossing the boundary.
It seemed to take forever but we finally got to Hudson and found a sign indicating the campground was a short distance ahead. At the top of a hill, of course! As we hit the bottom of the hill a man on a mountain bike came flashing passed us, working feverishly. I was in the lead pulling Bob up the hill and watched in dismay as the stranger opened about 50 metres on us. Then he started to slow. Seeing his riding style—his insteps rather than his toes centred on the pedals—I suspected he was not an experienced cyclist and figured he would fall back to us. Slowly and steadily we closed on him but it appeared he would hold on and beat us to the top. Working fairly hard, I was monitoring Bob in my mirror to verify he was staying with me. It was beginning to bother me that this "amateur" would beat us up the hill, but big deal I thought. We'd been riding all day, and better to give Bob whatever help I could rather than to go madly off chasing a stranger. Dropping Bob on the hill just a short distance from our destination wasn't worth it. Then Bob said in just above a whisper, "Get him, Don." I smiled and accelerated. Bob came with me! We blew passed him, tightly together, in a few yards! All right! Once on top we resumed our normal pace. About one kilometre down the road the stranger swiftly passed us, then turned off onto a side road. Bob said later that he feared I was going to let him beat us up the hill. I replied that I didn't think that he, Bob, had much left in him so I had been holding back. That we had sprinted together and passed the guy had given us both a much needed lift at the end of a hard day.
The campground Daoust was just ahead. Stopping at the entrance gate we waited for Patti and Randy who had fallen back on the hill, then rode in as a foursome a few moments later. To my surprise Jeff was still setting up. The bitterness in my voice truly came as a shock to him when I yelled "ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY-SEVEN KILOMETRES TO HERE. NOT 163 LIKE THE MAP SAYS!" As each successive rider pulled in there was venom in their eyes. Long distances are hard but with some psychological preparation they are manageable. However, the mental stress of riding for 90 minutes beyond an expected endpoint is truly brutal. Lucky you weren't there that day, Bud!
Of course Jeff wasn't to blame. In fact, until I yelled at him he was unaware that we had travelled an excessive distance. One of today's few highlights for us cyclists was riding through this tiny and picturesque covered bridge. This roadway, however, was not open to Jeff. Built for an earlier era, the bridge's entrance was too low for the van, forcing Jeff to take an alternative route.
Adding to my personal stress was the fact that late in the day my handlebars had once again worked loose. Already tired and angry, this mechanical failure totally depressed me. In a foul mood I put the bike on the stand and mercilessly pried the jaws of the stem open. Cutting three new shims from a Coke can I slid them around the bar and inside the stem's jaws. I put everything back together and attempted to replace the bolt. A shocking surprise faced me—the bolt appeared too short to reach the threads. What had happened? No doubt the stem was weak from my many previous repair attempts and this time I'd pried the stem's jaws too far apart. The aluminum, its elasticity gone, simply failed to spring back to its original setting. I'd bent the stem back and forth too far, too often. (Aluminum's flexing ability is poor at the best of times.) Using pliers I squeezed the jaws close enough together for the bolt threads to grab and tightened the bolt as much as it would go. Vowing to buy new stuff at the first opportunity, I knew it likely wouldn't be until reaching Montreal. But I'd watch for a sooner opportunity.
The stem's condition really scared me. I had visions of it suddenly breaking in half as I rode and a sudden THUD to the pavement for me.
This campsite was above average and the proprietors more than friendly. They spoke little English but it didn't matter. A big "Bienvenue Tour du Canada Cyclistes" sign greeted us at the park entrance. We had a great location at the edge of a big grassy field. The facilities were good, clean and free. Attached to the store was a video-arcade games-room that made Jeff and James extra happy. A couple teenaged girls saw us peeling corn, asked to borrow one of our largest pots and returned with it full of peeled cobs. "Extras that we couldn't eat," they said in their best English. This friendly introduction to the Province of Quebec was no one-time thing. From border to border the province's beauty and the friendliness of its people impressed us. No wonder the Quebecquois are so proud. Their province is really lovely and very well maintained, with excellent facilities. Likely the best in Canada, in my opinion.
We had now entered our 6th province. Four to go, and they would come much more quickly. The thought of going through Canada's second biggest city tomorrow is causing much worry and trepidation for several in our group. I am looking forward to seeing Old Montreal and riding across the Jacques Cartier bridge.
Canals, Bars and Bridges
The map indicates that today's distance is only 108 kilometres to Mont St-Hilaire, a small town situated on the other side of the St. Lawrence River. For some reason we are all suspect of the predicted distance, but it has to be a relatively short ride.
Randy and Patti asked that we stay together today, and Bob also stayed behind me once we entred the outskirts of Montreal.
Like yesterday, today's route required three map panels. Each entailed a fair bit of map reading, but it all went well and before very long we had crossed a bridge and were on Ile Montreal. At least twice we took advantage of the signed-as-cycling-path sidewalks to cross bridges, because they offered hassle-free riding.
Soon we riding along our primary conduit into Montreal proper, Rue Ste-Anne. This broad, residential road changed names several times as it followed the edge of the lake. From Rue Ste-Anne it became Lac St.-Louis, then became Lakeshore Boulevard, chemin bord du lac, and a couple other names before finally reverting to Lakeshore. This roadway was really beautiful. There were many spots providing views to the water; we passed a couple of marinas and many huge, manicured acreages flaunting stone mansions. Slowly the area became more businesslike and when we saw a convenience store we took a much needed pit stop. While the others were busy inside I asked about a bike shop. "Just a few blocks down on the right," the clerk advised. Closed until 1000 hrs read the sign on its door, and it's only 0850. Too long to wait and it's not a very big shop anyway. A few blocks more and we spied a collection of familiar bikes stacked at an outdoor cafe so we pulled over for a chat. In an excited voice Ken told me there was big bike shop just half-a-block back, around the corner. I'm off!
Ken beat me to the clerk and was first-in-line for repairs. I ask about a new stem…? Yes! they have one; and handlebars…? Yes again. Even the randonneur-style anatomic ones that I had longed for since forever. Buying them both I ask if they will replace them for me while I wait. Too busy, they say. Rats! While I'm standing there, struggling to affix the bars to my rack with a bungee cord, the mechanic wheels Ken's bike out of the shop. The repair went much quicker than anticipated. "Hey, now you can do mine" I say. :) They agree to it, although somewhat reluctantly.
Annette has discovered that all the clothing and most accessories are on sale for 15% off and she and Ken go crazy. They each buy shorts and jerseys. Tempting, but no, for me. Then I see a Cateye Astral™ bike computer. It is the exact one I have wanted since they hit the market a year or so ago. Mentioning to Bob that I wish it, too, was on sale, Bob immediately picked up the ball and talked the clerk down 20%. I bought it, appreciative of the good deal. (The rationalization was easy—my present computer had filled with water that rainy day at the gold mine in Hemlo causing me to lose many kilometres when it quit. It bounced back overnight but ever since then I was wrapping it in cellophane on rainy days, which was a nuisance.)
My spirits were high when I left the store. Having new handlebars, now decked out with new, bright green bar tape and snugly fitted into a new stem, my bicycle had a new look and feel. Long overdue, it's a comfortable feeling to know that my bicycle is again safe. (I simply had to have the bar tape in celebration of my return to secure cycling.)
The four of us left together, continuing our journey to downtown Montreal. We got off Lakeshore Blvd in the town of Lachine when we picked up the comfortable bicycle-path flanking the Lachine canal. Well-placed signs kept us on track to Old Montreal whenever the path crossed and re-crossed the canal. This well-designed path restricted traffic to cyclists and roller-bladers. Parallel to it ran a gravelled path designated for walkers. With the paths thus segregated to fast and slow zones we could maintain our speed at 25 kph without being a hazard to anyone. After cycling for many pleasant miles on this path we eventually left it, returning to minor city streets. Just a few blocks of these until we found ourselves right in the heart of the Old City. Eager to get a feel for this quaint district, and looking for lunch, we walked the sidewalks for a couple of blocks trying to take it all in. Finding a cafe that appealed to the four of us, we entered to find Ken and Annette already seated and enjoying their meal.
Lunch over, and back onto the streets. A couple blocks of heavy city traffic, a very sharp right turn and we are riding directly onto the approach ramp of the Jacques Cartier bridge. The bridge's sidewalk was a designated cycle path, so safely and comfortably we crossed the big river. Jeff passed us in the van as we climbed to the crest and Bob had us stop for photos about midpoint where we admired the terrific view of the city and the St. Lawrence River. Dropping down the other side was dicey. The passageway was very narrow. A meeting with an oncoming cyclist required each of us to dismount and squeeze ourselves and our bikes passed. We had a bit of confusion finding the correct thoroughfare when exiting the bridge but eventually we sorted it out.
After following a busy commercial street called Grande Allee for several klicks we picked up Hwy 223 east, which led us to McMasterville. Crossing over the Richelieu River at McMasterville's eastern end we entered Mt. St-Hilaire, where we found the Campground Laurier with no difficulty. Another fine campsite.
Even with today's short distance and all the rest-stops I found myself pretty tired and worn out by day's end. Everyone felt tired, I learned, undoubtedly the result of the very long day yesterday. But there was a reward at the end of today's ride—mail. This was a scheduled mail-drop location and my wonderful Lynn had a nice package waiting for me. Another great card, and a "pig card" (her favourite animal) from Ayrie that caused me to smile and gave a lift to my spirits. There was also a cycling magazine and some sports news.
I can't remember if Annette actually said "That wasn't too bad" when she rode in this aft, but if she didn't she should have. Bud had done a simply incredible job of getting us through the huge city of Montreal, and we all know the reputation that city has for driving and drivers. For us, 95% of it had been on quiet, scenic streets. The big bridge had been easy and fun, and having a meal in the heart of the Old City was a real bonus. I believe the route we took was far better than any of us will ever follow should we drive through the city. Even the distance worked out. My computer showed 112 kilometres, Bud had predicted 108 and we had taken some detours and wrong turns. Once again I believe in Bud.
While setting up my tent I discovered one broken section in the centre support pole. This pole forms the tent's central arch, providing much of its stability. A 3-cm split now made it impossible for the section to take the strain of flexing into an arc. Fortunately, included in the pole package was a short sleeve of slightly larger diameter aluminum, obviously intended for such on-the-trail repairs. After taping the sleeve over the broken end of the section I erected the tent without difficulty. Still, this ticked me off! I don't believe a new tent of this quality should already be having problems with its aluminum poles. Now I must hope that the repair sleeve will hold until trip's end. (It did, and the vendor replaced all poles promptly with no hassle on my return.)
Tomorrow is another fairly short day, just 131 km. We will be staying at a school in Nicolet. A change from the campsites is always interesting.
In Council Chambers
Last night the wind had steadily increased, building into a major thunderstorm with heavy rain and much lightning. It hit us about midnight. My tent stayed steady and dry as always, providing an immediate and severe test of the of the pole's temporary repair. Randy and Patti's new Canadian Tire tent suffered a broken pole or two however and looked pretty shabby in the morning. But it stayed dry.
The foursome of Bob, Randy and Patti and me started together this morning and stayed together throughout the day. We had a great day. Keeping right on each other's wheels, pushing the pace and travelling swiftly in a paceline, we fully enjoyed the strong tailwind and the continuing exceptionally flat land that began yesterday. Both Randy and Patti easily held the sustained, speedy pace. Generally I spin around 100 rpm when travelling fast. Today, though, I found it necessary to keep my cadence between 110-115 to hold on to the speeds of 40-50 kph that we were, at times, hitting. After each pull at the front I would tuck in at the back, gear up two cogs to slow my cadence and rest a bit in the slipstream while getting my breath back. Realizing that Patti and Randy are both on mountain bikes and maintaining the same speed when pulling, then holding on when drafting, is impressive. Only a big, long hill tells the difference with Randy falling off the pace somewhat 'till we get over the top. Our speed likely averaged close to 40 kph when we were on the bikes, and at times we had to rein-in Patti when she would get us moving above 45. Riding as if possessed, Patti is loving it. She is ever so much stronger than when we started and can't wait to get back to Smithers and do the 10-K time-trial with the other women in her club. She'll beat them handily instead of being 3rd or 4th fastest as she was prior to the trip, I was thinking. Randy is becoming dissatisfied with his bike. He looks at touring bikes at every opportunity.
Near the end of the day we were flying down the road when a bicycle path began at the road's edge. We moved onto it. This particular path had upright posts stuck into the pavement about 50 m apart, separating the pathway from the roadway. The posts appeared to be steel. How dangerous that would be if a cyclist should ever hit one, I thought to myself. Convincing myself that nobody would mount steel posts on a bike path, I was about to put my hand out and hit one to verify they weren't steel. Then, realizing that if I was wrong I'd almost certainly break my hand, or crash, or both, I restrained myself. I was in front, going way over 40 kph when we caught Marny, James and Paddy. We flew passed them on the left, bringing us very close to the post-line, when I suddenly heard a loud bang from not-too-far behind. No sounds of anxiety erupted so I held the pace steady. It was only later in town that I learned Randy had hit one of the posts. His left hand, holding the handlebar, had simply knocked the post out of the way. Marny said it happened right beside her and she couldn't believe that Randy didn't even react to it. "He just kept on riding and didn't even wobble," she said. The pole obviously was plastic, and Randy is one big guy. He said later, "I hit it with my hand, that's all," and flexed his hand a bit. Incident over.
The four of us breezed into town before 1300 hrs. Jeff wasn't there yet and nobody from the town was at the locked school. We found a little cafe with a covered outdoor patio and treated ourselves to coffee, pie, ice cream, etc. By the time Jeff pulled into town around 1500 hrs everybody was there; most had taken several pictures of everyone else sitting around. It was a nice warm day and nobody was in any hurry.
Because Randy really wanted to look for a bike shop and some of the others had already left for downtown, away we rode. We found a quality shop full of high-end road bikes and a couple of touring bikes. After seriously examining two bikes Randy then gave each of them a good test ride. He decided on one and started talking prices. Reaching a mutually acceptable selling price Randy then asked about the trade-in value of his bicycle, a Rocky Mountain. Randy's bike had new hubs, Rock Shok forks and a couple other quality components. Randy instantly rejected the paltry $150.00 offer. Hurt and insulted, he told the clerk "Back in Smithers I'll get $400.00 for it," and likely would. He couldn't get out of there fast enough. I agreed with him that the trade-in quote was away below the bike's worth. Randy stayed with his Rocky Mountain for the remainder of the trip.
About 1600 hrs a gentleman named Gilles showed-up to open the school. Gilles was a 1992 TDC rider and the school's principal. For sleeping space he offered the main gym floor, a smaller gym, or the hallways. And of course, the school's shower facilities were open to us. This being a high school, this time we could get a full-length body wash. We also had the use of a non-coin-op washer and dryer. Gilles outlined some of the highlights in our immediate future. At 1800 hrs he would guide us, on bicycles, to supper at the town hall. Following that he would lead a scenic tour along the shore of the St. Lawrence, and tomorrow he would accompany us for the first 40 kms to an old mill where stone-ground buckwheat pancakes would be our special treat. It all sounded excellent. We hurried through our showers.
Following Gilles for about six kms through and then out of town we came to the Town Hall. Forming a reception line at the entrance to this fine new building were three town council members. Wine, beer and pop were sitting on ice awaiting our choice, followed by plates of veggies and dip. Our hosts tried hard to put us at ease with polite chitchat, but conversation was a strain as their little English was far superior to the virtually non-existent French spoken by us. Except Annette, who kept very busy translating all the official welcomes, etc. Then, invited to find a spot around the massive horseshoe-shaped desk that served as their council table, we sank into the huge, red-plush, high-backed wooden chairs. To James went the honour of sitting in the mayor's chair because he is one of the TDC board of directors. Supper was fancy sandwiches (not peanut butter), pasta and green salads. Some little dainties for dessert. Not a grand feast but the sincerity and openness shown by this little town were overwhelming. Individual town pins were the final classy touch.
Following Annette's official thanks on our behalf, Gilles led those who chose to follow on a scenic, 10-kilometre tour to the river's edge. Here, a short wooden pier provided a splendid vantage point for a panoramic view of the immense St. Lawrence River. It was just sunset, the clouds were scarlet, and the evening and setting were beautiful.
Sleeping in the school was my initial choice, as much to save my wounded tent pole from a night of stress as for any other reason, but the school did seem very hot and stuffy. About 2030 hrs I made the big decision and moved outside. It was already dark, the mosquitoes were ferocious, and an approaching thunder and lightning storm was rumbling and flashing. Hastily throwing my tent together I settled in ahead of the storm and immediately fell asleep.
Final count was five in the hallways, six outside. Remarkably, Gilles slept in the school hallway that night to facilitate an early morning start.
Flat-out Flying
An early start from the school was child's play: no breakfast to cook, so obviously no dishes; the ablution facilities just down the hall; and the van immediately out the door. This was our 52nd day, Saturday, August 17. Our destination was Quebec City, in particular Laval University. And only 150 kilometres away. Too easy!
With Gilles leading the way, together with another cyclist from Gilles' cycling club along just for the fun, we rode casually in a long single line down Highway 132. Perhaps 40 kms from Nicolet we arrived at Moulin Michel. This beautifully maintained, fieldstone-walled old mill nestled snugly into a small valley at the road's edge. There was only time for a much-too-hurried look at the impressive and well-landscaped setting and a quick splash of water on our faces before a charming French-Canadian woman greeted us. She showed us to our seats and took our orders. Freshly-ground buckwheat pancakes were the universal choice, and soon they started arriving. We ate and ate, and our host kept bringing more. The locally produced maple syrup only added to their deliciousness. Finally filled, our next treat was a brief history of the mill, and then a tour. Our host cranked a large, hand-operated wheel that lowered the mill's water-turbine into the stream. The mill came to life, powered entirely by the water, as it has been for close to a hundred years. Some flour was ground, sifted and bagged; we saw just how fresh our pancakes had been. At the conclusion of the tour James bought a frying pan specifically designed by the mill's chef for cooking buckwheat pancakes. One or two others bought souvenirs of the locale, then we said our goodbyes. The bill was Jeff's to pay. It was a very nice treat by the organizer and a welcomed change of pace. Gilles and his friend bid us adieu and headed back to Nicolet. We continued onwards to Quebec City.
There were exactly two weeks from today remaining in our trip, but for Bob this would be his last riding day. He had reached a decision, with the final reasons unknown to all of us, that he would stop riding at Quebec City and fly to his uncle's home in Halifax. Although not totally surprised by the decision, this seemed like an odd time to end his trip. Just one more week and we would virtually be in Nova Scotia anyway. Whatever, it was a firm decision: Bob was to leave us.
He made the most of his final day. Again today the land was dead flat, the tailwind continued to blow, and the four of us continued riding in a fast, tight paceline. As Bob said, "We're just flat-out flying!" Spin, Don, spin, spin…!
James had left the mill before we did. When he came into sight up ahead Bob determined to pass him with a show of force. Pulling us ever faster we cut into James' lead, but nowhere near as quickly as Bob and all of us believed we would. James was putting on his own show of force! Several kilometres later, with James still perhaps 600 metres ahead, I pulled around everyone. Positioning myself in front of Bob I lifted the speed close to 50 kph, holding it there until we were perhaps 200 metres behind James. Relinquishing the lead I dropped to the back for some much needed recovery. Bob continued overhauling James. We finally zoomed by him and he dropped astern, saying later that he knew one rider could never hold off four. Nevertheless, his immense effort had certainly impressed me. He had ridden exceedingly fast for many kilometres on a heavy mountain bike. I passed a "well done" along to him later that evening.
When the first of two giant steel bridges spanning the St. Lawrence appeared, it marked the end of our fantastic day of riding. It came much too soon. A grassy spot just below the first bridge's approach-road seemed to call our names. We took a break for another Kodak moment. This nearer bridge was by far the newest of the two but it lacked a bike lane. We chose to cross on the old bridge some 200 metres downstream. This structure was shabby and long-overdue for some serious maintenance. Rust covered the old iron girders. The sidewalk was so narrow that even a quick outward glance risked a possible scraping of a handlebar against the steel. Nevertheless, the view from its height was awesome—the river below and Quebec City beckoning ahead.
Quebec City from Bridge
Coming off the bridge we experienced a very slight bit of confusion while finding the University, but we knew it was within a few blocks of the bridge and soon we were there. Jeff, meanwhile, was spending a difficult two hours arranging accomodation—none of the on-duty staff spoke any English. The agreed-upon rooms were small but comfortable. We each had our own and they were all on one floor. Our cooking area, though, was a different story. Jeff drove the cooks, Bob and Christine (Ray having deserted them at Ottawa) to the kitchen to prepare supper. Giving them a start of perhaps 90 minutes, Jeff conducted us on foot to the correct building some half mile away. We walked a further quarter-mile through that building, across a beautiful, garden-filled square and into the bowels of a second building.
The salad was ready but the big pot of water for the spaghetti was being difficult. Still struggling to boil, our huge pot totally overwhelmed the electric stove's biggest burner. Patiently at first, we waited and talked. Then we tried putting a lid on the pot. Finally the cooks forbade anyone from even looking at it, but it still wouldn't boil. Eventually impatience and discontent won out and eight people gave-up and left. I stuck around, thinking that boiling looked imminent. A few minutes later the spaghetti was in the pot and cooked. We ate heartily, the two cooks, Jeff and me. Collectively we did up the dishes. Carrying the dishes and cooking-ware back to the truck in one load was a struggle—the supplies and utensils nearly buried the four of us. Only then did I realize how difficult it must have been for the three of them to even set up supper.
After securing everything in the van those of us who wanted to give Bob a farewell toast headed downtown on the bus. As might be predicted, that comprised Jeff and me, and Bob of course. Everyone else pleaded tiredness or said they planned to do all their sight-seeing tomorrow. No matter, we three were going to enjoy the Old City and reminisce somewhat about the ride.
The Old City of Quebec is a truly unique place in Canada, as much for its physical landscape as for its ambience. Perched on the bank of the St. Lawrence, its streets plunge steeply down to the river. There are no flat roads in the Old City—all roads in all directions go either steeply up or steeply down. We wandered for a while, finally settling at a bar somewhat removed from the street where we listened to a couple of French Canadian artists singing traditional and current folk songs. The lyrics to all but one were French. That none of us could understand any of the songs made little difference to us. The voices and tunes were very pleasing. So we tossed back a few pints, toasted Bob and left about 2330 hrs to catch the bus back to the campus.
While waiting for the bus, Jeff, the only one of the 13 of us who smoked, asked a teen-aged girl sitting nearby for a light. In his best French, and in pantomime, he asked her for a "legume," meaning, of course, a "fumer." She didn't even blink, just gave him a light. I bet she and her friend laughed later, though, at the dumb anglais who asked her for a vegetable for his cigarette.
La Citadel
Breakfast was a breeze compared to the supper fiasco—Jeff had bought tickets for both days' breakfasts when booking the rooms. The nearby cafeteria was the logical dining area. It was a busy spot, heavily frequented by the many other tourists who were also renting rooms in the dorms.
Up early and finished breakfast I took my bike outside for cleaning. An entranceway sheltered me from the morning's steady rain. Finishing up by alternating chains, I then took my bike back to my room, inadvertently leaving a small Tupperware box containing spare cables and a bottom-bracket tool in the entrance way. Several days were to pass before I even noticed that the box was missing. This was the only item I truly lost during the entire trip, which for me must be some kind of record. I confess to misplacing things daily.
Bob, Jeff and I went back downtown later in the afternoon after grabbing a snack in the cafeteria. We wanted some souvenirs, and in my particular case I wanted to visit La Citadel. The Citadel is a fascinating place, originally built to defend against an American invasion. As might be expected of a fort built to be a defensive position, the Citadel commands the highest point of land in Quebec City. Of course it required a steep climb to reach it. Arriving at the entranceway Bob got adventurous and climbed to the top of the outer wall by scrambling up a grassy bank. He then set off along the top of this huge fieldstone wall. Jeff and I kept pace with him from below. We were walking in the narrow, barren gap between the Fort's inner and outer defensive barriers. When Bob advised that he was at a cliff face, and down below him we were facing a dead-end, Jeff nimbly climbed the cemented stone walls to Bob's vantage point, but my old bones were past such conquests.
La Citadel
Retracing my steps to the complex's entrance I pressed onwards and came upon a guided tour of the garrison that was just setting off. The next one, in English, would be starting in 10 minutes. My former service career now benefited me—three tour passes were mine for just showing my retirement ID card. Jeff and Bob caught up with me barely in time to join the tour. From the guide we learned that the corner of the Citadel where Bob had led us overlooked the Plains of Abraham. This, of course, was the site of Wolfe's victory over Montcalm, resulting in Canada becoming bilingual in the accord settled afterward. Visiting La Citadel was high on my trip's list of hope-to-do's and I was most thrilled that it came to be.
We stopped for a beer or two while making our way back to main street, where Jeff left us for other pursuits. Bob and I scouted the dining establishments. Our final choice was a steak house, Le St-Stanislas, just off the main drag. Here I enjoyed the tastiest filet of the trip and perhaps the best steak from a restaurant ever in my life. All for about $20.00, including soup, cheesecake and coffee. No wonder people flock to this city for their holidays.
Patti, searching for a farewell card for Bob, had found a good one. Bob was an old musher, having raced sled-dog teams in earlier years at Edmonton, Whitehorse and Dawson. Therefore, Patti's card showing a dog team pulling a sled out of town seemed very appropro. Even the title "Leaving Camp" seemed perfect. We all signed it and planned to give it to Bob at breakfast the next morning.
Back at my room in the early evening I phoned my sister Ruth, in Halifax, to bring her up to date on my agenda. I was hopeful, also, of getting her clan's latest plans concerning the next couple of weeks when I would be in their proximity. After two or three rounds of phone-tag and a couple of beeping answering-machine moments, we connected. It seems likely that at least two, perhaps three of her sons' and daughters' families who live in the Maritimes will visit me. There is also a very good chance of an en-route visit by herself and Ron, her husband. This was going to be great—an excellent chance to visit with family not seen for several years, have some stationary time together, and still carry on riding with no schedule disruption. The next couple of weeks in the Maritimes were looking better and better.
While tucking myself in I realized there would be only one more rest day, at Saint-Louis-de-Kent in Nova Scotia, five days hence. It was a bittersweet thought to be reaching the end of the ride. One corner of my mind was wishing it could go on forever while another part was striving desperately to reach the finish. This next corner of Canada, the eastern seacoast, was the least familiar to all of us, and everyone was eager to see it, taste it, smell it and ride it. Our route was to take us further along the south shore of the St. Lawrence to Rimouski and Mont-Joli, then over the Gaspe Peninsula on Highway 132, following the Matapedia River Valley down into New Brunswick. With only 10 riders when we start out tomorrow morning I'm sure we will feel like some integral part of us is missing. I know that I will certainly miss Bob and Ray's presence for the remainder of the trip.
Street In Old Quebec City
Bob had made it known that he wished to have breakfast with us. While everyone was eating in the cafeteria this morning we gave him his card and a short farewell speech. We reflected that his American viewpoint had given us a somewhat different perspective of the trip. Following a round of final handshakes the ten remaining riders set off for Riviere Ouelle, 141 kilometres farther down the river. Once again there were three days of maps per page, which meant straightforward cycling with few highway changes. The road today, after crossing the river, was all Highway 132. It was Monday, August 19, the 54th day of the ride.
We were at the mercy of our tiny map as we rode off the campus looking for Boulevard Champlain. This roadway would lead us to the St. Lawrence River ferry to Levis. There were a few moments of uncertainty at a big hill's blind crest, but we coasted down it to join Boul Champlain on the River's edge. A few minutes later, after passing immediately beneath the famous cliffs climbed by Wolfe, we reached the dock. We walked our bicycles on board, then, while departing, assembled for several photos. The fifteen-minute crossing to the south shore was quick and enjoyable in the warm morning air. Riding through Levis freed our legs of any remaining kinks, then we joined Highway 132 on the far side of the town and were again underway.
Randy, Patti and I rode together most of the day, just for the companionship and the pleasure of riding with friends. Coming into Quebec City the other day Randy's bike had developed some strange creaking noises that were now steadily increasing in volume. Nothing appeared out of place or loose, but the noise seemed centred on the rear wheel. On the lookout for a bike shop, we found a small one in Saint-Michel. The mechanic, after listening to the noise, was also at a loss regarding its cause so he put the wheel in a vise intending to strip the hub for a look inside. The difficulty of removing the cogset to get at the hub proved to be a blessing. When the mechanic put some weight on the wheel's rim to gain better leverage for his wrench, the wheel made the same odd noise that was puzzling everybody. Looking at Randy, he stressed the wheel by pressing the rim sideways, getting the same odd noise each time he pressed. It was the spokes, creaking where they crossed each other and against their threads in the spoke nipples. Randy now admitted he had been generous in his use of WD-40 when cleaning the wheel earlier. While sitting idle yesterday apparently the fluid had penetrated the spoke threads. This freed them to shift ever so slightly when subjected to the forces created by the rotating wheel. The strange noise was something new to all of us, but of absolutely no consequence to the performance or safety of the bike. However, the cacophony generated by the flexing spokes was annoying. Riding behind Randy had become very distracting. It took a day or two but eventually the fluid dried and the noise faded to silence. Randy truly loved WD-40. Even this episode didn't discourage his liberal use of it as a bicycle cleaning compound.
This stretch of road along the St. Lawrence must produce more artists per capita than any other Canadian area. It seemed that outside every house was a wooden carving detailing the resident artist's talents. The many and well-done figurines provided interesting viewing as we passed.
The dead-flat landscape continued and the miles passed quickly. Passing a service station at the edge of a small town I felt my rear tire go flat and stopped for repairs. Looking at the removed tube, there was no doubt about it: a definite pinch-flat. In fact there were two sets of snakebites in the tube. I recalled filling the tire that morning prior to leaving the campus, as always, so how the tire became soft enough to pinch against the rim was a mystery, but there it was. The spare tube that I had been carrying since B.C. was put in and pumped up. Guess what? It didn't hold air! Of course I felt stupid, carrying a leaky tube as my spare for over 5,000 kilometres. But like a good Boy Scout I was prepared, and with a patch kit I covered the hole and we continued. Of course I complained, but with little conviction as I was very lucky for having suffered only the two flats so far over this 54 day period. What with Randy's repairs and my bad luck we didn't make camp with the pack's leading-edge today.
Arriving at the campsite in Riviere Ouelle about 1515 hrs, we were actually the last to get there. Except Jeff and the van. Checking out of the University, getting groceries, and finding Bob some lodging for the night had kept Jeff busy. Consequently, he left the city very late. I noticed some discontent among others who were hoping to get their laundry done but no one seemed at all bothered about supper being a tad late.
It was our turn to cook, again, and Patti had one of her special potato salads in mind. We peeled twenty pounds of spuds, mixed 2½ dozen eggs into it and added various veggies and spices. To complement this we opened six tins of salmon, added a large jar of mayonnaise, flavoured it all with some onions and seasonings and spread it onto 36 halves of hamburger buns. Then Patti mixed a big bowl of chocolate instant pudding for dessert. To our and everyone else's astonishment, we ate the whole thing. Ten cyclists and one driver! Simply incredible! Well, perhaps one serving of potato salad remained untouched. It takes a lot of fuel to ride continually day after day, and we were all still losing weight.
Somewhere out on the road today Christine met and rode with a fellow in his 20's who is cycling solo across Canada. This chap, Steve, was from Thunder Bay, and had left Vancouver a week after we started. He, too, was camping, which loaded his mountain bike with four full panniers. Steve had been averaging about 200 kms/day, and one day he travelled close to 300 kms when the wind was very favourable. Obviously Steve was very fit. His riding days were much longer than ours, often going 'till nearly nightfall before pitching his tent just off the roadside. Asked about not always staying in a campground and having shower facilities available, his answer appeared to distress a couple of the women in our group. Steve said he occasionally had a day or two without a shower, and had gone four or five days in a row without one while coming around Lake Superior. Accepting our invitation to join us for the night, Steve especially loved our full-course supper. He related he had just begun to stay at Bed-and-Breakfasts and was finding them a real good alternative to camping. Most especially the previous night's lodging. The lady of the house allowed him to tent in the yard but insisted on serving him breakfast. She then gave him $10.00 to help with expenses. So he, too, was overly impressed with the Quebec people's warmth and hospitality. Like us, he sang Quebec's praises. Steve was sending back weekly reports to the Thunder Bay newspaper and a comparison of our van-supported method of touring to his unsupported way made a good topic. He took some pictures of our setup and questioned us regarding thoughts of our trip. Tomorrow our routes to the Newfie ferry would diverge at Riviere du Loup, with Steve turning south to ride Hwy 1 through most of New Brunswick. Also in contrast to us he was planning to ride the entire width of Newfoundland, from Port aux Basque to St. John's. Good luck, Steve. Hope you get all tailwinds.
My trip odometer showed that I had passed the 6,000 kilometre point today, and again I marvel that I am doing all this. Life is so good this summer, and so simple. Our existence consists of three things: ride, eat, and sleep. Then repeat, over and over again. With no radio and no newspapers we are almost totally out-of-touch with everyday events going on in the big wide world. We hear of major events, perhaps, but pay them little attention as they don't impinge on our simple requirement of getting to the next campground and enjoying fully every minute of every day. Such a basic lifestyle can't last, obviously, but for this summer it's fabulous.
Tomorrow is a big worry for Annette. Reports of the road's narrowness beyond Riviere du Loup have been reaching us, and tomorrow's trip-map warns that truck traffic could be hazardous to our health. Travel on Highway 132, a secondary road, has been possible since leaving Quebec City but tomorrow Autoroute 22 ends. At that point all traffic will merge onto 132. For tonight, though, we enjoy the company of Steve, learn his perspective on cycling solo, and just chat until bedtime.
Rough Shoulders
After our cooking team tidied up the breakfast mess and loaded the van I started out ahead of Randy and Patti for a day by myself. This would be the final, full day along the shore of the St. Lawrence with its beautifully flat road and seemingly constant tailwind and I wanted to just ride at my own pace and enjoy it. Weather-wise it was another great day—well over 25º C and the wind still blowing strongly from the rear. I was clear of the campground by 0715 hrs, riding solo. The two kilometre road out of the campsite had a very steep, short uphill. Having little time to warm-up the legs I hit it fast and standing, not wanting to risk any injury such as pulling a muscle. A couple of us had talked about this hill last night, but despite all this precaution Patti still strained some part of her knee as she pedalled up it. She completed the day's ride but tonight she said her leg had bothered her while she cycled, and was still sore.
The highway for the first 60 or 70 kms was secondary road, Hwy 132, but once passed Riviere du Loup we merged with Autoroute 20. Traffic became much busier, real fast. It was still relatively early when I went through, only about 10 o'clock, so traffic was lighter than it would be later in the day, but it was still nerve-wracking. The semi-trailers and logging trucks were the worst. Unlike the northern Ontario drivers these guys just barrelled through. They would condescendingly move over a few feet if the oncoming lane was unoccupied. On the other hand, when two trucks met as they were passing me I maybe had three feet at the edge of the road if I chose to stay on the pavement. I tried it once but the slipstream of the truck blew me onto the shoulder immediately. So, again thankful to have a rear-view mirror, I bailed-out onto the shoulder whenever a 3-way confrontation was imminent. This manoeuvre was easy enough in northern Ontario but now the difficulty factor was much higher. Here the very loosely-packed gravelled shoulder was riddled with 3" rocks. Whenever thin-width road tires meet loose gravel it is an experience. Consequently, bailing-out onto it at 30 kph once every 10 minutes does not make for an enjoyable day. But the miles passed, and just before noon I rode into Trois Pistoles and our campsite for Day 55.
Jeff wasn't in camp yet so I enjoyed some ice cream at the office's small cafe. That eaten and still no sign of Jeff, I had a plate of French fries. I guess I was hungry. Conversation with anyone proved impossible—noone understood my poor French. Not even a tiny bit. Not even the two or three 10-year-old kids playing nearby could grasp enough of my talk to tell me their names. They just stared at me as if I was an alien. Had they never before seen a follically-challenged, grey-haired old man clad in lycra cycling shorts and jersey speaking a language they couldn't understand? So I sat on a fence and watched the world go by. Jeff arrived. He and the owner selected a site for us and I followed the van down to a truly beautiful spot on the St. Lawrence's shore. Being first in camp I had first pick and chose a soft, grassy spot right on the bank's edge. By now my routine had evolved to washing that day's garments (usually my favourite shorts and jersey) and drying them in the afternoon sun for wearing the next day. I often just washed them by hand and rinsed them in the shower. This worked well when both Jeff and I got in early. When washing wasn't possible or clothes didn't fully dry then plan B came into effect—wearing my second favourite set of clothes. Most days I got things washed and dried. I finished my laundry by 1430 hrs today.
Ken and Annette were busily studying options for their departure point from the tour. Deciding not to go all the way to the tip of Cape Breton Annette has decided she must leave sooner than August 29. She feels it necessary to give herself a week to prepare for the start of school. Somewhere in New Brunswick seemed to be favoured, but they made no absolute decision.
At this location the St. Lawrence River is melding with the sea. It is so wide that the other shore is barely visible and tidal fluctuations occur. Perhaps 500 m of mud-flats were showing in early afternoon when the tide was out. By 1900 hrs, though, the water had risen, filling the little bay we were camping beside. A beautiful sunset finished the day while we sat around enjoying a Labatt 50 ale, discussing nothing and everything.
After a beer or two with Jeff I repaired to my tent. The unintelligible murmuring of a French couple camping beside me quietly discussing whatever put me to asleep.
Gaspé
It was foggy, overcast and humid when we got up, and continued so all day. We had one of the trip's very long days ahead of us, a predicted 179 kilometres to reach Causapscal in the very heart of the Gaspé peninsula. For the first two or three hours we continued north-east along the shore of the St. Lawrence, and by using secondary roads linking small towns we avoided much of Highway 132's heavy truck traffic. Ahead of me the clouds seemed to be building into rain. The closer I got to Mont-Joli the more certain I was that I was going to get wet. Reaching there and still dry I turned due east, away from the approaching rain clouds, and began the long climb towards the centre of Gaspé. At the hill's summit I would reach the Matapedia River's source, near the town of Sayabec.
I ate a couple sandwiches at the major junction in Mont-Joli where Highway 132 splits to circle the perimeter of Gaspé. After topping up my water reserves I started the climb towards New Brunswick. As the elevation increased the mist got heavier. Still no actual rain. I passed a couple of much more heavily-laden cyclists as they struggled upward. Soon the countryside opened up and I could see the broad, green valley I was in. Eventually the grade levelled off, and as I passed Matapedia Lake the road started to descend slightly. This area was fully and totally French, with its own very definite appeal and charm. The Gaspé area has a special mystique, and I was enjoying my ride through it. Well, almost enjoying it. My butt was really beginning to hurt. A funny thing was occurring, I realized. Some many weeks ago, when coming down from the mountains and onto the prairies, my butt got sore. The hurt increased daily as we rode on the flat land. Then, once into the hills of the Canadian Shield, the pain had stopped and I'd forgotten any discomfort. However, now, when again riding the very flat land down the St Lawrence the pain had returned. Each day the pain increased slightly and now my butt was really tender. I was standing often to relieve the pressure and constantly squirming around on the saddle. Gel saddles, eh? Maybe they aren't the final answer, but with only a couple more weeks to ride I would make it okay. However, this gave me a reason to once again stop at bike stores. Perhaps somebody would have an end-of-season sale on something like the Vetta Tri-Sport saddle that Bob rode and thought so highly of.
Jeff passed me no more than 10 kilometres from the campground but had everything unloaded when I rode in. Pitching my tent immediately because the mist still hanging in the air was getting heavier, I was just on my way to the shower when a fullon deluge began. As the others rode in I became aware of how lucky I'd been all day. I had managed to stay ahead of a rain front, but obviously just minutes ahead of it. The others weren't so lucky. James, Paddy and Marny had taken an incorrect turn about midmorning. This wrong turn, combined with the rain and the heavy truck traffic caused their spirits to sag so badly that they had flagged Jeff down. They rode in the van for about 70 kms but had returned to riding again by the time Jeff passed me. Everyone else had ridden in the rain virtually all afternoon. Some all day.
Derailleur cables were today's nuisance item. Patti's rear cable broke right inside her Twist-Grip handle, which meant the repair shop she found had to totally strip the grip to replace the cable. This had taken 90 minutes. Albert's rear derailleur cable also broke, but not inside the grip. A different shop replaced it within 15 minutes.
Compounding the frustration of Patti's bike problems, her injured knee was now really bothering her. The extended distance, the hill climbing after so many days on the flat, the cold, damp rain, and some four hours of fighting a headwind this afternoon all combined to wear her down. Tired and sore, Randy and Patti didn't reach camp until 1810 hrs. I had logged 181 kilometres on my odometer, others about the same. Today was a tough day. We all felt pretty tired
This was our final day in Quebec and darkness came very early, perhaps 2000 hrs, caused in large part by the time-zone division line. The entire province is on Eastern time although this area is far enough eastward to be well inside the Atlantic Time Zone.
Tomorrow we would lose an hour early in the morning as we crossed into New Brunswick,
Map (of Atlantic Region)
but the evening would stay light a bit later. Living as we were—in tents—and crossing so slowly eastward, the sun had a very pronounced influence on our lives. At dusk we felt tired and went to bed, and at dawn we got up. The shrinking daylight hours of late August were very noticeable as we toured the Atlantic provinces. We were now up before dawn, packing our tents and preparing breakfast in darkness. Except Annette, who always got up before 0600.
Speaking of them, they have decided that tomorrow will be their last day. Jeff will drive them to Moncton after he unloads the tents at the campground in Petit-Rocher, N.B., while the rest of us are making our way there. From Moncton they will fly to Ottawa the following morning. They will leave their tent and bikes on the van, picking them up when the van eventually returns to Toronto in September.
Our numbers continue to dwindle.
The distance covered over this five-day segment was the second-highest daily average of the trip. We averaged 152 kilometres/day, and this was not flat prairie. It took its toll on me. I wasn't 100% by today's end, feeling somewhat more tired than I thought I should be. Over the next four or five days I continued to drag my butt through each day. Actually, it was too sore to drag anywhere, but I did feel more fatigued than during any other part of the trip. Perhaps I caught a bit of a virus or something and the actual riding really wasn't that hard. I never did know.
My excitement is mounting about reaching the Atlantic Provinces and I'm still wondering if I'll see either of my nieces or my nephew, Mark. A phone call to his house went unanswered so I'll try again tomorrow night.
Again tonight the plunking of raindrops on nylon was the last thing I heard.
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