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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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To Cheticamp Island

August 26th, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (0 Comments)

Day 66: Port Hood to Cheticamp Island (95.5km)

Is 11am on a Sunday morning too early to drink whisky?

After yesterday I think I needed it.

Canada does not stop amazing me. And you would have thought that after cycling across the Rocky Mountains, the prairies and the Canadian Shield then there would be no terrain left that I couldn’t pedal like the garden path. Think again.

Cape Breton is not the garden path. This terrain manages to combine the steepness of the Rockies with the relentless undulating mounds of the Canadian Shield and, as it showed yesterday, it can throw in a headwind reminiscent of the prairies. It’s a very good thing I’ve done 7,000 kilometres of training because this is Tough. There is not an inch of flat ground on this island.

I woke up this morning in my cosy little hut. Even before I’d shed my cocoon a flex of my leg told me that I would be in trouble today. My quads, hamstrings, piriformis all felt like they’d been through a mangler. You know that feeling when you hobble around the office the day after you’ve exerted yourself on something like a 10 mile run? You laugh merrily about what a fun weekend you had while all the time being extremely grateful that you get to spend the day sitting in a chair. My legs were not laughing merrily. You want me to cycle 100km today? They laughed, but it was in disbelief.

I was on the road by 8:45am. The road was empty save for a single exhausted cyclists with legs laughing in disbelief. The sky was empty save for a scrap of white cloud that looked like someone had pulled a comb through icing sugar. Since it was Sunday, the birds and butterflies were having a lie in and they did not stir from the wild flowers or flap from the bush as I pedalled past. The wind was tranquil. It was so quiet I could hear my own breath as I rasped up another steep incline. My legs burned with each upward pedal stroke.

Each five minutes of tormenting climb would be rewarded by one minute of fast descent. It seemed an unfair trade for my legs. My thighs dreamt of soaking in a hot bath and falling asleep in fresh sheets. But I know, when I am next bathing in Radox bubbles, I will dream of cycling in Nova Scotia again.

I stopped for supplies in a small town. The grocery store had decorated its foyer with a large stuffed moose head which peered over shoppers’ heads as they nipped in to get milk. I decided I needed to have at least one more campfire. So I purchased all the makings of a great Canadian campfire feast: baked beans in maple syrup (yes, that’s real), spider dogs, and s’more ingredients (chocolate, marshmallows, graham crackers).

After a further burst of cycling I pulled off at the entrance for the Glenora Distillery. This distillery, a cluster of white washed buildings festooned with the brightest ruby red flowers, produces the only single malt whisky in North America. Nova Scotia isn’t called Nova Scotia for nothing. Approximately 20% of the people claim Scottish heritage although that proportion is higher in areas like this. The distillery tour finished with a wee dram. I would have liked to have bought a bottle in the gift shop but I feared the extra weight on my panniers.

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The day continued to offer a blend of challenging hills, sunshine and, thankfully, calmer winds. As the road bent towards the coast I joined the Cabot Trail proper. I passed a number of small villages, their painted wooden houses facing the sea. Fishing boats bobbed in the harbour. A tangled turquoise pile of lobster pots stood for sale. Rocky, sloping headlands protruded into the surf.

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My destination for the evening was a sandy campground hidden in the corner of Cheticamp island. Cheticamp island isn’t an island any more. It was over a hundred years ago that the sand bar moved. Now a pile of rocks has turned the sand bar into a causeway connecting this sandy comma of island it to the rest of Cape Breton.

What a beautiful evening. I have waited 3 months for this evening: it is dark and I am still awake. The sky is clear but the moon is hidden. I am far enough away from anywhere that the land is dark. The bugs are in bed and I have a campfire to keep me warm. I lie on my back, nestled by the fire. The blue of the evening dims to the black of night. I look up as the full beauty of heaven’s cloth is unfolded across the sky.

I gaze up at the finest black velvet embroidered with a multitude of stars. Another star seem to have been sewn on each time I blink. The campfire crackles and purrs its way through another log. Bats fly overhead, darting like swallows. As I look up at the night star I wonder how small I am in all of this. Smaller than a pebble on a beach. Smaller than a leaf in the forest. Smaller than an island in the ocean, but still connected to the mainland.

A day in the life

July 22nd, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (1 Comments)

Day 41: Tobermory to Owen Sound (123.5km)

A day in the life…

7am woke up and crawled to porch of tent to make fresh coffee. Decided to increase usual allowance of 4 x peanut butter crackers to 6 on account of yesterday evening’s lack of dinner. And lack of any lunch items in pannier.

Just before 9am said goodbye to the Wanderers. It was been very enjoyable and entertaining to cycle with them. But this was always supposed to be a solo adventure so adventure forth I must with renewed Spirit of Adventure.

9am set forth with renewed Spirit of Adventure south down Highway 6.

9.40am turned right towards Bruce Peninsula national park. Headed on 12 km side trip, followed by 2km walk, followed by short yet mildly terrifying bouldering session on sea cliffs to reach secluded grotto.

Sparkling waters of Bruce Peninsula

Sparkling waters of Bruce Peninsula

10am secluded grotto humming with Chinese tourists. Nonetheless enjoyed view of clear waters sparking in the sunshine. Ate 1 x protein bar.

11am accosted by passerby interested in my trip. Start cycling again. Feel peckish almost instantly. Wonder how far it is to any form of lunch.

12am ish bashed in face by flying bug. Bemoan loss of sunglasses. Resolve to buy bug-shaped sunglasses in Wasaga to protect larger surface of face from flying bugs. Stop to munch energy bar and 5 x dates.

1pm wonder if I am hallucinating or whether that is indeed the outline of the Wanderers in the distance behind me. Hallucination disappears. Start feeling very peckish again. Pull in at small convenience store to discover whole shop stocked with endless varieties of crisps (translation: chips) and fishing gear. No fresh fruit inside. Leave store empty handed.

2pm feeling famished. 56km cycled so far, plus walk, boulder etc. pull in at roadside cafe. Accosted by woman sitting on table opposite who asks polite questions about trip. And, upon revealing my Englishness, whether Kate Middleton has given birth yet. Eat grilled veg and gigantic “side portion” of chips (translation: fries). Regret not getting the side salad.

3pm ish sudden arrival of awful pain in abdomen. Would think it is horrendous period pain bar for totally wrong timing. Decide it must be food poisoning. Spot shady spot at roadside. Take 15 minute power nap to relief pain in abdomen.

3.30pm abdomen pain continues. Eat mango fruit bar in effort to restore self. Little avail. Listen to Missy Higgins on iPod to distract from pain. Continue cycling.

Turn left and enter long, long section of construction. Bump over rough pavement trying to imagine I am pedalling Paris –> Roubaix. Bumping not helping abdomen pain. Listen to Raffi. Find Raffi songs successful antidote to cycling over bumps in pain.

5pm ish. Wonder when on earth I will ever get to Owen Sound. Realise Google maps lied to me at lunchtime and it is 8km further than I expected. Swerve to avoid dead raccoon on roadside.

Hailed down by man on roadside calling “are you Dino?” Surprised by own fame. Man and wife sport bike carrier on car. Claim they know Katie Wanderer (this rings a bell) and ask if I know where they are. Give man Katie’s telephone number, turn down offer of ride into town and pedal off. Worry that man might have been cyber stalker rather than genuine friend and worry for Wanderer safety. Distracted by joyful remembrance of Unopened Box of Jelly Belly beans in pannier. Open and eat. Smile.

Listen to more Raffi while bumping on awful road surface towards Owen Sound.

Just before 6pm see supermarket and beer store. Make beeline for supermarket and restock on fresh fruit and ravioli.

Just after 6pm. Realise beer store closes at 6pm and regret not prioritising beer over fresh fruit. Cycle last 10km or so to campsite. Reach very big hill. Ponder Sod’s law that big hills arrive only after panniers are freshly laden with produce.

6.30pm arrive at campsite and purchase ginger ale (non alcoholic) to make up for lack of beer. Drink ginger ale and eat Morning Glory muffin. Resolve to experiment with more muffin flavours at home. Pitch tent. Shower and successfully shave legs without shaving off any mosquito bites.

8pm eat bowl of ravioli with fresh pesto. Eat half a pint of yoghurt. Eat half a bag of cherries. Blog, then probably read more of Victoria Pendleton’s autobiography on Kindle. Get early night. Sleep well.

P.s. day in the life style of blog inspired by Kat Stanbridge who is also currently cycling across Canada. She writes a v good blog: www.katstanbridge.wordpress.com

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

Marathon through Marathon

July 15th, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (0 Comments)

Day 34: Schreiber to White Lake (154 km)

“I think I’ll enjoy it, but I’ll be in pain,” Katie Wanderer responded when I asked her this morning what she was expecting from today’s ride.

Pain unfortunately seems to have become a feature of this trip. Mostly it is knee pain or back pain. But there is a plethora of pain that I am experiencing that is quite distracting from the joy of cycling through Ontario.

I felt apprehensive about the day ahead. And not entirely convinced that I would make it to White Lake, especially given my wonky pain and yesterday’s pitiful run. As I set off this morning I tried to focus outwardly on the beautiful scenery. The north shore of Lake Superior has a quiet majesty about it. Early morning the road was almost empty of traffic save for a heron flying over head. The frequent steep ascents allow you to steal glances of the lakes over the top of the forest. The side of the road was decorated with wild flowers, buzzing with life. Yellow and black striped butterflies flapped across the road. I noticed a very beautiful bee collecting pollen at lunchtime. It was orangeish and looked a bit like a hummingbird.

There’s a distinctive bird call which I often hear as I cycle along. It’s made of four sharp, long whistles. I think it’s a white throated sparrow although the melody of its call reminds me of lazy afternoons lying in the grass in England listening to the cooing of a wood pigeon.

The wildlife highlight of the day was seeing a black bear. It was happily munching at the roadside when I zoomed past. First my heart skipped a beat as it turned round but then it sort of shrugged and just carried on munching. I guess I should have stopped to take a photo but I am still quite scared so was happy to use the downhill as an excuse not to stop.

I needed all the nature I could get to distract me from today’s epic ride: 154km on tired, old legs. I had to stop every 30km or so to pull out my half yoga mat and do an entire stretching routine to loosen my knotted muscles. I would respray Deep Freeze on whatever body part was complaining the most. Then pop another painkiller (I need to give up painkillers tomorrow as I now have indigestion.)

After about 90km I reached the town of Marathon (an apt name for today’s ordeal). Pulling in at a gas station I met a hipster duo of cyclists who were headed east. I was chatting to Hipster 1 when Hipster 2 arrived. He immediately chucked his bike on the ground and kicked at the trailer he was pulling. “It’s a piece of junk,” he complained, “I was just given it for free a couple of days ago but I want to get rid of it.” He then opened the lid of his trailer to reveal a guitar and what looked to be a pair of old cowboy boots. He pulled out a pack of tobacco and started rolling a cigarette. I later discovered (when i went down it) that he had just cycled up a ridiculously steep 3km long hill. And he was celebrating with a smoke.

These guys sleep in hammocks. They haven’t paid for a single night at a campsite yet. They seemed to be carrying very minimal gear (guitar and cowboy boots excepted) but I’m sure this is because they didn’t have stuff rather than because they had the super-compact ultra-lightweight technical gear (see Mr Triathlon from yesterday.)

Later on today I saw two other cyclists coming the opposite way. We waved cheerful to each other. They looked retro: he bare chested in small, blue shorts, her in a neon top and buggy sunglasses.

The bike and gear are undetachable from the cyclists. I don’t mean this in a materialistic way. Rather I mean what stuff they pack, how much they carry and how’s it’s loaded onto their choice of bike inextricably reflects their personality. I figure that by seeing a cyclist on the road with all their gear you can instantly get a feel for what they are like. I guess it’s the same as having a snoop round someone’s house. After all, our bikes are our homes for the summer.

After lunch at Marathon and the enjoyable, swooping 3km descent, the hills began to flatten out. The wind had been blowing against or across me off the lake all morning, but as a headed inland towards White Lake it seemed to swing round to my back and push me along for the last 50km. My speed gradually picked up as I started to believe that, yes, I would actually make it to White River.

I swung into my forest clearing of a campsite after a memorable 8 hours and 1 minute of cycling. It was 7pm. This was the longest day of cycling I have done in my life. I called my Dad from the only available pay phone to inform him that I was still alive. Relief swept over me: I’ve made another day.

Exhausted, achey and pathetic

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

Day 33: Nipigon to Schrieber

What a glorious, easy and relaxing days cycling.

My legs felt fresh from four days of cycling on the trot. The spasms in my lower back beautifully complemented my bloated day-one period feeling. I felt as bouncy and joyous as a spring lamb as I leapt up the steepening hills into the relentless headwind.

Hmff.

Katie Wanderer commented the other day that my blog posts are always so positive. No matter how exhausted, achey and pathetic we have felt my blog post would gush with how wonderful cycling across Canada is.

Today was my most pathetic day yet. In fact, it’s the first time on the trip that I haven’t reached my intended destination. That made me feel a little crushed.

Don’t get my wrong: cycling across Canada is wonderful. But today I felt entirely exhausted, achey and pathetic.

The aches and pain meant we had a slow start to the day – in fact we didn’t get out the campground until 11.30am. We had cycled just under 20km before we stopped by a perfectly located portaloo by the side of the road. (It does not cease to amaze me how many public toilets there are in Canada. And the impressive availability of toilet paper in the Middle of Nowhere. France take note.)

We were lounging outside aforementioned portaloo when another cyclist pulled up. Ross looked like he had just pedalled here from a stage of the Tour de France. He was wearing full Lycra labelled garb and riding a lightweight road bike. “This isn’t actually my bike,” he explained, “it’s my Dad’s. my bike is a triathlon time trial bike but we swapped bikes for the summer. My Dad wanted to do a triathlon so it’s worked out pretty well.”

Ross didn’t have much gear on his bike, confessing to only having one pair of shorts and no rain jacket. He was clearly doing much, much longer days than us. Once on the road he quickly sped off with the easy grace that super-lightweight triathletes have.

Less than 5km later and two other cyclists caught up with us as we waited at a construction stop sign. The two girls were both riding Trek Madone bikes. “They are designed for the Paris-Roubaix,” one of the girls explained, pointing at the suspension in the seat post, “so this really helps on the bumps.”

They had a support van so were carrying less than most people take on a Sunday jolly. They had water, an energy gel, and smiley, tanned faces that looked liked they’d be cut out the billboard for low-fat greek yoghurt.

After the construction, the road steeped quickly to a near vertical ascent reminiscent of the south of France. The Madone girls leapt up the hills like spring lambs. I continued to creep at the speed of an encumbered tortoise with a broken foot. Urg.

These super fit, blonde, lightweight speedy cyclists were accentuating my misery as I considered how laden, fat and pathetic I must look. Yes, I do triathlon. But when I “do” triathlon, I stomp round trying not to collapse before the end (and collecting as many free energy gels as possible en route.)

When I get home I am (if I have any money left!) going to buy a road bike. Ruth has got a new road bike. Other #cyclewithdino folks also logged miles on road bikes. I’m sorry for poor Monty, my dear and trusty steed, because today I wished, for the miles that I slogged and felt annoyed by my slowness, that I too was on a road bike

All day there were long, hard hills (ie 7% gradient). Monty and I fought with all the power we had. By 8pm we had not yet done 100km. It was still another 14km to go to the town of Terrace Bay, our intended destination

The Wanderers and I pulled into a gas station to decide what to do. Looking round at our tired, watery faces it was clear that we were all flagging. At any moment I felt like I might yell in angry or burst into tears.

The woman at the gas station advised us that there was no campground in Terrace Bay. The stretch of highway was also known to be a hotspot for black bears. I didn’t feel comfortably wild camping in bear country. I doubt I would sleep if I knew they were prowling round my tent, sniffing out the forgotten protein bar left in my jersey pocket. So with some glumness we decided to stay in Schreiber and camp at the mosquito-infested RV park. Yes, it was a wise decision but not a fun one.

The Wanderers went to get pizza. I was too tired to move any further.

Whenever part of your body is exhausted, achey and pathetic there are few things that will save you. But this was one: a new pair of merino socks. I slipped them on over my mosquito bitten feet and fell asleep.

The study of sunshine

July 7th, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (2 Comments)

Day 27: Kenora to Nestor Falls (120km)

Today the shadows of my pannier bags have been cast at every angle. In the 12 hours on the road it took to travel the 120km south to Nestor Falls my bike’s shadow has turned 180 degrees. Today has not been a bike ride so much as a study of the heat of the day.

After yesterday’s hot frazzling in the heat we wanted to ride in the cool of the morning. We were awake 6am, just as the sun was beginning to climb over the trees on the campground. It was so warm overnight that there was no condensation on my tent. I had slept in my underwear covered by only a thin silk sleeping bag liner. From now on it was only going to get hotter.

It was so much more pleasant cycling in the low 20s than it was yesterday in the heat of the day.

The hills continued relentlessly up and down. The ceaseless rise and fall of the hills was as sure and predictable as the inhale and exhale of breath in a yoga class. Inhale for 3, exhale for 5. We made steady progress against the hills although the wind was against us. Still the forest protected us slightly from the headwind. I would take the hills over the prairies any day. The scenery here is so beautiful.

The scent of pine wood drifts in the wind from the forest. Lakes and pools appear, cool and inviting, the water surface decorated with lily pads and reed. The road side is sprinkled with giant daisies, small fiery-orange flowers, and piles of jagged rocks which provide the occasional shelter from the igniting heat of the day.

The road is much quieter than I expected. I am already glad that we took the 71 highway south rather than continued on the busy, truck-heavy Trans Canada. This route is about 100km longer. But I think the distance is very much worth it. There often isn’t much of a shoulder but there are so few vehicles (and very few trucks) it feels a lot safer.

Sofi’s gears were skipping. And later in the day so too were Katie’s. But there isn’t another bike shop until Thunder Bay – another 4 days away. I managed to fix the problem by replacing the chain and tweaking the rear derailleur. I realised later this is the first new chain I have ever fitted entirely by myself. I know it’s not a hard job but it’s one thing to fix a bike in comfortable Oxfordshire with either a Dad or a Ruth peering over my shoulder and quite another to have two Wanderers peering over your shoulder while you fix their bikes miles and miles from anywhere.

We stopped for long break from midday sun at Sioux Narrows. During our siesta we swam in the lake. I dived in off the dock (nearly lost my knickers to the water) and swam lengths back and forth to a dock on the opposite side of the inlet. The cold water and swimming felt both refreshing for my tired legs and restorative for my knee.

The last 46km to Nestor Falls was a slog. Katie Wanderer and I have matching knee pain. Sofi Wanderer was experiencing sharp pain in her shoulder throughout the day. It only seemed to be getting worse. One shoulder is visibly lower than the other while cycling. None of us were feeling very chippy or chirpy. The hills didn’t stop as we ploughed into the headwind in silence.

I am continually amazed on this trip. When something goes wrong, feels awful, feels too tough then something happens that picks me up again.

Finally we pulled up at a place called Canadian Haven. It was listed as a campground on Google. but clearly there wasn’t anywhere to camp. The guy who now runs it had just taken it over. He showed us a small patch of grass, asked about our trip. Then paused. Then he offered us to stay for free in a log cabin overlooking the lake. He only asked for us to take our cleats off outside.

While the Wanderers made dinner, I sat outside fixing Katie’s bike and cleaning Monty in the warmth of the summer evening. There was chatter from the docks. Two American fisherman drinking beer on their porch discussed their best catches in the slow drawl of their accents.

The day closed as I was sitting on a rock by the lake shore watching the last of the watery light receded behind the hills on the far shore of the lake. I listened to the lapping of the water, gently stirred by the wind, against the rocks on the shore. I watched the silhouette of two spiders spin fine and fragile webs between a trio of pine trees. The air was cooler now and the frustrations of the day slowly melted with the disappearing colours of the sun.

Bugs and bears

July 4th, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (0 Comments)

Day 25: Winnipeg to Rennie (131km)

“I feel like a celebrity being swarmed by the paparazzi,” Katie Wanderer remarked.

Word has clearly got out that three famous cyclists were on the road as we were chased along the highway by a swirling mass of black flies. I’ve never known flies like this before. There must have been more than twenty frenetically whirling around my bike and body, distracting my vision like floaters in my eyes.

Today we encountered horse flies, black flies, mosquitoes, heat, pain and a black bear. Yep, you know we’re nearly in Ontario.

We started the day waking up in a luxury Fairmont hotel, courtesy of Sofi Wanderer’s Dad’s connection. Unlike Chateau Lake Louise, I slept very well in the pressed white sheets. I could get used to this. The disadvantage of a luxury hotel is that extra services cost extra – the cheapest breakfast was $18 for a slice of melon and it cost $7 to have a pair of socks washed. Oh, unless you wash them yourself in the bath tub. So while Katie Wanderer nipped to Tim Hortons (translation: Canadians biggest coffee chain) to pick up breakfast, Sofi Wanderer dried out her clothing with the hair dryer.

Katie and I have matching knee pain. The solution is apparently ice, ice, ice. So we nipped to the drug store to spend a small fortune on lotions and potions to keep our bodies in order. There’s something to be said for my increasingly ability to feel comfortable and at home wherever I am standing. Hanging out with the Wanderers it has become normal to wheel a muddy touring bike along the smooth marble floors of a hotel lobby. We stood in the lobby spraying ourselves with deep freeze and popping arthritic painkillers. I would highly recommend staying at a hotel like this: the front staff always open the door for you. Makes wheeling a bike in and out the lobby an awful lot easier.

Today it was hot. It was approaching 30 degrees when we left the cool interior of the hotel and set off down the muggy, humming streets of Winnipeg searching for a route out into the wilderness.

Today we saw the scenery change as we headed east of Manitoba towards the Ontario border. Manitoba was agricultural, flat and there were few trees. Today the trees popped up quite suddenly. The woods closed in around us, the road steepened and fell… And the bugs appeared.

We cycled past 10 acre wood, the home of Winnie the Pooh (Did you know he’s Canadian? He was named after Winnipeg). Later in the day we startled a real black bear that was feeding by the roadside. It ran off as we noisily cycled past.

We stopped to eat lunch at 6pm (sic). The heat of the sun had melted the cheese in my pannier so we had pre-grilled cheese for lunch. Finally, after a long break the heat of the day had abated. We enjoyed the final two hour cycle to the campground as the embers of the day glowed behind us. The road was quiet, there was almost no traffic. The sun set slowly behind the forest as we pulled into a wonderful campground off a dusty track.

We spent the evening massaging our legs with ice and tiger balm before going to sleep.

What a change in a day. I woke up in a luxury hotel. I fall asleep on the thermarest inside the common room of a campsite, the midgies swamping around my ipad. But I am equally happy in both.

Day 24: Wawanesa to (almost) Winnipeg (142km)

Here I am sitting cross-legged by the side of the road. As I look up I could be just a few miles from home. I know those fields of rape seed. A horizontal band of ripe yellow under drifting cumulus clouds. But scanning the level horizon I cannot see a hill. No Wittenham Clumps. No Didcot power station. No signpost to Henley or Reading. In that momentary pause between sight and recognition my optimism peaks and falls with a slump of the shoulders. I am not in Oxfordshire. I am in pain.

Yesterday I learnt how to keep going – today I learnt to stop.

I woke up at 6am this morning. Given I’ve just crossed a time zone it felt like 5am and the morning sun hadn’t yet climbed over the line of trees on the far shore of the river. The mosquitoes, however, were awake and out in force, biting any patch of skin that wasn’t covered by at least 3 layers of deet and clothing. I was on the road by 8am with a daunting 200km ride to Winnipeg ahead of me. My cellphone was completely out of signal and I felt quite isolated as I plodded alone along the highway.

There is no hard shoulder on highway 2. The edge of the road just deteriorates into puncture-inducing gravel. I find I can’t relax while cycling as I always have to keep my eye out for traffic. The truck dodging that I commented upon in yesterday’s blog post is like a fatal video game of judgement. But every time an oncoming truck passes me the air current it creates overwhelms me like a crashing wave. It reminds me of swimming in the surf: a wave approaches, you can see it coming and count down. You gasp for breath, duck your head and grip tightly onto the security of your handlebars. Sometimes it’s a relief that the wave doesn’t crash on you but glides past. Sometimes the wave tears at your body and shoots a jet of grit at your skin. It has almost torn the helmet from my head.

The only benefit of these trucks is that, like the sand on a surf beach, the grit that is blasted onto my exposed skin becomes stuck on my sweaty sun-creamed limbs. When I next rub in some more sun cream the effect is very exfoliating. Who knew that the highway could provide its own beauty regime. I also am beginning to develop a Heading East tan. As I continuously pedal east on the highway, my right side is exposed to the southern sun. So while my left side glows a pleasant peachy-brown, my right side is increasingly beetroot.

All morning I fought against the heating sun and the blasting waves of trucks. I managed to keep up a decent speed by consuming an enormous quantity of energy bars, water and fruit. But my legs were beginning to weaken. My knee pain was gradually getting worse. I took painkillers. But my knee wanted rest. I stopped for lunch after 110km. It was still a long, long way to Winnipeg.

After lunch I turned north into a brutal headwind. My speed dropped to less than 16km per hour. At this rate I wouldn’t get to Winnipeg before nightfall. A truck whipped past me and the speed of its wind turbulence swept me off the highway into the gravel. I lay Monty down carefully on the gravel shoulder. I pulled out my emergency ice pack and stuck it on my right knee. I cut up an orange, slurped every bit of its juicy goodness and waited for meaning to come back to me. I put some music on my ipad. And waited. The wind did not abate. The trucks streamed by. And still meaning did not come. And the pain in my knee only seemed to feel worse.

image

I looked down. I forgot myself. I looked up and saw that horizontal band of ripe yellow under drifting cumulus clouds. I felt at home. But in that momentary pause between sight and recognition my optimism peaked and fell. I am not in Oxfordshire. I am in the middle of sodding nowhere with an inflamed knee.

Today has made me question why I am doing this. I have exchanged the comfort of my own bed for a thin thermarest. Instead of soaking in a hot bath, I have swam in a glacier-fed lake. Instead of contentedly ignoring the cool air conditioning in my car I have learnt that mosquitoes can bite through bike shorts. Instead of reading books and browsing BBC news I have begun to read the sky. I swapped the office for the great outdoors. I swapped security for the unknown. I swapped contentment for the oscillating misery and euphoria of life on the road. Why? I still don’t know.

Could I have pushed myself another 63km? Probably yes. But I still have another 5,000km to cycle this summer. I feel a bit crushed to have had to call for a lift to Winnipeg. I had only done 142km of what was supposed to be the great 200km+ ride. The pain in my knee is sharp and stabbing. The tiredness of my body is slow and dull. In the last 6 days I have cycled over 800km. And more than I want to push myself to the limits – I just want to continue.

I hope that my lesson for today will prove to be that knowing when to stop is the same as learning how to keep going.

The people you meet

June 25th, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (2 Comments)

Day 20: Moose Jaw to Regina (79.5 km)

“Oh, I would have thought you would have cycled further than this,” the man said by way of introduction. I gave him a blank stare. Apparently he’d seen us in the bike shop in Swift Current two days ago. Further than this? We biked 173km yesterday.

“Do you have a pump I can use?” He asked. He’d flagged us down just as we were headed about 10km outside of Moose Jaw. He had been sitting on the verge with his bike strewn around him. He didn’t look like a tourer because he only had one small pack on his road bike. It was already mid-morning as we’d taken a leisurely breakfast at Timmy’s in order to catch up on blogs and drink a coffee that doesn’t taste like every other camp meal we’d eaten.

“Schrader or presta?” I asked.

“Huh?” He looked at us like we were stupid.

“Skinny or fat valve.” Sofi translated pointing at the difference between the tubes in her wheel and mine.

“Oh, skinny. I should cancel my taxi.”

Taxi? I dug into my pannier for the pump. The guy started talking to the wanderers. The usual conversation: where did you start, where are you going etc. Oddly this guy told us he was biking across Canada (albeit in stages) and was headed to Winnipeg. That’s 700km away I thought, overhearing the conversation. Would you not take a pump on a 700km bike ride?

The guy was clearly rich. A plastic tourer with a much greater credit card limit to pannier bag ratio than we have. Who else pulls out their cellphone in the middle of nowhere and calls a cab? Who else DOESN’T CARRY A PUMP WHILE CYCLING ACROSS CANADA?

The wanderers and I shared a glance: what a twat

Thankfully just as I was pulling out my pump a taxi pulled up and the guy decided he would head back to town. I would have thought he’d have got further than this… If only he carried a pump.

After meeting The Rich Twat With No Pump we merrily pedalled on in the sunshine. We passed through the Queen Elizabeth trees. Apparently, when Queen Elizabeth came to visit Saskatchewan in 1959 the powers that be decided to plant a corridor of trees on the road from Moose Jaw to Regina so that Her Majesty wouldn’t be bored by the endless, boring prairie view.

These are Her Majesty's trees

These are Her Majesty’s trees

The cycling today wasn’t too challenging but nor was it particularly exciting so Katie and I played Top 5, 20 questions and our own home brewed version of Sporkle to entertain us while Sofi focused on the pain of her chafing inner thigh hinge (!)

When we arrived at Regina we stopped at a bike shop so Sofi could fork out a small but worthwhile fortune on a shiny new Brooks saddle (it’s brown so it matches her handlebar tape).

We’ve spent the evening staying with a very friendly guy called Ron, a keen cyclist who has converted his basement into a bike workshop. After stuffing our bellies with turkey, strawberries and cookies we played bike mechanic with Ron. We all learnt a few things from Ron, clearly an expert, as he checked over our bikes. I was relieved that he wasn’t worried about the miscellaneous bump on my front tyre and chuffed that he approved of my true back wheel.

One of the greatest aspects of this trip is meeting people on the way: from friendly bike mechanic hosts to idiots without a pump. They all add a brushstroke to this expanding picture of Canada by bicycle.