Dino's blog for mini adventures and endurance challenges
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Ride on Ayr

July 20th, 2015 | Posted by Dino in UK - (0 Comments)

Loch Ken to Lochranza

Distance: 133 km

After yesterday’s skipping gears, today we had a mission: to get to the bike shop on Ayr and fix Monty.

Just after 6am I poked my head out the tent. Streaks of white cirrus cloud over a fresh blue sky, what a beautiful morning. Another bowlful of porridge and some fresh coffee (me) and two cups of tea plus a flapjack (my Dad) set us up for a busy morning’s ride.

Coming here, you can understand why dispossessed Scots felt at home in Canada. On our left was the end of Loch Ken, still and calm in the morning, a single yellow canoe floats undisturbed on the water. Conifers fill in the gaps between lake, sky and road. A moose here wouldn’t feel out of place.

Having spent yesterday focusing on getting to the campsite on time, we’d neglect to stock up our supplies for today. After an hour of cycling we passed through a tiny village. On the outside, the post office looked like it had seen better days, but inside was a cyclist’s dream selection of homemade cakes, flapjacks and tiffin, all neatly wrapped in clingfilm. With our panniers and bellies a little heavier with goodies we began the long climb towards Ayr. We passed three hydroelectric power stations as we ascended through forest. Each small summit would reveal a new vista, and a new line of hills beyond with perhaps a new river or loch. When I stopped, all I could hear was the wind in the grasses and the trickling of a stream.

The decent was pure joy. Long, easy, sweeping bends took us down towards Ayr, past an old coal mining village with rows of old houses, identical in their peeling paint and matching satellite dishes. Thanks to good flapjack and a tailwind the whole way, we pulled into the bike shop in Ayr before noon, having cycled 70 km.

The man in the bike shop had the parts I needed to fix Monty but not the time. However, being a kind and wonderful person, he lent us the tools so my Dad and I then spent the next 45 minutes on the street outside the shop (there was not enough room inside) taking Monty apart and putting him back into one, happy piece. I took him on a short spin around the Aldi car park: all was running smoothly again.

We took lunch on the sea front looking towards the blue outline of Arran. A woman came up to say hello. She’d just been looking for driftwood and bits of glass on the beach with her sister for a project she was working on in the garden. I’d asked in town about the weather and been told it was going to be “wild”. I was a bit worried.

“Nah, just a bit of rain,” she said, “the ferries will still be running unless the wind gets up.” She recommended that, since we were headed to Arran, we push on to the campsite in Lochranza, at the north end of the island. “It’s a beautiful place, good pub and the views are lovely.” She told us about her own cycling trips out to Barra and South Uist. There seems so much here to explore, if you have a good enough waterproof.

Convinced by the woman’s description of Lochranza and now with a ferry to catch we pushed on to Ardrossan. We followed the coastal bike path which weaved back and forth over the railway and in between one, two, three golf courses en route.

This is the fifth long day of cycling but a good bit of food, clear skies and a beautiful view always inspires me to keep going. It was 7pm by the time the ferry arrived in Arran.

We had 15 miles to cycle across the island to reach the campsite. A storm was forecast to arrive later in the evening and as we set off around the coastal road the grey cloud lowered and soft, fine rain began to fall as gently as breath. In the quiet of the evening, the road was empty save for two cyclist. On our right, the distant blue of the mainland disappeared as we headed in land and up into steep open hills, gushing streams, and wildflowers.

Here you can measure distance in colour. As we reached the summit of our climb, the northern end and the land beyond was visible beneath us. Beside us was the lush, bright green of wet grass, the green rounds of the hills beyond faded in the rain, until the land turned greyish-white and disappeared into the sky.

We arrived at the campsite just as the wind was picking up. My tent flapped with each new gust as I fought to pitch it. I hastily heated and gulped down a tin of beans and sausages while the midges began to bite. It began to rain harder and my Dad, still halfway through his beans, dived for the cover of his tent while I scarpered to the bathroom for a hot shower before bedtime.

 

Enough to last us at least a few miles...

Enough to last us at least a few miles…

Room with a view

Room with a view

New gears, hurrah!

New gears, hurrah!

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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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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Frazzled nerves

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

Day 58: Causapscal to Cambellton (81km)

Uh-oh. That doesn’t look good. I was doing my morning check on Monty. Brakes fines, rims fine, tyre beading bulging out of rim. Uh-oh.

The bulge!

The bulge!

I had treated myself to double coffee this morning. The large dose of caffeine coursing through my veins fuelled my anxiety as I Googled my options. I’ve had a tyre explode on me before. It had looked like this, I had nonchalantly ignored it and carried on cycling to work, until one day – BANG!

How far would this bulge survive? I was hoping 80km. I cycled as fast and carefully as possible. Long sections of construction did not help my nerves as Monty bounced on the dust and rubble. I tried to enjoy the scenic views, pushing to the back of my mind the constant worry that my front tyre was going to EXPLODE ANY SECOND.

The scenery was very beautiful as the 132 followed alongside the Matapedia River. The river is renowned for its salmon fishing. Men in beige waded in the shallow, rocky water. The sun came out, illuminating the edges of the angular hills. Forest stretched in all directions. The road was quiet. It reminded me of being in BC.

And then…

ARGGGG!!

A black bear is running in the road right in front of me. I screech on the brakes as the bears jumps past. The bear!? The bear?! I swivel round to look, but the bear has already disappeared into the overgrowth.

My heart rate had rocketed. I had chucked out my bear spray yesterday because I thought – thought! – I am no longer in bear country. My nerves, worn by the worry of an exploding tyre, were now frazzled.

Soon enough I reached the bridge that would lead me to a new province: New Brunswick. I was closing in on the bike shop and (fingers crossed) the tyre had not yet exploded. I was counting down the distance to Campbellton not in kilometres, not in jelly beans consumed but in the number of hours it would take me to walk from here to Campbellton if my tyre exploded. 5 hours, 4 hours… I felt happier once I realised that Monty and I could walk to town before nightfall.

The river separating Quebec from New Brunswick

The river separating Quebec from New Brunswick

Thankfully we reached town without any loud bangs. I wheeled into bike shop #1. Alas no suitable tyre. I wheeled into bike shop #2. They had a tyre that was the right size. The mechanic grinned at me in a camp yet gormless way (an odd combo, I know).

“It’s a good tyre,” he said, emitting an aura of cluelessness.

It costs $20. That is about £12. Call me a bike snob but I do not trust a tyre that costs less than the socks I am wearing (yes, I do happen to be wearing very nice socks). It costs less than the pizza I ate in Rimouski.

This man had apparently never seen a touring bike. My concern piqued when he asked “did [Roberts, Monty’s frame builder] create that handlebar?”

The tyre is awful. Bits of different length rubber poke out the edge. “It’s a good tyre,” the mechanic enthused again.

It is a shit* tyre, my instinct said. Lo and behold, the online review later confirmed that it is indeed a shit tyre. On the plus it need only last until I get to Charlottetown where a better bike shop can sell me a better tyre.

If all else fails I shall buy a pizza and strap that on the rim.

*pardon my use of language but there are few adjectives suitable for this tyre.

Notes:
Why is the tyre about to explode?
Most tyres don’t explode if they are pumped up properly and aren’t really old and worn out. My Schwalbe marathon plus tyre appeared to have a manufacturing defect that has made it bulge. The tyre has however travelled 10,000km with a touring load so I would still recommend these tyres.

Blown to Quebec City

August 11th, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (0 Comments)

Day 53: Pontneuf to Quebec City (69.5km)

What is that? I woke up in the middle of the night to a flashing light and muttering. I peered out the flat in my tent to see three dark figures sitting on my picnic bench. Monty was locked to that picnic table. They were speaking a strange, unfamiliar language. No, not French. Or Russian. It sounded sort of Eastern European though. The light was due to the campfire they had started. I unzipped the flap a bit more to get a better view. Monty looked to be okay.

It never ceases to amaze me why people, when given the choice of 3 picnic benches, will choose to sit on the one with someone else’s bike locked to it when there are another 2 benches available nearer their tent. I’m sure they were just BBQing but what if a globule of beef fat leapt off the BBQ and splashed onto Monty? I am sure he is a vegetarian bike.

I fell into a unease sleep of weird dreams. Thankfully, the thunderstorm that I had seen strobing on the far horizon when I’d gone to bed never passed overhead.

An early start meant I was on the road just after 8am. I have no idea how I managed to pack up so quickly. Usually the first two hours of the day are spent faffing with bits of kit and nipping repeatedly between my litre bottle of strong coffee and the toilet. Not so today.

My tent flapped dry quickly this morning. Because, oh boy, it was windy. Usually the wind takes a while to get going but this morning it managed to blow my tent off the line while I was packing up.

The fleurs-de-lys flags of Quebec, straightened by the wind, pointed in the direction I was going. I barely pedalled. I was just pushed along at high speed by the gusting wind. I flew past roadside stalls selling freshly picked strawberries and sweet corn.

I stopped by the river for second breakfast. There were white caps on the St Lawrence as the strong westerly wind caught the water, dashing the waves against the bank. Wind surfers were out gliding to and fro.

Note windsurfers on the river

Note windsurfers on the river

All morning I was overtaken by cyclists. Usually I don’t let myself be overtaken and chase after the offending cyclist. Today I didn’t bother to do anything except say “bonjour” to the roadies who sped by on their Cannondales and Pinarellos. I would assess their gastrocnemius and decide whether, if I riding a Pinarello rather than a loaded mule, I could cycle that fast. Today I was content to coast.

Going into Quebec, I had to ascend a few sharp hills but mostly it was flat as I merrily pedalled along. The paths and parks that bordered the St Lawrence were bustling with Saturday morning folks out cycling, skating, packing away their windsurfers, stopping for a picnic on the bench, taking a photograph of the intriguing artwork in the path. Soon the famous bits of Quebec became visible as I came round past the port. The cliffs! I imagined General Wolfe climbing these steep, rocky slopes up the side of the city to fight the French.

I knew that unfortunately famous cliffs also meant famously steep hill up to my hostel. But first I needed to sort out Monty.

I scooted into a bike shop. I had bought a new chain in Montreal but it was skipping so I switched back to the old chain. I needed a new cassette.

Amazingly I managed to have an entire conversation with the bike mechanic in French. Admittedly I had practised a bit of the vocab with John but it all went well.

“C’est plus chere parce que c’est XT, eh?”

I know what you’re thinking: fluent.

Having forked out a small fortune for a shiny bit of metal, Monty is now fashioning a brand new 11-32 shimano XT 9 speed rear cassette. Whoop. To test it and the new chain out we fought up a hill that resembled a cliff edge. I am amazed we did not fall off backwards. The chain and cassette survived.

I dropped Monty off at the hostel and wandered into the old part of the city. Old buildings! I had forgotten that buildings could be old. The old stone and narrow-ish twisting lanes of the old city give Quebec a European flavour that I have been missing. I joined the hordes of tourists bimbling around Rue St Jean and stopped to be highly entertained by a busker capable of juggling 7 batons. (I’ve never seen anyone juggle so many.) The traffic was dammed by the meandering tourists and the occasional horse-drawn carriage. I found a beer but I have yet to find any poutine.

Chateau Frontenac - probably where the Wanderers stayed

Chateau Frontenac – probably where the Wanderers stayed

Old streets and modern traffic

Old streets and modern traffic

The long slog to Pontneuf

August 10th, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (0 Comments)

Day 52: Louiseville to Pontneuf (111.5km)

I am an encumbered tortoise on a treadmill.

There was a headwind all day to make my life tough. To be fair, it was also extremely flat. I ponder the endless cyclists’ debate of hills versus wind. I vote wind. Yet, be it the wind or my legs, I was feeling tired and sluggish. An early Second Breakfast (after only 12km) did little to increase my speed although it did mean I am now out of homemade muffins. Woe.

I slogged on to Trois Riveres (note: my iPad doesn’t appear to do accents). I was still in need of a boost so stopped for a coffee and donut. Alas even caffeine and sugar did little to increase my energy levels. I plodded on like a harnessed donkey.

I stopped at a grocery store to restock my panniers. Outside I was met by a guy in a large, loose-fitting shirt and a pair of bug-like sunglasses. Michael was friendly and seemed to be a keen cyclist. Yet I also feel a bit nervous when folks (other than mechanics in bike shops) start asking too many questions about Monty.

Michael seemed admiring of Monty yet also apparently didn’t have the foggiest what a fine specimen Monty truly is. ” How much did it cost? About $2000?” He asked.

“Er… Yea about $2,000,” I confirmed. (Monty is worth considerably more than that. And to me he is priceless.)

“Aren’t you worried about strange men?” He asked, without irony. “I mean, I’ve never heard of a cyclist, a woman, like you being attacked in Quebec but you never know.”

Oh, is that he type? I had best pedal off else I’ll be late.

A hard slog of cycling later and I met some friendly bikers at the lunch stop. They have a resectable amount of leather, shiny metal and protruding beer belly between the four of them. One, a large man fully clad in leathers, was so impressed he took a photo of me posing next to Monty. One of his friends boasted he could get to Halifax in 14 hours. 14 hours!! Please don’t say stuff like that. I have 3 weeks of cycling to go. I asked if any of them wanted to swap their Harley for my Monty. They did not. Yet it was nice to chat to the bikers as I get the impression that bikers have a better sense of distance than the average Joe. They seemed to appreciate the joy of watching the world zoom by, the shiny bits of your bike gleaming in the sunshine, as you cruise/slog down the open road.

Despite the headwind I enjoyed the scenery today. The quiet route 138 continued to follow the side of the river. I passed the pastoral scene of ripe corn fields, lowing herds of cows, pick-your-own blueberry fields, colourful boxes of beehives, and butterflies fluttering among the wildflowers.

Ripening cornfields.

Ripening cornfields.

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea. Or not. Or they just sit there.

The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea. Or not. Or they just sit there.

Finally made it to campground after a long day on the road.

I am sightly bemused by this place. It is jam packed. But so jam packed that it resembles a car park (translation: parking lot). The campsite is set out in a grid pattern and every small rectangular lot is filled with an RV. Goodness knows why it is so popular as it is not particularly near a lake, river or anything else. It’s also one of those places where people ride round in buggy carts (like the ones they have at golf courses) because clearly it is so far to the toilet, garbage etc.

After 110km of flat today it really does feel like the last 5,000km have caught up with me. If someone could post me a large, squidgy armchair that would be perfect. Or better still a body-enveloping sofa or bed with fresh linen. I hope that I get my energy back as I still have 2,000km to go. It is now 8pm but I will just wash the Kraft dinner remnants from my bowl and head to my tent. Tomorrow I will be in Quebec City. But for now I wish only to be horizontal.

The rollercoaster

July 29th, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (0 Comments)

Day 44: Gravenhurst to Kearney (106.5km)

“Oh, it doesn’t have Tarmac again until you’re just outside Novar,” the man replied, one arm resting on the Algoma chair, the other hand cupped around a pleasant drink.

Just outside Novar was, according to Google maps (which had helped me get into this pickle in the first place), about 13 kilometres away. That meant 13km of cycling on a sandy, bumped, pot holed dirt track. My heart sank.

“Is there a beer store in Novar?” I asked, since the man seemed to be the sort of man who would know the answer to that. Indeed there was. Light at the end of the tunnel came in the form of beer at the end of the dirt track. I set off down the track and promptly skidded as the front wheel entered sand. The track pitched to a new vertical descent. Monty wobbled nervously. His brakes protested. For the first time in Canada there was nothing to do but get off and walk.

And this was one of the smoother sections...

And this was one of the smoother sections…

The day had started by saying goodbye to the Wanderers to the last and final time. They were headed directly east towards their music festival in Montreal, whereas i was going north to join a 3 day canoe trip in Algonquin park. It has been fun cycling with them. I have realised while cycling by myself how much having someone else there can distract you from the pain and lighten the burden of worry when things go wrong. In fact, what is miserable alone is bearable with two. And highly comedic with three. With the Wanderers cycling was often very funny – both intentionally and unintentionally (see somersaults and poison oak for more details). I shall miss them.

Monty’s brakes weren’t feeling great so I set off to Bracebridge to get Monty some TLC. Ecclestone cycles proved to be a very friendly bike shop; the guys in there adjusted Monty’s brakes, pumped up the tyres and cleaned the chain for free. The owner also gave me some advice the route ahead. This is going to be a good day, I thought.

Taking backroads to avoid a highway inevitably means hills. In Ontario, where even the main highway can’t avoid the bumps, backroads duck, dive and tumble like a rollercoaster route. The landscape here is very chopped up. It made me think “this is gonna be a tough day” so I stuck some music in to distract myself. Yet after a few climbs I realised that although the climbs were hard work I felt good: yesterday’s rest day and the last 4000+ kilometres of training had paid off. I passed through cottage country. The road winding through the forest was dotted with wooden holiday cottages. Muskoka, the area I’m in, is a popular spot with city folks from Toronto who buy cottages here in order to enjoy hot summers fishing, canoeing and lazing in the sunshine.

A few kilometres past Huntsville, I stopped for lunch at a quiet spot by lake. All was well. I felt happy and very on schedule. But then it seemed to get hillier. Memories of north Devon came back to me. And then what I feared appeared before me: the road descended into gravel. And, worst yet, sand. Monty wobbled as his tyres sliced diagonally through the thick sand.

At the side of the road was a house. It was a typical wooden cottage but it was so beautifully decorated with flowers, and ever window frame and corner was so neatly painted in bright colours that I could not help but stop. Sitting outside was a man, enjoying a beer on his garden chair. He warned me that the road wasnt going to get better, but also informed me there was beer at the other end of the road. There were no other options but to push on.

I pushed Monty up the next sandy bank. How long was this going to take? What about Monday? I was headed to the small town of Kearney for my canoe trip but on Monday I would have to return south again before I began heading east to Ottawa. Do I have to walk this again? Should I risk the highway? My sandy detour was not only much tougher terrain but also 20km longer than the highway.

Eventually the sand gave way to rough concrete road and then Tarmac. I could have kissed the ground! Poor Monty had had a rough ride. Thankfully the very small town of Novar had a pay phone so I was able to call my mum to wish her a happy 60th birthday. She had celebrated her birthday by going to the watch the Tour de France arrive in Paris and I was keen to hear about the trip and wish her a happy 60th before I headed into the wilds. Unfortunately I spent a good chunk of our conversation fretting about the road and how I would return south to Huntsville!

2km from the campsite I changed my mind. i could have just cycled another 2km and then lay down with my beer and built a campfire but, no, then tomorrow morning I would still have 17km to cycle to the canoe trip meeting point. Even though it was nearing 5pm, I decided to head for a farther campsite some 21km away. This campsite would be nearer the meeting point for the canoe trip. I was worried that after Monty’s rough day I might discover some problem with him tomorrow morning. So off I went…

What on earth makes that ordeal worthwhile? I arrived at the campsite having done 106km on what was supposed to be an easy day. But upon arrival, I was charged $10 less the listed price and told I could camp anywhere. Indeed, the kind lady recommended I camp by the lake. What makes 106km of tough, hill climbing and a detour via sand dunes and gravel track worth while? I could think of only 2 things – but I had them both.

Worthwhile reason #1: the view from my tent. I had this beach and lake almost entirely to myself

Worthwhile reason #1: the view from my tent. I had this beach and lake almost entirely to myself

Worthwhile reason #2: local Muskoka beer. I had this can entirely to myself.

Worthwhile reason #2: local Muskoka beer. I had this can entirely to myself.

Day 19: Swift Current to Moose Jaw (172.5 km)

The truck pulled over behind the zigzag of bicycles scattered across the hard shoulder. Two riders sat huddled on the ground. The third lay prone on the hot tarmac, her arms outstretched but her legs still bent awkwardly around her pedals.

“Oh, we’re fine,” Katie wanderer called, giving the driver thumbs up.

We were fine, all of us. We’d just decided to sprint 15km in order to reach an average speed of 30km by our 100th mile. This spot on the side of the highway, bordered by fields on all sides, under the heat of the sun cooling in the late afternoon, marked our first English century.

5 hours 17 minutes and 04 seconds.

This was the longest and fastest ride of my life. I felt lucky, and relieved, to be here as the ride to Moose Jaw had been riddled with problems.

Cooked Dino

Cooked Dino

Saturday morning
Yesterday we’d had perfect weather for the 173km ride but while loading up my panniers in the morning I noticed a problem. Uh-oh. Broken spoke.

As we cycled to the bike shop I was muttering under my breath” I don’t like bike shops, I don’t like bike shops.” Seriously, as a girl in a bike shop I usually get either ignored or patronised (sometimes they actually manage to do both). I was not looking forward to this.

Lo and behold I wheeled Monty in the door and over to the mechanic’s stand. The main mechanic takes a look at Monty and then before I’ve had a chance to open my mouth measures the chain and tells me I need a new one and possibly a new cassette. Seriously? I have a broken spoke. Please can we focus on that.

The guys in the shop were bimbling around and I was keen to get Monty fixed and on the road as soon as possible. “Oh, we don’t have a spoke that will fit so will have to cut one” the guy says. “I have a spare,” I interject, burrowing into my panniers.

Out comes the spoke. The guys in the bike shop are still bimbling so I thread it myself. “Excuse me, where’s the grease?” I ask. I fit the spoke and head over to the trueing stand.

Mr Mechanic has now spied what I am up to. “I have 30 years of experience.” Mr mechanic announces, puffing out his chest, “some of these guys in here have 5 or 6 years experience but I won’t let them do this.” There’s a pause as Mr Mechanic notices the flame of determination in the crazy English girl’s eyes. “But I’ll let you have a go.” Clearly he expected me to fail.

Wheel building is supposed to be a dark art. Mr Mechanic clearly didn’t expect his customers to start boiling the magical cauldron by themselves. But he hasn’t accounted for me.

Geez. 30 years experience to learn the hocus pocus of making a bit of metal straight? My Dad and I built a wheel on Boxing Day last year and its been good since. My Dad just printed the instructions off the Internet and we went through bit by bit. It’s not actually a dark art.

I carried on trueing the wheel. Then with the help of the wanderers put the cassette back on and was tightening it with a wrench when Mr Mechanic came over again. I’m sure he wanted to diss my work but he crouched on the floor, spun my wheel and it was true. Ha!

Given that I’d used only my own components and my own labour they didn’t charge me anything although I did buy a spare chain and some energy gels.

Not amused

Not amused

We wheeled out the bike shop. By this time it’s midday, the sky is beginning to cloud over and riding to Moose Jaw seemed a little ambitious. The wanderers suggested we make it a rest day- a wise decision. We wheeled over the road to the market. Folk music is playing in the town square surrounded by stalls of fresh produce and crafts. Last night’s host, Sarah, has already sold out of bread but is still at the stall selling the last of her cinnamon buns and cookies.

We stop to eat a scone. I check Monty’s back wheel again. Uh-oh. there’s a bulge in the back wheel. I take Monty back over the road to the bike shop for a second opinion. Mr Mechanic thinks he’s fine but just as he is checking it my Dad phones. My Dad advises swapping the tyres and fitting the chain. So I do. (Funny how I prefer the opinion of someone on holiday in the Azores over the opinion of a mechanic standing right next to my bike.) It’s now that we realise the the chain I’ve been sold is too short (note to self it’s a 114 link chain). They have to get a new one, soak it in paraffin wax etc. The wanderers have all bought new chains from the shop.

We sit on the floor of the bike shop, Saskatoon berry scone in one hand, greasy finger on other hand counting the chain links in their bikes. We count the chain links four times: yep, they are 114 link chains. Their chains are too short so they have to be swapped.

Eventually Monty has a new chain fitted and it fits. The wanderers have spare chains. We’ve been in the bike shop for the best part of five hours (!) and no way are we going to make it to Moose Jaw.

Sunday morning
This morning at the very same point in packing up our panniers Sofi noticed that her rear back wheel was flat. A nasty bit of metal that looked like a twisted staple had got in. Oh well. We flipped the bike over, changed the tube and were on our way in half an hour.

All morning we cycled to the sound track of the prairies: the rapping of the wind against anything that will flap, the occasional gull or black bird calling, the quick ticking of the freewheel hub and the off beat clunks of a gear change. The wind was behind us slowly picking up strength. This is cycling in the prairies at its best.

We cycled past treeless green fields. At one point we passed Chaplin Lake, the second largest salt water lake in Canada and home to sanderlings and plover. From a distance the piles of salt around Chaplin look more like smudgy snow.

We stopped for lunch at a shabby looking road side cafe that looked like it had been abandoned for years. A sheet of roofing had partly peeled off and was crashing in the wind. In classic Sofi style, we were just about to pedal off when… Uh-oh. Another flat. It looked like a slow puncture so we thought we could “save time” but just re-pumping it up and then Sofi could ride on it for the next, er, 57km…

But in the process of pumping up the inner pump (or more precisely Dino and Sofi shuffling around to change turns pumping while holding both bikes all upright) Sofi’s bike fell over.

Pssssssst!

All our hard pumped air burst out as the nozzle bit of the inner tube snapped off. Erm… Time to get the spare tube out. Fail.

We pedalled on happily all afternoon. At 145km I noticed that our average speed was, thanks to the wind, 29.7km per hour. Do you reckon we can get to 30km per hour? We set ourselves the challenge of pushing our average speed up to 30km by the time we reached our English century (ie the 100mile mark). With 15km to go we pushed up the pace to 37km per hour on the flat and raced up every curving incline. Katie and I had it in our minds to reach the desired 30km per hour speed and then just maintain it. By 150km we’d ticked over to 30km average speed. But Sofi hadn’t got the memo about just maintaining the pace and pushed off faster and faster – now up to 40km per hour. Katie and I pedalled as fast as we could to keep up. The tempo got faster and faster. The kilometres dropped.

“Century!” I yelled. Slamming in the brakes and rolling onto the hot tarmac to cool down. My heart pounded throughout my body, I could feel it beating against the road. Our wanderers too had screeched to a halt and their bikes lay like road kill smeared across the shoulder. We were fine. We’d just done the longest and fastest ride of our lives. And we still had 13km to go to Moose Jaw.

172.5km we get to meet the Moose of Moose Jaw

172.5km we get to meet the Moose of Moose Jaw