Dino's blog for mini adventures and endurance challenges
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Coasting towards the end

August 31st, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (0 Comments)

Day 69: Ingonish Beach to Baddeck (91.5 km)

Despite going to bed at 8.30pm (!) I woke up feeling tired. Hardly surprising perhaps given yesterday’s epic ride.

The season seems to have shifted overnight. The yellowing maple leaves signal the approaching fall and the summer of cycling is coming to a close. A breeze swooping down the mountain side causes a flutter of leaves to fall from their branches onto the empty Tarmac. The road is quiet as the holiday traffic has driven home, school starts next week.

First thing in the morning I follow the coast out from Ingonish beach, past the harbour to the foot of Smokey Mountain. It is a solitary climb up, though not as punishing as the mountains from yesterday. As I approach the summit puffs of cloud waft across the road as if someone is having a campfire. I guess it is not called Smokey Mountain for nothing. The downhill switches back and forth between gorgeous coastal views and sharp bends warning drivers to go at 25km per hour.

Smokey

Smokey

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For the rest of the day I followed the inland coast past a patchwork of harbours, inlets, lakes and rivers. Here it is hard to tell what is fresh water and what is ocean. I am told that the Bras d’Or Lake, though it is called a lake, is really sea water.

The road I follow glides off into a spit of land that narrows to the width of the road. For 2km I have water on both side. A ferry completes the last 150m the water over to English Bay.

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Approaching the campsite I pass a cycle tourist coming the opposite way. A woman by herself bent low into the wind with black panniers, she looks just like me. We waved manically across the road to each other.

It starts to rain just as I have finished setting up my tent. I spent the evening hiding in the campground common room, dithering about what to do tomorrow. It is forecast to rain for 5 hours tomorrow. But the stormy weather will also bring gusting easterly winds which will help me no end. Should I take the day off then on Friday I might only get showers but I’d also a gusting westerly wind? Decisions, decisions. My butt hurts and my legs ache but that is normal.

It’s 8.30pm: Time for bed,

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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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Shuffle into Cape Breton Highlands

August 28th, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (0 Comments)

Day 67: Cheticamp Island to Corney Brook (26km)

I’m scared.

I’m scared because the land around me pitches up into the sky. I haven’t seen anything this steep since the Rockies. The road curves around the voluptuous folds of earth. Tomorrow I must cycle.

I’m scared because I’m not sure that I will make it. But I need to, have to. I am alone here and there is nobody to pick me up. If I can’t cycle up French Mountain then I will walk it.

This is what I wrote the night I camped at Corney Brook, a basic campground nestled between the gulf of the St Lawrence and the looming French Mountain. It was supposed to be a rest day but I decided that, rather than fret all day on Cheticamp Island about the looming ride ahead, I would shuffle forward 26km to make the ride along the Cabot Trail less epic.

I still managed to fit in some of the fixtures of a rest day. I did my laundry in the worst manner possible. I realised once I had trekked all the way over to the laundrette that I had forgot my camp soap. Oh well, I guess this normal soap will do, I thought, breaking off a few lumps with my fingers and smearing them on my tshirt. It was only when the clothes were hanging on my self-made washing line that I noticed the lumps of normal soap were exactly where I had smeared them. The tissue I had left in my short pocket was now in tiny flecks of white scattered over everything. If I’d had time I would have washed it again. But I didn’t. And since it actually smelt nice and clean, the soap smears and tissue fluff remain.

Another fixture of a good rest day is to have a good campfire and a beer. The problem with that was that the basic campground I was shuffling to did not sell firewood. I had purchased firewood on Cheticamp island but, as per usual, not burnt half of it. It seemed a waste to leave it behind so i set about strapping in together with an ingenious set of knots and affixing it onto Monty. It weighed an absolute ton but I was quite chuffed with myself.

Monty becomes firewood mule

Monty becomes firewood mule

On route to the campground I passed through Cheticamp village and picked up a beer which I would late leave to chill hidden under a rock in the brook. I was all set for a lovely afternoon.

Blimey the hills. No sooner had I rounded the corner out of the village, over the rocky river and into the national park when the contours started to riot like the noise visualisation on a booming stereo system. It’s not called the Cape Breton Highlands for nothing. The road swept and twisted like a rollercoaster over the hills and plonked me down at the campground at the very bottom of French Mountain.

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After a small afternoon snooze and exploration of the pebbled shore, I opened my beer and began cooking my beans and spider dogs on the campfire. I noticed a family had arrived and was setting up their gigantic tent in the pitch next door. The daughter was looking for firewood but finding none. I had just finished my last spider dog when the the Mom and daughter came over.

“We’ve made too much food and wondered if you’d like to have some?”

Second Dinner!? Yes, please. I wandered over and was given a healthy portion of spaghetti with fresh mussels and shrimps.

“I’ve never eaten mussels before,” I commented. And Dad gave me a quick tutorial in how to eat them.

It turned out that it was the daughter’s thirteenth birthday. So she had got to pick what they had for dinner. They wanted to have a fire but didn’t have enough wood.

“I saw your firewood,” Dad said, “so figured they must sell it here because you wouldn’t carry firewood on a bike. Especially here, up those hills.”

Oh, but I did.

I invited them over to “mine” for a campfire dessert and rushed home to tidy up my fireplace so that there was a clean space for them to sit. Thankfully I had ample ingredients for s’mores so I was very pleased to be able to share them with the birthday girl. She didn’t get a cake but she did get to toast some s’mores. And a few marshmallows caught fire so she had blow them out like a candle. What a great birthday.

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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.

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Cape Breton

August 25th, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (0 Comments)

Day 65: Antigonish to Port Hood (101km)

I must look as shattered as I feel.

I’ve battled with the cyclist’s nemesis: the wind. We fought for 45 kilometres. I wanted to go north north west. The wind wanted to go the other way.

The wind has two weapons: the push and the punch. The push is the softer blow. It is constant and, however hard it gets, your legs can adjust as you slip to a lower gear. The punch is a killer. The punching gusts hit you when you are not expecting. They wrestle you on the downhills and stab your knees on the uphills.

Battle commenced as soon as I crossed the Causo causeway that joins the mainland of Nova Scotia to the beautifully rugged Cape Breton. I turned left to the north north west, along the road that the locals call the Ceilidh trail. We fought up the hills and around the coast. Lace cuffs of surf dressed the coastal rocks and silky waves stretched to the horizon. A butterfly flew with me for a metre or two, it was encouragement enough. I was determined.

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My speed decreased to a pitiful 15km per hour. And I was pushing with my all might. But after 3 hours of fighting, I saw the sign welcoming me to Port Hood. I’d won.

At the beginning of this trip I used to get asked for ID when I bought alcohol. I don’t any more. After 100km on the road I wheeled into the liquor store to get a beer for the evening. No ID requested.

The lady at the campground took pity on me. She had long red hair, green glasses that framed the kindness in her eyes. She must have seen how shattered I felt after my long day in the saddle. I paid for the night and she pointed me in the direction of the tenting area. Moments later she was pulling up beside me in the car.

“Follow me, ” she said with a Scottish lilt mingling with her Canadian accent. I followed her car to the back of the campground where three huts stood. “You will sleep better in here. You don’t have to pitch your tent and it will be quieter.”

I helped her move a picnic bench to outside my new hut. The hut is nice. It is wind proof. It is warm.

I’ve checked the weather forecast and although it’s due to be dry and sunny tomorrow I fear that the wind will be blowing in the wrong direction again. The battle will begin again.

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Welcome to Nova Scotia

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

Day 64: Northumberland Cove to Antigonish (86.5km)

What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

Welcome to Nova Scotia! Well, yes, it is quiet Scottish isn’t it? Because its raining again. And there is a sign post for New Glasgow.

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It had started to rain as the ferry from PEI as we approached the misty coast. Just after the ferry port, I stopped for a quick cup of tea hoping the rain would abate. It didn’t, it just rained harder. It poured. A man walking outside with a cardboard tray of coffee saw me and commented cheerfully “at least my bike fits on the back of this!” Nodding at his SUV. Oh, because that’s a helpful and encouraging comment. I did not respond.

Monty and I splashed off down the main highway. Monty’s tyres made a slick hiss as they wove through the pooling rain. We approached an intersection. And there it was: HALIFAX.

The first sign of the end. I could get to Halifax in 2 days, just turn West and pedal. i laughed to myself as i cycled past the turn to Halifax. I want to prolong the fun. I am headed East.

All day I was in a ridiculously cheerful mood. My joy was unrelentingly upbeat despite the pouring rain. I only have 9 days left of cycling but I am determined to enjoy them.

I could barely see anything in the grey fog of rain. Cars zoomed past. The rain seeped through my jacket. My socks squelched.

Eventually the rain abated although it made precious little difference given that my socks were saturated and the road was still covered. Each passing truck sprayed the pooled rainwater sideways into me and Monty. But the lifted clouds had improved the visibility. I could now see the next hill approaching, the neighbouring mounds piled with trees. The verge was decorated with white flowers and tangled grasses. There wasn’t a lot else to see. No towns, no roadside stops. Just hills. Blimey, lots of hills.

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I saw a sign welcoming me to Antigonish county. It was in English. But the second line underneath was written in a second language… Gaelic.

Given how drenched through I was I decided to treat myself to a motel. The motel owner, a former police officer, was very friendly and equalled inquisitive as he interviewed me about my trip. He couldn’t quite believe I biked here from Victoria, BC. (Neither can I, to be honest, it is such a long way). We chatted for a while before I turned to go to my room.

“Oh, and if you see a load of police cars here later,” he added, “don’t worry.”

He’d had a woman here before demand to leave when the squadron of police cars had ferried round in the darkening night. Suspecting the police to be cracking down on the drug den located in the motel she was indignant that she wasn’t going to stay at a place of such lowly repute.

“They just come over here for coffee,” the owner smile. “They just want to hang out but if someone commits a crime and they are in McDonalds then all the locals will complain that they didn’t stop the crime because they were drinking coffee in McDonalds. So they come here.”

While my socks hung over the shower rail, I ended the day lying on my huge, comfy bed eating take away pizza. It was worth the $3 extra to have it delivered. I will sleep well. Tomorrow I head to Cape Breton.

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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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To PEI (with lots of food)

August 23rd, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (0 Comments)

Day 62: Sainte Marie de Kent to Cumberland Cove (137.5km)

I was packed off in the morning from Aaron and Shelley’s with a full belly, a lunchbox full of the blueberries that I picked yesterday, and other provisions for the journey – including a small bagful of homegrown beans! I added significantly to the beans’ food mile by carrying them with me for 137.5km before they pimped up my noodle dinner. The noodles, ridiculously, I’ve been carrying for 4,000km.

I had an easy and enjoyable start to the day cycling along the river. I pedalled past sloping farmland, wooden houses decorated with Acadian flags, old worn looking pick up in the driveway and the occasional bored teenager on a bike.

After less than an hour on the road I couldn’t resists nipping into Tim Hortons. On the one hand, for the entire trip I have been promising myself that one day I would buy a whole box of donuts. On the other hand, staying with Aaron and Shelley reminded me how homegrown vegetables are unparalleled in their tastiness. Oh dear. I ended up buying a whole box of Timbits (translation: donut holes). The box of 20 Timbits did not, I’m afraid to say, last til lunch.

Timbits

Timbits

After 50km I stopped in Shediac where the remaining Timbits were devoured along with juicy, handfuls of blueberries bleeding purple juice over my fingers. I am glad the washroom has a mirror as I had blueberry juice all round my face.

After lunch I pedalled again, and continued to pedal, and kept on pedalling. I did that thing that if someone else does is really annoying: “Oh, just a few more km.” Then, “oh just a few more” and “let’s just reach the top of this hill” etc. I managed to churn out 108k, before I stopped for lunch at a pretty spot overlooking the Northumberland Strait, the stretch of land that separated Prince Edwards Island (known to all as PEI) and mainland Canada.

When the smudge of indigo on the horizon sharpened into view my legs found the energy to push faster. It’s confederation bridge! The road to a new land! The crossing to my penultimate province!

Monty and I had to catch a shuttle bus as it is illegal to walk or cycle across the 13km bridge. Blimey, I was glad for there was only a small barrier protecting the two lanes of traffic from the fall into the drink. The snaking bridge curved over the blue waters.

The first thing you notice about PEI is the rusty red rock that borders the island. “It goes right the way round,” the driver said. “Some sort of sandstone I think.”

Shelley had tipped me off that PEI is famous for its icecream. “It’s tourist prices,” the driver had huffed when I asked for directions. But thankfully the BIDIB (beer, icecream, delicious item budget – $400 that I saved by not going to Newfoundland) afforded me a double scoop of cowberry and salted caramel in a sprinkle coated waffle come. Nom nom nom.

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The last icecream-fuelled kilometres to the campground were the best of the day. The cornfields shimmered in the lowering late summer sun. I turned my head to catch vanishing views of the bridge standing like a blue snake on stilts over the water. The cornfields were bending over in the wind. The windy sky was a spotless blue save for a few contrails. A flock of starlings swirled over the fields.

My campground overlooks Northumberland strait. The sun has set behind the line of spruce trees. The surf nibbles at the shore. The strong wind buffets my tent. I am sitting under the flap of my tent when I notice the moon rising. It is pink. The large disc appears on the eastern horizon like a second sun that has been wrapped in a rich salmon coloured silk. It is moments like this, in awe of the quiet majesty of nature, that make all the cycling – and all of life – worthwhile.

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Foraging for mushrooms

August 23rd, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (1 Comments)

Day 61: Miramichi to Sainte Marie de Kent (90km)

As a general rule of thumb, in Canada the cycling days have been glorious and the rest days have been spent wishing I was on the bike. My ride to Sainte Marie de Kent and subsequent rest day broke that rule, in the nicest way possible.

The day’s cycling was fine but largely uneventful. There had been no threat of rain so I’d slept with the tent flaps open and thus had a bone dry condensation free tent to pack up in the morning. Monty and I set off along the main highway. The highway isn’t actually very exciting. Is just a strip of grey Tarmac that bounces up and over the hills and through the forest. Every now and again I would pass through a small village decked out in Acadian flags. Some villages had painted the trunks of their electricity pylons in the Acadian colours. They really are quite patriotic.

All around I could smell the piney, green fragrance of the forest. Soon enough I arrived in the town of Richibucto where the fragrance of the forest was interrupted by the strong scent of the sea. An aggressive line up of gulls watched over me while I ate my lunch by the small harbour. After a short snooze, ended by an extra loud screech from a gull, it was time to get pedalling again.

My lodgings for the night came into view down a long, bumpy track cutting between a riot of wild bushes. I was essentially in the middle of glorious nowhere. At the end of the track, a large trailer stood in front of an old white house. Aaron, Shelley and their young son were out at a farming conference when I arrived but I was greeted by a very cheery note and muffins.

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I wandered around the back of the house to where a line of washing was hanging up. There was a very large veg patch, stuffed with tangled towers of green beans, green tomatoes, neat lines of onions bursting through the soil, and a lively proliferation of leaves and squashes exploding out the patch. I went over to say hello to the chickens and the three goats (named Hans, Goat String and Tweedledum).

When Aaron and Shelley returned home they offered me the sofa, the tent or the mosquito net to sleep in. The night looked to be bright and clear so I opted for the mosquito net.

As it fell dark I set about gathering kindling for the fire. A bright full moon cast bean-pole shaped shadows across the freshly mown grass. A chorus of insects buzzed in the background as the pop of the fire flung sparks into the sky. I chucked some grass on the fire to create some smoke to deter the bugs. It gave off a nice smell too. Aaron and Shelley came out the house and sat by the fire. We toasted some marshmallows. It grew late, though no darker thanks to the moon. When Aaron and Shelley retired to bed I snuck into my sleeping bag and fell asleep with the brilliant moon arching south west across the sky. The birds had stopped singing, the chickens had long since gone to roost, the goats bleated for a while but soon quietened down. Only the faint chorus of insects, their buzzing amplified by the silence, remained.

I was woken up when the cockerel called. The sun hadn’t yet risen but the eastern sky was a palette of artist’s colours. Wandering around, capturing the morning light on my camera I woke up the goats who jumped up on the fencing bleating. I worried they might escape again.

My rest day was perfectly restful. In the morning we went blueberry picking and in the afternoon we went on a successful forage for chanterelles. After that I had a lazy nap under the mosquito net until it was time for dinner and therefore time to munch the chanterelles. In the evening I again fell asleep under the gaze of the moon. The only difference this evening was that the evening soundscape missed the bleating from the goats. Hans, Goat String and Tweedledum had, just before dinner, been picked up by the butcher. They will return in freezer bags.

I couldn’t have wished for a better rest day and am very grateful to my kind hosts for having me stay.

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The Hobbit

August 18th, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (0 Comments)

Day 60: Beresford to Miramichi (103km)

Today has been notable for its uneventfulness. I guess out of 60 days of cycling then at least one would be boring. Let’s keep it brief.

Top 5 notable events of the day:

1. Saw herd of wooden cut-out cows standing in someone’s front lawn
2. Cycled into headwind. Swore at wind.
3. Had roadside nap
4. Applied hydrocortisone cream to itchy sting / bite (?) on my derrière
5. Excited to find just ripe bananas for sale in gas station

That’s it.

But for entertainment for you, dear blog reader, I will now include a recent email from my Dad:

“For some reason I was thinking of your blog as I went to sleep last night, and thought that when your get your tyre (tire) sorted out in Charlottetown you could call it “The Two Tyres”. Then I thought “Why not make it a trilogy?”:
The day you were doing your washing by hand along with a number of other campers – The Fellowship of the Wring
Getting your bell back after you thought you’d lost it – The Return of the Ping.
Enjoy. Love, D”

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