Dino's blog for mini adventures and endurance challenges
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The Last Leg

September 5th, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (7 Comments)

When Diana Nyad, the 64 old woman who swam from Cuba to Florida, climbed out the ocean last week she made a breathless speech to the waiting media: “I have three messages: one is we should never ever give up; two is you are never too old to chase your dreams; and three is it looks like a solitary sport but it is a team.”

Now I am back on dry land (and face the prospect of a warm bed in Montreal tonight), I hope you will allow me the indulgence of sharing my three messages:

1 you lack nothing if you have enough determination (and M&Ms)
2 always cycle with the wind
3 this may have looked like a solitary adventure but I could not have made it all to way to Halifax without you.

Let me expand on message 3. The last leg of my journey was in some ways the toughest. I was tired, I ached, I frequently went to bed at 8.30pm, avocado had lost its appeal, it rained more and the hills in Cape Breton were ridiculous. If I have cycled farther it is because I was supported by the legs of others. You got me on the road and you kept me going: thank you.

(I won’t mention names but I did think it would be highly amusing to post photographs of all your legs.)

Thank you to the people who hosted me, gave me food, and helped me launder my pongy socks. Thank you for the stories you shared, the eggs you fried, and the kindness you showed me.

Thank you strangers for coming to help. Thank your for pulling over in your car on the hot days to ask if I had enough water. Thank you for the pizza, for the car keys, for turning up on the roadside with a track pump, for letting me sleep in the hut when I was too tired to pitch my tent. Thank you for the small gestures that made my day.

Thank you friends, family and followers for cheery and amusing tweets, emails and blog comments. Thank you for putting up with me talking about nothing else except cycling across Canada for such a long time. (And apologies in advance for the large number of sentences I will now begin with “when I was cycling across Canada…”)

Thank you to all who helped me with my preparation, planning and training. From getting my body (and lumbar spine) in shape to telling me that I could do it when it all felt like too much. Thank you for beautiful practice rides in the Cotswold hills, advice on kit, kit as Christmas presents, encouragement, support and generally getting me to the start.

Thank you employers for giving me 3 months off work.

Thank you fellow trans Canada cyclists for laughter and bemusement on route. Thank you for excellent blog writing, advice and campsite recommendations. For many an excellent moment of s’more toasting, hill climbing and eagle spotting. I will remember you fondly.

Thank you bears for not eating me.

Thank you Cycle with Dino cyclists for logging your trips. For encouraging my legs to keep spinning to follow your own honest miles. Thank you for dusting off your old bike, for cycling to work, from Le to Jog, in time trials, holiday spins, day rides, and early morning wildlife spotting rides. Each mile you pedalled inspired me to keep going. I imagined you pedalling with me and it really, really helped. You cycled 11,724km – that’s all the way across Canada and halfway back.

Thank you web master for creating the coolest blog map and for updating the dinomometer.

Thank you Monty for being a true and trusty steed. Thank you for not developing any mechanic problems that I could not fix. Thank you for spinning in the sunshine and persevering in the rain.

Thank you Canada for an amazing adventure.

Together we cycled from sea to sea.

Oh, and the moment you’ve all been waiting for! What do legs look like after they’ve cycled 7,500km?

The original legs. May 2013.

The original legs. May 2013.

The last legs

The last legs

Last legs from a different angle

Last legs from a different angle

Tan lines!!

Tan lines!!

The Last Avocado to Halifax

September 3rd, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (3 Comments)

Day 73: Spry Bay to Halifax (100km)

I awoke to fog. A few lamps cast fuzzy globes of warmer light on the grey, misty campground. The springy carpet of moss and thick grass was wet as I rolled up my tent for the last time this summer. Back at home, the Canadian geese are doing practice flights across the river. Soon enough I too will take the migratory flight home.

I followed the coastal highway headed west. The fog hid the stitches between the ruffled ocean waters and the opaque sheet of sky. The air was cool, wet and quiet with the solemn stillness of an early Sunday morning. Gone are the holiday makers. Derelict boats, the paint peeling from their hulls, and houses for sale pointed towards a more affluent past when abundant hauls of lobster and cod were the order of the day.

A sunning of cormorants stood on the harbour rocks waiting for the cloud to break its hold over the sky. Flashes of lemon-yellow tweeted in the trees, the goldfinches fluttered and called in turn as the cyclist pedalled by. I stopped to enjoy the view of one of the harbours. Looking out into the water I was not aware that eyes were watching me until I turned to continue and saw, at the crest of the hill, the lithe figure of a deer. Our eyes met and the spirit turned, springing into the air with the grace of a ballerina. I watched its dancing retreat along the road until it disappeared back into the spruce forest.

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After a slow but steady morning on the road I cycled through a harbour town where I expected to find a dry picnic spot where I could ceremoniously eat The Last Avocado. These coastal towns usually only have one road – the highway – and so stretch out for a few kilometres without much of a central hub. I passed all the way through the town without finding a spot. Still hungry, I had to take my turning off onto the main highway towards Halifax.

Within meters the heavens opened. First one heavy drop, seconds later a pounding rain battered the road like an army of drummers. The cold bullets of rain hurt as it hit my bare legs. There were no buildings in sight, no rocks to hide under, nor trees that could afford protection. The wind created ribs out of the waves sliding down the road. With nowhere to stop and a hollow stomach I kept on pushing up the hills.

Then: a triple flash of lightning. The head-splitting crack of thunder. In that flash and roar echoed the terrifying memories of Calgary. Except for the dip of the hills, there were no structures pointing to the sky – no buildings, not even a telegraph pole – a lone, drenched figure on a metal bike cycled alone into the thickening storm.

I imagined the sad tale of the person who cycled across Canada only to be struck by lightning 30km out of Halifax. It was in the local paper.

I carried on pedalling. My muscles burnt with lactic acid as I ascended the steepening hills. In defiance of the 12th day of non stop riding, hills and lactic acid, my Atlas legs burned along the highway. I have not cycled 7,500 kilometres across a continent to be beaten now.

I came to a flyover bridge and hid underneath, waiting for the thunder to past. Please go, please go, I urged. Before I get too cold. I stuffed my last protein bar into my face, packed my jersey pockets with the last of my jelly beans and M&Ms. I heard the cracks of thunder reseeding into the east. The westerly wind blew against me as I mounted Monty for the final time. I am not going to stop.

I did not stop until I reached the city limits. The gaudy lights of the gas stations and fast food outlets were a dazzle of harsh colour against the grey day. The traffic into town was busy and gave me little space as it splashed past me. Two Alsatians in the back of a pick up truck barked loudly as they shot past me. I ate a final handful of jelly beans and headed for the ferry.

I arrived at the Dartmouth ferry terminal just as a boat was pulling in. We boarded the boat. The end, on the far side of the small harbour, was in sight. My cold fingers unwrapped the last bite of my Kendle Mint Cake. I have carried this with me since the very beginning and it has survived, as sweet and restoring as ever. The ferry pulled out its dock and putted over to Halifax.

“Monty,” I said, rubbing my fingers along the neck of his frame. “Monty, we made it.”

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Pure Joy

September 2nd, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (0 Comments)

Day 72: Sherbrooke to Spry Bay (98 km)

That was nice. I’m glad I had a nice day near the end.

Today was a reminder of how wonderful cycle touring can be (when the weather is good).

As it’s my penultimate day on the road, I followed the coast south west towards Halifax. The coast is beautiful. Not in a big, showy way like the mountains, but in a gentle way that reflects the coast’s glimmering, smooth waters. The road swung to and fro between the hills and the natural harbours of the coast. The land was thick with Christmas trees and ferns. The ocean bays were framed in bronze and rock.

Nova Scotia can be very beautiful when it's not raining

Nova Scotia can be very beautiful when it’s not raining

I was treated to the sound of loon, their mournful call evoking memories of the Ontario wilderness. I crossed rivers rushing down to meet the sea, and glassy bays where a cormorant perched on a rock drying its wings. (Which, oddly enough, reminded me that my tent fly was wet and needed drying.)

By mid-morning the clouds had lifted, revealing a ceiling of perfectly blue sky. It was now hot enough for me to peel off my layers and hunt for the sun cream.

Cycling on days like today is refreshing and invigorating. Over breakfast I was getting annoyed by the man from the camper next door who talked at me for an hour, asking me endless questions. He did not get the hint from my monosyllabic answers that I didn’t want to chat. But soon enough my stuff was packed and Monty and I were on our way.

However annoying a person is (and, trust me, I’ve met some annoying people en route!) you know you can always pedal off. The difficulties of bike touring arise when you can’t pedal off (injury, broken spokes, awful weather, flat tyres etc). Problems that arise get fixed and the pedalling continues. I’m sure there’s a life lesson in there.

Certain moments today – the loon calling, an attack of bugs while I ate Second Breakfast – reminded me of other parts of Canada. It’s been a long journey and it’s hard to believe it will soon be over.

There are some things that I am, quite frankly, a bit bored of. Crackers and Kraft dinner, for example. Packing up wet tents. And answering the repetitive questions about my trip.

But there are things I love and appreciate even more deeply than before: sunshine, tailwinds, wildlife spotting, M&Ms, the crackle of a campfire, the silky darkness of the night sky.

But the best is this: that feeling I get when cycling along with the summer sun warming the skin on my back and the wind pushing me gently along. I’ve experienced that moment countless times on this trip. I believe I will never get tired of it for that feeling is called Pure Joy.

From the mountains to the Atlantic

August 29th, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (3 Comments)

Day 68: Corney Brook to Ingonish Beach 101 km)

“You feeling okay?” he asked

I was packing up my tent, pondering my fate high amid the dull blanket of cloud and the obscured mountain top above me, when Dad from yesterday’s fish supper came over.

My stomach was in a knot of nerves. But I replied cheerfully.

“Oh phew,” he breathed, “I was worried about you. Because my wife was up all night being sick. And all I could think of was what about that cyclist.”

Suddenly I felt sick. I leant over to pull up a tent peg when a reflux of something caused me to hiccup. What an idiot, eating shellfish the night before the hardest mountain in Canada. And I’ve never eaten shellfish before. What if I’m allergic?

Visions appeared in front of me: there am I bent over the soggy side of the mountain, heaving my guts into the verge. My one and only comforting thought, dear reader, was that the shellfish-poisoned-mountain-climb would (in hindsight) make an excellent blog post.

Sick with either worry, nerves or shellfish, I knew not which, I departed from the coastal campsite to meet my fate. Immediately I started to ascend. 100m down the road and I was greeted good morning by a signpost demarcating the foot of French Mountain. And a sign warning of the 12% gradient ahead.

And so it began. I climbed, pushed with all my might. The road was quiet. Damp, cool air hovered under the white cloud that obscured the view. The road curled up the voluptuous contours of mountain side, pulling away from the coast of the St Lawrence and entering into the forest of black spruce and balsam fir. I shifted into my lowest gear and pedalled relentless upwards.

As I approached the top it was pea soup. Visibility was reduced to 100 meters. The trees faded into paler shades before they disappeared off the edge of the world. The mountain vanished into a isolating whiteness. Slowly a silhouette transformed into a signpost: the summit of French Mountain.

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I pulled off at a rest stop to pee. A woman was asking one of the Park wardens were she could see a moose. I do love how tourists demand to see wildlife. I’m sure the nature conservation movement would be so much better supported if the wild animals and birds only stood in line and danced a merry jig when the tourist bus came through.

I would be quite content just to see the Road Ahead. The descent of French Mountain was like being dropped in a pot of white paint. The road threw terrifying twists and loops down the back of the mountain. My hands cramped from braking. I signed in relief when I came out of the cloud and skirted into the coastal village of Pleasant Bay. I was back at sea level again. Another mountain loomed.

North Mountain: oh my goodness.

It is hard to compare given the gaps of time but this mountain is in the running for the hardest climb of my life. Harder than the Rockies, harder than Alpe d’Huez, harder than Mount Ventoux. Oh my life.
I was in my lowest gear. I was pushing on the pedals with every ounce of strength. I felt like I was doing endless reps of leg presses with maximum weight at the gym. My heart was pounding. I gasped for breath. I fought like I was sprinting for an Olympic gold metal. Yet I was inching along JUST fast enough not to topple off my bike backwards.

I cannot stop. For if I stop I will never get back on again. My muscles are in knots. All the way from my knees to my mid back my muscles are a riot of pain. It is a cool day but I a wearing just a vest top and the sweat is dripping from my forehead to my legs. What’s that smell? A weirdly familiar smell takes me back to England. It smells like… The London Tube? Another car screeches down the hill and I realised that the smell is caused by the vehicle’s brake pads. Oh, if only my legs gave off a smell from this – it would be stinky!

I am practically in tears. I have not even the mental wherewithal to sing the M&M song. The mountain seems to steepen. Courage. We all suffer. Keep going. A thought enters my mind: if I keep going I will see the Atlantic. If I can see the Atlantic I can call myself a transcontinental cyclist. Keep going.

A car comes down the mountain on the other side of the road. Two road bikes are strapped on the rear carrier. A very cool looking dude with stylishly dishevelled black hair and large sunglasses leans out the window and gives me the thumbs up. I am Marco Pantani. That was my support vehicle telling me I am going to win. Thank you, Cool Dude.

After 40 minutes of relentless, knee breaking ascent, the road levels out. The sign approaches. At the top I celebrate by eating a Naked bar. One which I brought from England, waiting for a special moment. It is now downhill to the Atlantic. But not without first tackling the switchback bends. The road veers over to the edge of a precipice before snapping back the other way. My fear of heights is reawakened. I descended almost as slowly as I had ascended.

And then I see it: a line of blue in between the lumps of land like a tshirt poking through a v neck jumper. Monty and I tackle the afternoon hills with renewed vigour. The highland hills lay like an upturned egg box. We pull off the Cabot Trail into a small fishing village called Neil’s Harbour. Lobster pots are piled high next to bundles of fluorescent buoys. The lighthouse sits at the edge of the rocks looking out into the Atlantic. The Atlantic!

Neil's harbour.

Neil’s harbour.

Monty and I arrive exhausted but satisfied at our campground. I pitch the tent, upload Monty and then together we go on a small excursion to Ingonish Beach.

I carry him over the beach wall and prop him up on the pebbles. There were pebbles on the beach at Victoria, I remember. The sun breaks through the day-long cloud and casts a auspicious light on the rolling waves. Monty wheels into the surf.

Whatever else may befall Monty and I, we will always remember today. Today we made it.

We cycled from sea to sea.

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Cumberland to Northumberland

August 24th, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (0 Comments)

Day 63: Cumberland Cove to Northumberland Cove (105km)

It may be amusing for English folk to know that today I cycled from Cumberland to Northumberland via Cornwall.

I woke up early enough to see the sunrise. The days are getting so much shorter now that orange slice of sun was only sliding through the far line of trees while I brewed my morning coffee. I set off at 8am along quiet roads. The early morning light tinted the agricultural landscape as if I were looking at the golden fields and rows of green potatoes through a glass jar of runny honey. The air was soft and hazy. It was also unexpectedly hilly.

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My legs are strong now, I can tell, as I tapped out another climb. Cresting over a hill would afford me views of the island, disappearing in bands of fading blue on the horizon in front. Wooden houses stood on farm fields and cows munched languidly in the fields. The soil here is as red as the coast. Farm trucks spray out a film of this rusty dust as they bump along the tracks back to the barn.

When I reached the town of Cornwall I knew it wasn’t much farther to Charlottetown. I had a number of jobs to do in Charlottetown as I had got into my head that this provincial capital would be the last busting metropolis I would meet until Halifax. First I had to swing by a bike to shop to get Monty a new tyre. Although they had the right tyre in stock (a Schwalbe Marathon Plus) they also gained the prize for being the first bike shop in Canada to charge me for labour. For putting my tyre on? Pah! I would have done it myself. I thought they were just being friendly. Oh well, job done and Monty is now happy.

Today I spent a ridiculous amount of money on protein bars. For those that think that cycling is “free” compared to the old motorcar please note: I spend more on protein bars per week cycling across Canada than I used to spend on gas (translation: petrol) per week at home. I now have enough protein bars that I can munch two a day for the rest of my trip. I nipped to the grocery store to stock up on crackers, avocado and Kraft dinner. My panniers now weighs a ton.

Jobs done, I headed to downtown Charlottetown. There were lots of tourists bimbling around the waterfront. I guess I am a tourist too as I sat in the shade by the wharf eating lobster roll and another icecream. I met a very bearded man with small round spectacles propped on the end of his nose and a yellow cycling jersey pulled snuggly over his round belly. He was from Montreal and was visiting his holiday home on Ile de la Madeleine. Everyone who has mentioned this island has enthuse with how beautiful it is. Floating north in the gulf of the St Lawrence it is closer to PEI than its home province, Quebec. It’s so far out the way that I cannot cycled there this time but it does give me an excuse to come back and explore more another time.

By the wharf stood Founders Hall. I felt a bit silly only nipping into the Founders Hall information centre to use the washroom and fill up my water bottles. Here is history! Here in 1864 delegates met to discuss confederation and Canada as we know it was born. But the muddy path of history sometimes leads from majestic moment of founding a nation to the mundane moment of nipping to refill. Hey ho. Best get cycling…

It was hilly this afternoon. I was not expecting such big hills. Up, down, and up again in 28 degree heat all afternoon was hard work and had me reaching for the emergency Skittles. I am beginning to worry a tad about the Cabot trail. I have been warned of “3 mountains” which are 15%. And over a cup of tea, friends of Aaron and Shelley told me that the Cabot trail was the hardest cycling in Canada. I believe them because these two cycled across Canada in 2008. That was how they met… and they are now married.

Oh but I have not cycled across anything that steep since Devon. And Devon is fiendish! And in Devon I was not hauling along a ton of protein bars. Wish me luck…

Just before I reached my campground I saw a liquor store so nipped in to get a local brew. David, another trans-Canada cyclist who is a few days ahead of me, had tweeted me to recommend this spot. And it is gorgeous. There is a red sandy shore dotted with slimey apple green rocks. A couple play in the rolling waves. A lone gull is flapping its way home. A boat’s horn sounds in the distance. You look out to the horizon. First you see a lighthouse blinking from the rocks and then a faint smudge of land.

I pitched my tent by the sea front and pondered what to do next: drink the beer or go for a swim in the sea? Tough decision.

The breakers crashed into my knee caps, splashing the cool, salty water up my sweaty, suncream sticky body. The sea was refreshing. I thought of childhood holidays in Cornwall. I had a body board and I used to paddle out into the salty waves of the Atlantic on it and ride back in under a hot blue sky. This water here is part of Northumberland Strait and looks over to the mainland and Nova Scotia. It is almost the Atlantic. It is almost far enough.

Tomorrow I will take the ferry over to my last and final province. The pull of the sea is great. Soon enough I will be by the sea again but this time, if the world could only be squashed flat, then it would be England I could see on the far shore. And Rock, Padstow and the sandy beaches of the original Cornwall. Home is soon to be in sight.

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Leg 3

August 7th, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (1 Comments)

“Dino, you’re fat. Get off the sofa.”

This is the way that my loving brother would coax me to the gym.

I didn’t have much choice in the matter. Having returned home from Australia homeless and penniless I lived in Seb’s spare room while I saved up enough money to go back to university. At this point Seb was in the midst of training to become a fitness instructor. I was the live-in guinea pig.

I recall one day Seb took me to the gym to do back-to-back gym sessions. We started with aqua aerobics (we were the only two people in the class under 50…), followed by a frenetic cardio class, followed by a body conditioning class led by Seb. Followed by collapsing back onto the sofa. The only saving grace was that Seb’s ideal post-workout snack was a tub of Haagen-Dazs.

Never before did I know that you could be so tired, that you could ache so, so much and still keep going.

Cycling across Canada reminds me of those gym sessions with Seb. Each leg has tested, boosted and exhausted my body in a new way.

The Rockies: climbing
I loved the mountains. Maybe it was because I grew up in the bottom of a valley but I love hill climbing. You have something to aim for. You know how long it will take to climb. I had trained for the mountains. My legs changed shape a but mostly they just enjoyed themselves.

The prairies: spinning
Flat is hard. Flat meant you could never, ever stop pedalling. There were no downhills, I could never coast. A gear change was a rare and special event. The prairies were a week long spin class. For five, six, seven hours I day I could sit on my bike and spin.

Cranking up the iPod, Florence & the machine, Tegan & Sara, and America [sic] got me across the prairies. I spun 800 kilometres in 6 days. What a ridiculous distance. With their deceptive difficulty the prairies battered my body and reshaped my legs in a way I hadn’t expected.

The forest: intervals
One moment I would be tapping away with the ease and grace of a swan gliding over the water. The next minute my heart was pounding, my thighs burning, my knees breaking underneath. I struggled like a loon trying to take flight as I fought the gradient. I feared collapse. And then… Breathe. Another swift, easy descent and my heart returns to normal.

The forests of the Canadian Shield were one, long (very long) interval class.

I don’t think Seb ever had a fourth class. Canada does. After climbing, spinning, interval training, I still have the Maritimes to go. How will the east coast test my legs?

The original legs. May 2013.

The original legs. May 2013.

3 cycling classes later... My legs in Montreal.

3 cycling classes later… My legs in Montreal.

The end is in sight. I have only 2,500 kilometres to go before my legs and I can collapse back on the sofa with a tub of Haagen-Dazs.

Reasons to celebrate

August 2nd, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (0 Comments)

Day 47: Golden Lake to Shawville (88km)

“Congratulations!” She beamed with a broad, excited smile on her face. She had a copy of the Merchant of Venice tucked under one arm.

We were standing outside the pubic library in Eganville, a small town straddling the Bonnechere river in northern Ontario. I had a large grin on my face too. Thanks to the library’s free wifi I had just found out that I had a new job to look forward to when I return to the UK. But the Merchant of Venice lady didn’t know that. She’d just asked me where I’d biked from. Congratulations, Dino, you’ve just cycled from Victoria.

Resisting the urge to whoop and yahoo inside the quiet library, I saved my woohoo moment until I was safely 2km out of town with the noise of the wind and traffic to disguise my private celebrations. All day I rode with a smile smeared on my face like chocolate round a kid’s mouth.

The morning routine of stuffing bags, drinking coffee, stretching hamstring etc, had been interrupted by a telephone job interview. Even in northern Ontario, sitting under dew wet trees on the shore of Golden Lake, I couldn’t shake off the pre-interview nerves. Last night I went over possible questions in my head, explicating my vision for the future while poking the charcoal of my campfire. And what should I wear from my interview? At 6.45am the air still held the cool freshness of night so I dug into my stuff sack for my thermal leggings. I munched blueberries, watched the blackbird hopping across the sunlight-dabbled grass, and waited for the phone to ring.

Interview over I pedalled off in high spirits. The scenery was changing, the forests were giving way to farmland. And I knew that by the end of the day I would be in a whole new province. It felt like the start of a whole new adventure.

After 26km I stopped in Eganville for second breakfast and to check my emails at the public library. Discovering I had a new job and the congratulations from the Merchant of Venice lady only boosted my mood even more. I spun fast out of the town and headed along the highway east.

I passed stretching corn fields, shining like pots of honey in the sun. Barns painted in fresh vermillion, looking like Monopoly hotels, stood squarely in the corner of the crop fields. Fresh green hay bales lay in the fields. I turned off the highway towards the Ottawa river.

In the distance the grain stores stood like colourful minarets calling birds from across the fields. Swallows dipped and dived over the swaying fields of corn. Whisps of cirrus cloud floated in the sky. A chorus of cicadas buzzed from the tall grasses. A herd of cows munched languidly.

A long bridge carried me over the Ottawa river. After 2,500 km and a whole month of cycling I was leaving Ontario. Ontario had been an adventure inside an adventure. It’s shown me fireflies, bears, the northern lights and just how bad mosquitoes can be. It’s showered me in terrific thunderstorms and fried me in the sticky heat. Your lakes and forests were so beautiful I didn’t think I’d ever get bored. And I didn’t.

Left: Quebec. Right: Ontario. Middle: Ottawa river

Left: Quebec. Right: Ontario. Middle: Ottawa river

Quebec appeared on the other side of the river promising poutine and bike paths. Soon enough I arrived in the town of Shawville. I pedalled off in search of a celebratory drink and returned to the campground with two beers and a pot of poutine. One beer to celebrate the new job, the second to celebrate cycling across Ontario and the poutine because I was hungry.

Left: beer to celebrate new job. Right: beer to celebrate cycling across Ontario. Middle: poutine

Left: beer to celebrate new job. Right: beer to celebrate cycling across Ontario. Middle: poutine

I am camped by the stream in the town park that doubles as a free campground. My tent is pitched next to the small stream, bordered by a bush or two of pink fuchsias. I can hear the soft, rhythmic thud of the old water mill churning. I am sitting drinking my cold beer and picking at the flaking emerald paint of a roofed picnic bench.

I raise my second drink to the sky: here’s to you Ontario. Here’s to cycling across Canada.

Lake Superior

July 17th, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (0 Comments)

Day 36: Wawa to Lake Superior (93km)

The water is as clear as cut glass. Wading out chest deep into the lake you can still see your toes as clearly as if you were on bare earth. Rainbow stripes of sunshine refracted by the waves shine on the white sand beneath your feet. The wind stirs the fringe of the lake, rustling against the smooth pebbles on the shore.

Welcome to Agawa Bay. The sky is so bright it is luminous. Yet to the south you can see the right handed sliver of a half moon. Two kayaks paddle home from an adventure. A couple sit on deck chairs further up the beach, admiring the endless view of Superior.

Canada. Here I am surrounded by nature and wilderness. Tonight will be one of the first time on this trip that I am camping by myself. If I hadn’t already pitched my tent I think I would fight the bugs sleeping on the beach. I will sit here at least until sunset: the perfect end to a beautiful day in Canada.

Today I went cove hopping along the north shore of Lake Superior. I stopped for Second Breakfast (a fresh orange and a protein bar) at Old Woman’s Bay. Then later I ate lunch at Catherine’s cove, a sandy bar hidden in the folds of the Superior provincial park. I dipped my feet in the warming waters of the lake, testing the temperature for my later swim.

Catherine's Cove. I would not advise cycling on sand. The wheels have a tendency to sink.

Catherine’s Cove. I would not advise cycling on sand. The wheels have a tendency to sink.

It has been a hot day for cycling. The Tarmac shimmered ahead in the intense heat. Sweat rolled down my bare, tanned shoulders. It has been so hot that my precious M&Ms have escaped their sugar coating and melted into a mucky mush in their pouch. No bears or moose spotted today – doubtless they are hiding in a cool bit of shade. I did spot another odd creature though in the form a cyclists. A man, cycling by himself, who although very friendly and chatty appeared to be slowly succumbing to the effects of Being By Oneself For Too Long. You talk too rapidly, too keenly and then pause, stuck for conversation. The dialogue twists awkwardly as it meanders through the mind of someone who has only had to cope with their own thoughts, not the speech of others, for the last 2 weeks. I wonder when I shall become like that.

I cycled past a trio of lakes. First I reached Dad Lake. I got exciting thinking that next to Dad Lake there might be a Dad Rock sign which could be photographed for next year’s Father’s Day card. Instead appeared a sign for Baby Lake. And shortly after Mom Lake. I pondered who had named these lakes, wondering if there were any other Lake Children around. Later on in the day my heart fell when I saw a lonely sign pointing off deep into the forest: Orphan Lake.

You know you have cycled a ridiculously long way when cycling 93 km feels like a “rest day”. Yet today’s sublime views of Superior from the inlets and hills tops along the north shore distracted me from the effort of pedalling. After less than 5 hours of cycling I pulled into the campground. Yes, it is daylight robbery to stay here (€38 per night – that’s about £25!) but the view of the now setting sun across the lake is priceless.

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Halfway across Canada

July 15th, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (1 Comments)

Day 35: White Lake to Wawa (127.5 km)

How am I still cycling?

I was exhausted yesterday. I have been through exhaustion and out the other side. I have never, ever felt like this. Yet here I am. On a bike. I am still pedalling.

I slept very badly last night due to the humidity and the relentless mosquito hunting. I don’t understand how in a space as vast as northern Ontario these little buggers crowd into my tiny one-person tent. I had a small swarm inside my tent that I was forced to track down one by one with my head torch. I have the technique down a bit better: sweep the head torch down to the end of the torch the sweep up, chasing them with the light, into the roof of the tent before battering into the side of the tent. I’d catch them all then lie back down to sleep before another buzz and a sharp prick in my back tells me another one is still alive. The hunt continued into the small hours. In the morning my tent resembled a battle ground with smeared blood and tangled mosquitoes bodies strewn hither and thither across the yellow canvas.

The second wave of militants arrived as soon as I stepped out the tent. They nibbled at my thighs. The munched at my face and hair. My bug spray is pretty disgusting and slightly ineffective. So I was forced to wear full waterproof garb and a hat despite the heat.

A further misfortune occurred when I managed to knock my coffee over this morning with my thermarest. The thermarest escaped unscathed but, sadly, I had only drunk a few measly sips of the freshly brewed coffee before the incident. As you may know, i do not cope well with life uncaffeinated.

As a result the first 40km to White River were a slog. I ate 2 and a half energy bars to keep me going.

White River is the home of Winnie the Pooh. A large sign with a waving Pooh welcomes you to the small town. The story is that back during the First World War a military man came to White River and purchased a black bear cub as a mascot. He named the bear Winnie after his hometown, Winnipeg. I think having a full sized bear as a mascot seems a tad of an awkward sized pet to have in the military. It left me wondering: did they ever had war bears? Presumably not as when the man went off to fight in France he left his dear Winnie in the care of London Zoo where he was visited by A A Milne and his son Christopher. You know the rest.

White River's most famous homeboy

White River’s most famous homeboy

At White River I paused briefly over the Pooh statue before heading to find some munch needed coffee. I was met by a bearded biker. By biker I mean motorbikes. Seeing me and Monty (and presumably reading my one and only cycling jersey) he struck conversation, clearly having decided that we are kindred spirit. Mr Bearded Biker was on 24 hour, 1,000km mission. He had left Toronto at midnight and was headed to Deluth in Minnesota. Working with out in my head it didn’t seem necessary for him to have left at midnight. The speed limit is 90km per hour. So presumably bikers go at 100km so… 10 hours. Hed be there for brunch. It seemed an odd sort of mission to me.

Ever after coffee I didn’t feel much more energies as I continued to slog into a relentless headwind. I had said goodbye to the Wanderers at the campground so I was cycling alone and there was no hiding from the wind. All day I kept my eyes peeled for moose. Eyre try few kilometres there were signs warning drivers of these kings of the forest. In White River I’d overheard a man exclaiming to his friend that he’d seen a bull moose on the highway that morning. I scanned the pine forest, the open meadows, the swampy bits, the thinning trees, the inlets of the stretching lakes, and checked the creeks running under the bridges but – alas – there was not a moose all day.

I stopped for lunch at the side of Fungus Lake. Every patch of water on the highway is labelled with a signpost so I knew it was Fungus Lake even though there didn’t appear to be a fungus in sight (maybe the moose ate it before it scarpered.) I sat on a rock, slowly nibbling my cheese and crackers, trying to enjoy the cool blue views of the lake and forget the 50km I still had to ride.

I didn’t think I’d make it until I reached 108km. That means 18km to go. I know I can always cycled 18km because its the distance back from work. At the same time I was counting down the kilometres to the magical (yet entirely arbitrary) half way mark. At 3,750km mark I screeched to a halt. Here I am exactly (ish) halfway across Canada. To my right was a swampy bit with some trees poking through the tall grass. Ahead was a signpost advertising the White Fang Motel. The road was a bit cracked and gravelly. The sky was a little clouded over. But Monty and I had made it. I gave out a whoop of joy and then almost immediately felt sad that my adventure was now halfway to the finish.

Monty at the halfway mark

Monty at the halfway mark

I slowly slogged the last few kilometres to the campsite. Without the energy to pitch my tent, I flopped on the earth into a catatonic state. And lay there. Tomorrow is a rest da. Thank goodness.

Halfway across Canada in stats:
Number of miles cycled: 3753 (including a few on rest days)
Longest day (mileage): 173km to Moose Jaw
Longest day (time): 8 hours, 1 minute to White Lake
Shortest day: 38km to Canyon Hot Springs
Monty’s flat tyres: 0 (Schwalbe marathon plus tyres)
Broken spokes: 1
Bike shops visited: 6 (Vancouver, Kelowna, Revelstoke, Swift Current, Winnipeg, and Thunder Bay)
Number of bears spotted: 4 black bears
Number of moose spotted: 0
Number of other trans Canada cyclists met: 13 (!)
Most annoying place to have a mosquito bite: inner foot
2nd most annoying place to have a mosquito bite: outer ankle joint
3rd most annoying place to have a mosquito bite: knuckle on hand
4th most annoying place to have a mosquito bite: ear
5th most annoying place to have a mosquito bite: anywhere on bottom
Number of lakes swum in: 4
Number of bags of ground coffee consumed: 2 and a half
Number of protein bars consumed: countless
Number of reasons to keep going: countless

Courage Highway

July 14th, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (0 Comments)

Day 32: Thunder Bay to Nipigon

(106 km, 19.7km/hr average speed, 5:22:09)

Today I cycled along the Courage Highway.

It’s an apt name for this stretch of road; for the 100km between Thunder Bay and Nipigon this is the only road connecting eastern and western Canada. Even though these aren’t all that many folks who live round here, the stretch is heavy in traffic (by Canadian standards) and that means trucks.

After 30km we stopped to have the usual munchies for Second Breakfast. I took the opportunity to attach my helmet mirror. I hadn’t already attached it because I was convinced that it was so flimsy it would snap off straight away and I was reasonably convinced it wouldn’t be any help anyway. I was wrong. This mirror is fabulous. Thinking about it now.. Why do I have 3 mirrors in my car if they aren’t helpful? Drivers could, I’m sure, just listen out for vehicles and swivel round while zigzagging into the gravel. But a mirror is a fine thing. Yes it looks incredibly naff, but I reckon any appendage that increases your likelihood of staying alive is automatically exempt from fashion laws. I can now see the traffic that is about to swoop past me. Brilliant.

The courage highway has been named in honour of Terry Fox. Terry Fox was a young man who lost a leg in his battle against cancer. Determined to save others from the suffering that he had experienced, Fox set off to run across Canada in order to raise money to find a cure for cancer. At first people didn’t believe that he would do it. But he kept running, and kept running – 26 miles a day he ran his “marathon of hope.”

“Dreams are made if people only try,” he said.

Fox succeeded in running across 5 provinces. He was forced to give up 3339 miles into his journey because of reoccurring cancer. His final mile is marked by a post on the courage highway, just outside Thunder Bay.

The Wanderers and I took a detour of the highway to visit the Terry Fox memorial. A stand of him running stands atop a map of Canada chiselled into the grey stone. A Canadian flag flaps overhead. A dad and his two sons pose for a self-timer photograph. The view looks out over the expanse of Lake Superior.

Thinking about the achievements of Terry Fox kept me cycling today. Before his death at the tender age of 23, Fox was showered with honours. He was voted Canadians greatest athlete and made a Companion of the Order of Canada (something like a knighthood). Perhaps though his greatest achievement was not that he ran 3,339 miles, or that he raised millions of dollars for cancer research. Perhaps his greatest achievement is that he has inspired a nation and given those who hear his story what they need to continue: courage.