CENTRAL ONTARIO

Hot, Hot, Hot

The day dawned warm and clear, but even before breakfast I could feel the humidity. There were 155 kilometres of riding ahead of us before reaching Craigleith Provincial Park and everyone was eager to get going. Paddy was a passenger in the van again today but Bob continues to cycle daily.

We travelled eastward about 80 kms on Hwy # 6, to Wiarton, where I introduced myself to Canada's most famous weather predictor, Wiarton Willy. His house is a nice big cage in his own park at the town's centre. He is quite a celebrity. For an albino groundhog he has done all right for himself—better than most meteorologists I think. It was 1030 hrs when I went through Wiarton, and getting hot. Friendly people in the service stations where I was refilling my water-bottles throughout the morning were "kindly" pointing out that the forecast called for the humidex to be over 40º C today. The smog factor was also very high. Everyone should stay inside and do as little as possible, was the experts' recommendations. So here we are riding a century, and into a headwind to boot. Fun? You know it was!

A tiny noise originating in my bottom bracket seemed to be getting louder. I've been monitoring it for the past two days. It happened whenever I really powered the right-hand pedal. Catching Ken and Annette around 1100 hrs, whenever I rode alongside Ken he could hear it too. I would look for a bike shop as soon as possible; hopefully there would be one just ahead in Owen Sound.

We were now off Hwy 6 and following little secondary roads, County (or is it Concession?) roads 1 and 17. Annette spotted a nice lawn under a huge tree and we stopped for lunch, resting in the tree's cool shade. At Annette's request the lady of the house kindly refilled our water-bottles with ice-cold water. I pulled ahead after our break, riding alone into Owen Sound.This is Jeff's home town I reminded myself, recalling that he was hoping to get a bit of a holiday here.

Today's heat and humidity were much higher than anything previously encountered, and I was beginning to struggle. Over the last few miles into town I found my normal riding pace was getting difficult to reach, never mind maintain.

A cycle shop was on my route through the city but the owner seemed like a real jerk, entirely uninterested in doing business or even in talking to me. He greeted me as I entered the store with "Leave your bike outside if you are here to get it repaired!" I mulled over this contradictory statement for a second, coupled it with his ugly tone of voice and left without further ado. A block to the left I found a sporting-goods store where a fellow said he would take a look at it. The air-conditioning in the store was heavenly. The 10 minutes or so I stood there waiting for the mechanic were wonderful; my body eventually quit sweating and I cooled off to close-to-normal levels. Once the bike was on the stand we could find nothing amiss. Previously assured by Bob that the relatively new, sealed bottom-bearing would never make such a sound I now chose to believe him. Will it last until Ottawa and Ken's highly-rated mechanic can look at it? I think so. But what is it? Perhaps my aluminum frame is beginning to come apart? Immediately I pushed this thought out of my mind.

Having decided to leave it alone for now I was leaving the store when the mechanic pointed out some EXCEED^™ sport replacement drink. I was really slowing down prior to hitting town, I reflected. And the heat was really getting to me. (I suspect I was close to bonking.) "Well," I said to myself, "desperate times call for desperate measures," so I bought a pack. Up until then I'd had no use for Gatoreade^™ and similar sports drinks. It wasn't that I doubted their effectiveness but I thought simple, basic things like sugars, carbohydrates, fruit and water could do the same job if given half a chance. I do admit, however, that very shortly after ingesting some of this stuff I quickly recovered a tremendous amount of energy. My pace quickened to my early-morning speed and I rode strongly the rest of the day. OK, Sold! This did work—much better than an orange, a cookie and some water! The final couple of hours were still very uncomfortable, nevertheless. A little niggling headache crept into my skull and I knew I was close to heat-stroke. I kept doing things such as adding numbers to assure myself I was alert. Maybe I was beginning to suffer from heat-stroke and didn't realize it. A little bicycle-wobble on a busy, narrow highway could have serious consequences to one's health, so let's stay straight and upright, I decided. Taking a twenty-minute break at a Dairy Queen, I just sat in the shade and ate GORP while drinking an entire bottle of water. Then I finished the final few kilometres.

When I entered the provincial park at Cragleith I stopped at the gate for directions. While standing there a gentleman approached me, politely asking if I was with Tour du Canada. At my positive reply he proudly introduced himself as Albert's son, here to surprise his dad. Knowing of no easy way to let him down I told him that Albert had separated himself from us just this morning, driving from Tobermory to Toronto to get a new wheel for his bike. The news crushed him! "A two-hundred kilometre drive for nothing," he muttered. Turning down an invitation to come to our campsite and meet everybody he just got into his car and drove away. Albert later said this news so disappointed him that he simply drove back home. (They did get together in Toronto before Albert rejoined us at Mt. Albert.)

This was Jeff's territory as I've mentioned, and I believed arrangements were in place for him to get a day or two off while passing through here. Bud was to come from Toronto and drive the van for a couple days, then Jeff would complete the trip. Jeff's parents met him at the campground early in the day and introduced themselves to each of us as we rode in. I told them what a great job Jeff was doing, as did many others, so I hope they knew it to be true. As I've said, the support driver is such an integral part of the trip that the success of the entire venture could well depend on his actions. Jeff was the best. He was always available. Whenever we needed an answer or some help, he was there. His daily quotations gave us food for thought and switched our minds away from bicycling. He kept close watch over the vehicle and bikes when the rest of us wandered away, and he was diligent about keeping our unloaded kit under cover when it was alongside the van. In addition, he shouldered many responsibilities unknown to most of us, such as booking us into campgrounds and getting us choice sites, which invariably were close to the van. (My early arrivals at campgrounds provided an insight not shared by the others. Frequently Jeff would turn down the site designated by the proprietor and negotiate a better location, either more scenic or better suited to our needs.) As well, his personality was open and co-operative. We all greatly respected Jeff. We couldn't help contrasting Jeff's excellence to the plight of a previous years' tour. That year the driver was such a jerk that one of the cyclists had him by the throat, up against a wall, within the first week. We, the riders, sort of put our heads into neutral while we rode and after we camped but for Jeff there was seldom time away from his responsibilities. The change would be good for him. So anyway, I was happy that Jeff would be getting a break.

Bud and his friend Margot are scheduled to drive up after work. I'm later surprised to learn that plans are not what I thought. Both will be returning to Toronto tonight, meeting us again at Mt. Albert. Jeff will take time off during our rest day there.

It was our turn to cook again. Fresh corn-on-the-cob was the main ingredient on Patti's grocery list for today, and Jeff bought oodles of it. While Patti did up a pasta dish I peeled the corn—three dozen cobs of it.

Bud and Margot drove in as the main course was ending and darned if they didn't bring dessert—ice cream. Two buckets of it! Try as we would to eat it all, some of it melted away. There actually are limits to how much 12 cyclists can eat, and tonight we reached them. James easily ate five cobs and several of us ate three, but my it was good.

Personally, today was the most physically trying effort yet. The heat and humidity really taxed me. That sports drink was a godsend. There's one remarkable thing about cycling that many of us commented on over the two months. Very shortly after dismounting in a state of near collapse, within an hour (often quicker) a person will return to normal and feel perfectly fine. So by supper all was again well, and apart from the continuing heat of the day I was feeling comfortable.

Looking around, our little group seemed fragmented. And it was to get worse! Paddy sat out today, and after supper she and her family departed for their home in Toronto. Albert was likely already home in Woodbridge. Ray, who has been in touch with home, advises us that Manitoba starts school the final week of August this year so he is now making plans to leave us in Ottawa. Since the trip's inception Bob has been chewing-over whether to go to Newfoundland or not. He feels that spending the extra money on expensive plane-fare for the one day of riding on the Rock simply isn't worth it, so he will abandon in Nova Scotia. Now I learn that Ken and Annette will also be stopping in Nova Scotia. School commencement in Ottawa requires Annette to return home before September.

At this point I really notice one great difference between the western Canadians and those from Ontario, concerning this trip at least. To us Westerners, we have simply reached the 2/3 mark and are looking forward to Quebec and the Atlantic Provinces. To them, they are home. Less than a month's riding remains and only a small portion of the country is still unseen. I wonder to myself if any Ontario people will decide to stop at Mt. Albert, or even more likely, after the rest day in Ottawa. Getting psyched-up for the final bit will be difficult for many, but especially for Ken and Annette after spending two nights and a day in their own home. Then to ride away from it… My depression when leaving Drumheller will be far less than theirs when they'll actually be leaving home for the second time on the same trip. I believe it will be extra tough for them.

Nonetheless, tonight there is a feeling of real excitement—tomorrow we will be in Mt. Albert, have a day off, and for many, visits from family and friends.

Map Reading Day

Until today, each day's map has been a small panel covering 1/3 of a page. This means, of course, three day-maps per page. (As I said, Bud kept it down to basics.) This worked fine, nobody got lost and even wrong turns were rare. But today's map was different. It covered the entire page, with the 136-kilometre distance divided into three separate panels. The first panel resembled a staircase descending in small steps from the upper left to the lower right, showing a highway change every 5-6 kilometres. Of course a major highway ran parallel to our route, but the organizer preferred to keep us off major arteries, and the county roads are ever-so-much friendlier to cyclists. Bob, however, had great difficulty with the concept of travelling more miles than the minimum just to ride in quietude. Last night he and Ray pored over the provincial map, studying alternative routes. In fact, while doing the breakfast dishes, conversation turned to route selection. Bob announced that he and Ray were going to ride the major highway today, saying "These little ones are stupid." I made some glib, smart-remark about any injuries incurred would be the individual's responsibility not the trip organizer's, and Bob snapped back at me. This was one of the extremely rare times we ever raised our voices, and needlessly so this time. I know Bob is a big boy and I know he is fully aware of any consequences. That evening I apologized, and Bob said it really wasn't me he was mad at either, it was Bud and his "poor" route selection.

I've taken many military map-reading courses. I've done night-driving under blackout conditions on the roads of Germany. I've participated in many other odd ventures with the military. All deserve credit for whatever skills I might have acquired in following a prescribed course. Strangely, I was actually looking forward to this day. A challenging route to follow, I thought. Randy and Patti were extremely hesitant about finding their way through this maze and asked if I would stick with them. We rode together, leaving last as we were on sweep duty.

Just east of Craigleith Park is the resort of Collingwood, nestled into the range of hills that are so attractive to Toronto skiers. It amazed Christine that ski-racer Steve Podborski, one of the famed Crazy Canucks, developed his world-class skills in "these little hills" (compared to her Alberta mountains).

It was a fun day. The wind was light and we rode at a comfortable pace, often three abreast down these tiny roads, taking advantage of the 15 - 20 minute spacing between cars. We rode and changed highways, and rode and changed highways, with everything going perfectly. Then, intending to skirt a town, we were suddenly right into it. Directions showed a turn at a 50 KPH sign but the town had recently upped the speed to 60, hence the 50 KPH sign was much farther into town. A three-kilometre reversal was necessary to get back on course. (To my knowledge this was the first error on the trip-maps.) Randy and Patti stuck with me all day—I'm sure they'd have been in big trouble on their own. I pulled all day and felt very comfortable.

Patti took a brief stop in Bradford as we passed through, looking for a new cog-set for her bike as it was still skipping in the three or four largest cogs. No luck. The small shop didn't stock such major parts.

About an hour before reaching Mt. Albert we ran into an intense thunderstorm. The skies darkened, the wind strengthened, and just as we were climbing out of Holland Landing thunder and lightning heralded a torrential downpour. At Patti's suggestion we pulled off and went into a restaurant hoping to wait it out. Even before our coffee was finished the rain ended and we rode the remaining distance in dry air.

James was always a fixture with Marny and they had some great conversations as they rode. They let us in on some of the verbal and mental games they played, such as James calling out a town where we'd stayed and Marny describing the campsite. Or which were the worst showers? The best? They were always chattering as they went down the highway. They rode well together. Marny was an excellent navigator who seldom got off course, but once in camp we learned that they, too, were victims of the changed speed-limit sign. All others cycled the major roads.

Supper that night saw few in attendance and our area became even more deserted by the evening. Looking around I could only find four of us—Bob, Christine, Ray and me. And only five tents tonight—the above four and Randy and Patti's. Marny went to Toronto with a friend; Paddy left yesterday; Albert left at Tobermory; relatives took Ken and Annette away; and Jeff is finally getting his break. Randy and Patti rode out before supper after hastily erecting their tent and we haven't seen them since. Perhaps they want some time together, in a real bed. Good luck to them.

Bud is returning tomorrow night, driving for a day or two (I'm uncertain of exact plans) and it seems he will cook at least one supper.

Despite the heat and yesterday's strenuous effort my legs never cramped today. That they cramp in the cold but not in the heat is surprising. Just me, I guess.

The town of Mt. Albert is perhaps two kilometres away. From what we can glean from the "summer residents" of this campground and trailer park, the town has no pub. Catastrophe! Tomorrow is a day off and nowhere to enjoy a cold beer! Eventually we learn of a small Legion on this side of town that might be open. Its hours are very sporadic. Ray, Bob and I decide to walk over and take a look. Yes! It is open!

We give the bartender his only customers and chat with him while watching the Edmonton Eskimos lose to Toronto. Tomorrow night is to be karaoke night in the Legion so we make plans to return.

A quiet walk home, and to bed.

Four of a Kind

In accordance with my usual rest day routine I roused myself around 0700 hrs. After being treated to an egg omelette and fried-potato breakfast assembled by Bob, I went to work on my bike. The noisy bottom-bracket was bothering me but I couldn't decide whether or not there actually was a problem. In any case, by the time we reach Ottawa I figure it will either be noise-free or broken. Cleaned all the greasy parts, changed the chains around, then decided to switch the very worn rear tire with the relatively fresh front one. (The rear tire is the one that punctured in B. C.) The original tiny hole was now perhaps 3 mm long and looking pretty bad. Positioned dead-centre on the running surface, the blemish contacted the road with each revolution. However, because the internal Kevlar belt was still totally intact I decided to mount it on the front wheel and take my chances. I wondered if they will both last the final 2300 kilometres to St. John's?

Ray was heading to town for a haircut. Growing impatient while waiting for him and Bob to finish their individual chores I decided that I, too, could use a haircut and rode alone into town. I chained my bike to a fence, got my hair cut, then wandered up and down the three or four blocks of the two principal streets comprising downtown Mt. Albert. Where we're camping is likely the closest campground to Toronto. However, the town of Mt. Albert holds no thrill for a cyclist on a day off. Noticing an unoccupied table on a store's nice-looking patio deck I sit in the canopy's shade and watch the town go by. Bonus! This shop sells ice cream. Bob joins me and together we observe Ray ride into town and go for his haircut. While Bob and I sit and chat, Ray departs the hair salon, shops for a few toiletries, then joins us on the patio. There is no pressing reason to return to camp but it seems more attractive than sitting here, so when Ray finishes his ice cream cone we leave town. We find Christine curled up under a tree on the field's edge, apparently sound asleep.

Most of the trailers in the park were well-maintained, attractive "permanent" summer cottages. Flower gardens and vegetable gardens were common. One home in particular, though, was very different—three nude female mannequins stood on the porch in a grotesque, ballet-like arrangement. Stuck on posts all through the flower garden were tacky signs and quotations. "Weird," I thought when I first saw it that afternoon, "the guy who lives there must be a real winner." It was only later when we were jointly discussing the place that we decided the occupant was likely a single woman. No one has seen a man on the premises but other women were frequently sitting and chatting on the porch whenever we pass. Really weird. Still, it takes all kinds and perhaps there's a sensible explanation for it all.

Asking around the campsite again, this time for a decent place in Mt. Albert to eat, we learn there is none. Not one restaurant! The four of us agree that taking a taxi to the next town 20 kms away is totally out of the question. A small fish-and-chip stand 300 metres from the entrance seems to be the only alternative. We walk to it. Greasy food, lousy taste.

Back at the van Patti and Randy show up about 1830 hrs, having ridden 20 kms last night and finding a motel. Marny returns in her friend's car. Albert arrives, chauffeured by his wife and looking happy and refreshed. But he limps badly once out of the car. He explains, with much embarrassment, that he was working around the house and hit himself on the ankle with a big, ten-pound sledge hammer. Still swollen, the ankle is obviously quite sore. Albert maintains that he will ride tomorrow but his wife pleads with us to talk some sense into him and make him rest for at least another day. When we all agree with his wife, Albert finally decides he will stay in the van tomorrow. Ken and Annette show up and settle in. However, no sign of Bud. We know that we will ride in the morning with or without a driver for the van, and trust that someone will get it to the next stop.

Later that evening Bob, Ray and I walk back to the Legion, which is much busier tonight, and by 2030 hrs is nearly packed. Set up at 2100, the karaoke machine sits dark and silent on the makeshift stage. When nobody can make it work the rental agency is called. At 2145 hrs, with still no sign of the repair person, the three of us give up and walk home, too tired to stay any later.

During the return walk in the bright moonlight I think ahead. Three days of riding to Ottawa highlighted by a rest day at Ken and Annette's home is our next goal. Of course those two are the most eager to get on with it. Annette's greatest worry now is that her house will be a mess—their son has been living alone in it, looking after it in their absence. As we walk down the entrance-road we hear a woman with a beautiful soprano voice singing unknown Irish songs. A man whose voice isn't nearly as good joins her occasionally. He tries a few country songs on his own but is obviously too drunk to do them well and misses many of the lyrics.

The singing bothers the others but I fall right to sleep.

A Big Lift

Today, Saturday, August 10, will be a big day. Scheduled for 183 kilometres, it qualifies as the 2^nd of the three longest-days of the overall trip. (Map of Southern Ontario) We will end up just south of Campbellford at Ferris Provincial Park. Again the map is a three-panel page full of stair-steps. We continue our eastward jog across central Ontario, avoiding the shoulderless major highways that are full of high-speed traffic. Locals tell us that it will be nearly flat. Yeah, right!

With its outside still laden with overnight dew and its inside still dripping with condensation I packed my tent away before breakfast. I'll need only a few minutes of dry air this afternoon for it to thoroughly dry once set up. Luckily, I haven't yet climbed into a wet tent.

The warm, occasionally even hot weather looks like it will continue today. With the dishes all washed, people were on their way. No sign of James but that's no big concern. We'd stopped worrying about him long ago—James always turned up eventually. More distressing was what, or who exactly was going to move the van to Ferris Park. There was no choice except to assume that somebody would, so I piled my kit beside the truck, threw the tarp over it and rode away.

This morning I set off alone, Randy and Patti seemingly confident that they can manage by themselves. Heading east upon leaving town, the first few miles were nearly flat with open farmland on all sides. I took a wrong turn just after passing Marny and Christine, about 0830 hrs, when the map indicated a left turn (north). Knowing that by day's end we were to end up south of where we started I went with my instincts and turned south, disregarding both the map and the highway sign. However, something felt wrong and within minutes some doubt crept into my mind about my direction choice. I kept a close eye on my rear-view mirror, watching for the two women's silhouettes when they crested the hill behind me. When they failed to appear I really suspected something was wrong. Stopping, I rechecked the map. Sure enough, wrong direction. Turning around and retracing about three kms I caught them again half-an-hour later. We stopped briefly for a sip of water and a chat.

The road veered eastward again and soon the hills got bigger. For over two hours they continued to rise in front of me—big, rolling hills that took considerable effort to get over. Feeling strong and well rested after not riding yesterday I really pushed the pace, enjoying the hard work. The slight tailwind was an added bonus.

Around noon I entered Peterborough and just concentrated on following the map's footnotes that detailed a nearly block-by-block pathway through the city. It seemed like I was straying from a straight line across the town but it all kept working well so I didn't question it. Eventually I was crossing a canal, the Trent, then riding alongside it, which was very picturesque and pleasant. Now I knew why the route deviated from a simple straight line through the town—we were on course to the famous Peterborough hydraulic lift-lock. This is Canada's largest hydraulic lock, and a most impressive structure it is. Reaching the giant lock I rode through a narrow, single-lane tunnel in its concrete base. Fortune smiled on me. A quiet bench in the beautiful park just downstream afforded a perfect spot to eat lunch. Completing this picture-perfect setting, high over my head a cruise boat full of tourists entered the upper lock. Over the boat's PA system the skipper was giving his passengers a step-by-step explanation of the lift's operating system while waiting for the lift to fill. To help pass the time he was adding interesting details of mishaps that had occurred during the lock's history. His voice was drifting down to park level and clearly audible to those of us participating vicariously below. When the water level was optimal the boat descended, counterbalanced by the ascending opposite lock.

Reaching our level, the gate opened and the boat continued on its way downstream. Fantastic show! Lunch there in the park, in the warm sunshine amidst flower gardens and lush greenery, was a real quiet and relaxing interlude. This was the first time I found myself wishing I'd brought a camera.

But the day was passing. Getting my act together I found some water before leaving town and resumed my ride. The big hills continued, as did the lightly-travelled back roads. The miles went swiftly by and life was good. A funny little junction of roads where Concession Road #8 and Secondary Road #8 were within 100 metres of each other confused me so much that I needed to stop for directions. Otherwise all went without a hitch.

A few miles back the van passed me, which I was happy to see. At least my tent will be there tonight, I thought, but seeing Margot on the passenger's side really surprised me. Hopefully I'd get an opportunity to talk to Bud and thank him for what was, so far, a simply fantastic trip. Somewhere around here I surpassed the 5,000 kilometre point, and that seemed like a whole lot of riding.

The initial 120 km had seemed easy. However, the most recent 50 km had really worn me down—a combination of the many miles, the big hills, and the humid weather that was now into the high 20's. By the time I entered Campbellford I was feeling somewhat frazzled. Somewhere in this town a bridge spanned a canal, across which was the road leading to the provincial park and our day's destination. Stopping at a major intersection to decide whether to turn right or continue straight on for a couple more blocks, I heard my name being yelled. Looking down the hill and seeing James standing there was a huge surprise. I didn't believe what my eyes were telling me. Who? What? How did he get here so fast, I wondered. I thought I'd been riding really hard, and here's James, straddling his bike and taking a break.

Coasting down to him I noticed that Jackie is sitting in her car beside him. "Where did you come from?" I ask. "Did you ride here?" "Yeah," he says. Jackie shakes her head. Telling him I need some water we agree to meet a block or so down the road at a 7-11 store. "Can I ride with you?" James says on rejoining me. "I'll try to keep up. Bob and Ray are just ahead somewhere," he adds as we are leaving town.

It quickly becomes apparent that James is in much better shape at the moment than I am. He continually pulls ahead and must keep slowing to keep me with him. There is no way he could have ridden over the same route as I have, I'm thinking, and press him to learn how his day's been going. It seems he rode part way on the major highways and Jackie gave him a lift for the remainder, so he is just reaching the 100-km mark. My odometer is reading well over 170. No wonder he's a bit more energetic! As we ride along, Bob and Ray overtake us. Unbeknownst to James they'd stopped for a snack somewhere in town. James gets on their wheel but their pace is too quick for me. I can't even stay in their draft so I fall back and watch them play games—getting into the slipstream of Jackie's car and drafting behind it.

Reaching the campsite I receive detailed instructions from the gatekeeper and ride directly to our site. Finally! It's been a while since I did that. Pulling up beside the van I announce to Bud that I've had a truly great day and that my odometer reads 190 kilometres right on the dot. Bud's expression tells me he thinks I'm criticizing his map's predicted distance of 183 so I immediately tell him that some wrong turns taken during the day account for the additional distance. This is the farthest I've ever ridden in one day! Feeling well and truly spent but on an emotional high I know that I held a fast pace and rode really strongly. Bob and Ray couldn't have ridden the scheduled route, either, so I'm curious to learn just how far they did go since they arrived barely five minutes ahead of me. As expected, they rode the big highway, logging about 161 kms. I feel extra proud of myself for my efforts.

While Bud and Margot are busily preparing supper I go about setting up and rehydrating. We are on a grassy hill's crest, overlooking a huge valley. The green escarpment stretches into the distance. The showers are right beside us and the tent-site is just up the hill; again it's a very nice location. A Bar-B-Q was going and I helped peel the corn. Everyone enjoyed the many burgers and the peaches-and-cream corn that Bud and Margot cooked for us. As always, good food and lots of it.

While hoisting a beer or two after supper I learned about Bud and Margot's interesting but frustrating day. Unknown to me, they'd arrived at the campsite last night, around midnight. Realizing that they'd forgotten something important in Toronto, namely the portable Bar-B-Q for the hamburger cookout, the first thing Margot did today was head back to Toronto for it. Bud, meanwhile, took the van to Newmarket for a bulk resupply purchase. Rendezvousing at the campground they picked up Albert and Paddy and headed out in the Ryder van. This time they forgot to pick up the Tour du Canada sign that routinely marked the entrance to our day's location. Again they returned to the campsite. By the time they passed me they'd already had quite a day!

I found a chance to tell Bud how much I'm enjoying it all. I also noticed that Bob was staying well clear. Bob has mentioned to me on occasion that Americans simply wouldn't put up with all the quote "B. S." unquote of this trip, and he has no use for Bud. Hey, it's a "no-frills" trip, guy. You yourself have told all of us more than once how hard you looked to find the least expensive long trip available. Neither I nor any others sympathize with Bob and his feelings about the trip. It's tempting to ask him why he just doesn't quit, but I restrain myself. He's a good guy, a good athlete and an excellent cyclist, and really does enjoy each day of cycling. Somewhere he developed a different vision of the trip and the reality is now a disappointment.

Albert's ankle has improved somewhat. After experiencing such a long, tough day I truly believe it really was fortunate that he didn't ride. Paddy, too, sat out today. She's still resting her arm from her fall many days ago. No doubt it was a crowded and uncomfortable truck's cab today with four people squeezed into it.

By nightfall I am feeling 100% again, having downed lots of water—and the beer didn't hurt either.

Sleep comes easily.

Beaten From the Start

The good breaks and the bad breaks normally even out, and today they did so quite early. We 12 were up and about our routine at normal times, but no sign of Bud and Margot. Their tent remained quiet and still. Because nobody had considered who was to make breakfast each of us grabbed whatever fit our mood, and sharp at 0700 hrs I got underway. The single bowl of Special K didn't have the nutritional level of my usual substantial breakfast and much too soon I felt tired and weak, unable to hold my normal pace.

More rolling hills today, again seemingly endless, but not as big as those of yesterday. The clear sky was wonderful, the humidity much lower than it had been, and just the slightest headwind. Map reading was once again a very necessary skill. The many road changes kept my mind busy as I charted my progress along the map panels, heading for Fermoy and Canoe Lake Park, 148 kms from today's start. By noon I had eaten all my prepared sandwiches and fruit. An hour later, with over 50 klicks still to go I was slowing to what seemed like a crawl and wasn't really enjoying the huge effort required to keep the pedals turning. Disregarding the hard effort I had put in yesterday I was cursing today's meagre breakfast and blaming it totally for my weakened state. Finally stopping at a classy-looking restaurant to put some food inside myself, I ordered some pie and ice cream. This was just after noon on a Sunday in rural Ontario. The restaurant's regular patrons, all wearing going-to-church clothes, made me feel terribly out-of-place in my spandex shorts and sweaty jersey. I didn't linger. Immediately after eating I paid the bill and resumed riding, hoping the food would quickly kick in and restore some strength to my legs. I also filled one water bottle with the remainder of the EXCEED™ sports drink bought in Owen Sound and started downing it.

Again, whether purely mental or not, I found my pace getting quicker and quicker. When the van eventually passed me (with Jeff once more behind the wheel I noticed) about five kms before the campground turnoff I was really hammering. Jeff was still chaining the direction sign to the entrance-road post as I rode up. He said, "You really fly on that bicycle, Don."

"You know, Jeff," I countered, "you'll have to start getting up earlier to beat me to the campsites."

"Don," Jeff replied, "they don't pay me enough to beat you to all the campsites."

I wish I looked this good!

Judging by the map's scale it was anywhere between two and five kms down this road to the campsite, but there were no signs or distances posted. I was riding in the dust kicked up behind the van when the road suddenly and unexpectedly forked. One branch plunged steeply downwards; the other stayed level and flat. Since the campsite was beside a lake we agreed that in all likelihood the correct route was down the hill. Not really relishing the return climb if this choice proved wrong I continued along in the dust and watched the van disappear into the distance. Some four or five km later the lake came into view. Jeff was in the closing stages of finalizing our location when I reached the campground. Our site was high on a grassy knoll overlooking a beautiful lake. The showers were close at hand. Another nice spot, but again, an approach road not designed with cyclists in mind.

The others drifted in with many of them cursing the long, gravelled entranceway. Albert rode all day; his ankle behaved well despite still being a bit swollen. Paddy cycled the final 25 kilometres and she, too, had little difficulty other than the approach road. Her arm seems nearly fully recovered from her spill on the highway. James—ah young James. He rode all day in Jackie's car.

During supper preparations a guy named Mark Bazerman drove in, with a racing bike stowed in the cargo space. A Tour du Canada veteran, Mark was a member of the '94 ride, one of the more-than-forty-participant years. He'd driven down from Ottawa expressly to greet us, intending to ride a few kilometres back towards Campbellford, meet up with some still-incoming riders and accompany them into the campsite. Obviously our little group operated on a different timetable than the '94 crowd as everyone had long since arrived in camp. (Our continuing early starts amazed the tour coordinator because most groups slowly slid to later and later wake-ups. Annette kept us on track, without a doubt.) As any good visitor to TDCshould do, Mark stayed for supper and then, above the call of duty, produced dessert—a big supply of delicious brownies. You gotta like a guy who brings fudge brownies! Mark was an interesting chap and we spent some time swapping stories, comparing the 1994 ride to this year's edition.

Looking at our bikes, Mark observed the wide mix of touring, racing and mountain bikes and asked what we felt was the bicycle of choice for this trip. Turning the tables on him we asked what he would choose if he was to do it again. He surprised us all by saying he'd pick a racing bike equipped with a small seat-pack. His reasoning was that it isn't really a "tour" requiring a bicycle that is capable of carrying a heavy load. Rather, the trip is simply a series of day-rides requiring only a day-pack to carry each day's lunch and a maybe a jacket. The lightest bike, therefore, would be the most efficient and quickest. In 1994 he had ridden a Miyata 1000 touring bike and said he had found it much too heavy and slow. Most interesting, and a different perspective. Mark also admitted that at 130 lbs and very aerobically fit he is a strong cyclist and excels as a hill climber. So for him, perhaps it made sense, but I personally feel that the more comfortable ride of a touring bike is of more importance over such a long haul. Also, a touring bike has the added advantage of three chainrings and the capability of carrying full panniers if and when the weather is really foul.

Mark asked how we had found the hills of northern Ontario, then smiled as he said we were in for a surprise tomorrow. Annette had also alluded to a big hill tomorrow so we pestered them both for more details. The best we could get was that indeed there was a hill, and it was steep, but short. Ken and Annette reflected that during their annual Ottawa-Kingston-Ottawa weekend ride perhaps only 10% of their Ottawa cycling club ever made it without having to dismount. Annette had never made it without walking. Sounded like a challenge, to me. The Westport hill, eh? I'll be watching for it.

Jeff's holiday plans worked out well: Bud left his car at Mount Albert while he and Margot drove the van, then Jeff drove it here after his break in Owen Sound. Tonight we are together again. Jeff is looking refreshed and eager to resume driving support, and all twelve of us are back on our bikes.

Phoned Lynn after supper. Really missed talking to her last night what with the phone again located at the farthest end of that big park's gravelled road. Being lonesome all day, and night, is the single biggest downside to this trip. She, too, is lonesome. Otherwise all continues to be well in Edmonton.

Annette is just buzzing tonight and who can blame her. Tomorrow they will be in their own home. With 11 more of us to accommodate they have elaborate plans in place to make us comfortable. Everyone is looking forward to it, and of course the day of rest. I know that in the morning she and Ken will be up even earlier than usual. While in Ottawa Bob is eager to have Ken's highly-rated mechanic look at his bike. He's well aware that the headset is still "frozen" in place. The time is approaching when he will again have to turn it sideways for plane transit. I've considered getting the mechanic to look at my bottom-bracket while we are in Ottawa but the past couple of days it seems to have quieted itself. If anything was wrong the really big hills we recently crossed should have aggravated the problem. But I no longer hear anything. Still a bit undecided about this but I suspect that I'll pass on the offer.

Tomorrow will be Ray's last day of riding with us. He departs for home the day following. We'll miss him.

Camped In a Garden

August 12 was warm, dry and sunny—our 47^th day on the road. My start was early but Ken and Annette's even earlier departure woke me long before I was ready to get out of my sleeping bag.

Leaving the campsite by myself I caught Randy and Patti shortly after returning to the pavement on Hwy 12, at the top of the gravelled hill. The three of us entered Westport together. Very shortly after crossing a bridge in the centre of town we saw what could only be the infamous hill rising ahead of us and disappearing upwards around a corner. Holding my cadence steady, when the grade began I pulled ahead of my companions. Perhaps a quarter-of-a-mile into the hill it steepened and turned sharply right. Still seated but working hard, I was approaching my power limit. I clicked up two gears, stood up, and had little difficulty reaching the crest some 200 yards farther. I slowed for the other two who also made it with little difficulty. "Not too bad," we agreed. "Steep, but short enough to be do-able." We later learned Annette, too, had climbed it successfully, bettering her three previous endeavours. Obviously we were all fitter and stronger than during any previous cycling season.

Staying with Randy and Patti for a few more minutes I then struck out alone, keeping up a good pace for many miles. Soon I spotted a couple of cyclists ahead and slowly closed the intervening distance but never did catch them. They obviously turned off at some point, but I did stop to chat with a couple of old-timers (about my age) who were cycle-touring in the other direction. Yes, they had crossed paths with two cyclists going my way, perhaps 45 or 50 minutes before. Wow, Ken and Annette were flying! That would put them nearly two hours ahead of me. I rode steadily onward, reaching Nepean and their house about 1230 hrs. Ken and Annette told me they'd left camp at 0630, ridden virtually non-stop and were in their home by 1140. Both had showered, changed, and were busy with kitchen things by the time I got there. Asking where to pitch my tent I was shown to their backyard. Entering it, I took a minute to admire its simple beauty. Here and there flower gardens bloomed, scattered amongst shrubs, apple trees and a vegetable garden. Uniting it all was a deep, lush lawn, upon which I found an out-of-the-way spot for my tent. Ultimately four of us slept outside; the others opted for inside.

As soon as I was ready for a shower Ken directed me to a friend's home across the street. They were expecting me. Others were also "farmed-out" to various neighbours. (Ken worried that his septic system might have difficulty handling 13 closely-spaced showers.) Before long everyone was in, showered and ready for supper. A guided tour of their home followed—it was a truly fine house. Their many renovations had created a wonderful den, a huge bathtub/spa area and a full dining room. We would be living in luxury for the next day and a half!

It was really our team's cooking day but Annette "helped" us. She had T-bones ready for the patio Bar-B-Q, preceded by a delicious seafood appetizer. Ample red and white wine for all. Annette allowed Patti to prepare a fantastic cheesecake, Patti having phoned home since her arrival in Nepean to get the recipe. What a feast!

Following supper Albert set up a projector and showed the Vancouver-to-Tobermory portion of the trip from his perspective. We greatly appreciated the hasty and timely development of his slides. He has a good eye and captured many interesting and unusual highlights missed by most of us. We shared some good laughs while recalling places and events, and thanked him for his efforts.

The Market Square in downtown Ottawa was to be the scene of Ray's send-off party, but that was about the full extent of the plans. From the whole group, only Bob, Jeff and I attended, alas. Where is the team spirit? Ken drove us down and we prowled around observing the busy streets and odd people. A jazz band held our attention for a while, we had a beer in Ottawa's Hardrock Cafe, but mostly we just walked and looked. Market Square on this night failed to live up to its frenzied reputation and was a pretty quiet scene, we thought. A toast to Ray, then we took a cab home.

First Down, Eleven To Go

Annette was up before dawn and a super omelette awaited each of us when we arrived in the kitchen. I was stirring about 0630 hrs and had eaten by 0730. Today everyone hopes to relax and simply enjoy life. Still, there are routine tasks to do and with 13 people there are several agendas. The first order of business was to get Ray to the airport around 0900 hrs. Bob and Ken want to get their bikes serviced before the mechanic goes to work. Dirty clothes plague everyone so a laundromat needs visiting and the van needs servicing by a Ryder representative. Fitting everything together requires some careful planning.

To save time and mileage we loaded Ken and Bob's bikes on the van, to be dropped at Ken's mechanic's home when returning from the airport. A complete check-over for Ken's bike, and Bob's will be tuned-up and the handlebars loosened. Bob will accompany the van and stay with his bike during repairs.

Handshakes and goodbye's from everyone and by 0800 Ray was away. On board the van were Jeff, Bob, Ray, Ray's bike and the two bikes for servicing.

A shocking scene awaited their arrival at the airport. Opening the van's rear door they discovered that all the shelves on one side had fallen across the centre aisle and were now leaning drunkenly against their counterparts. Jeff had forgotten to secure a steel spacing and support bar. The three bikes were standing serenely untouched in the narrow, triangular space between and beneath the dislodged compartments. What luck. The heavy wooden structures would have certainly damaged them. However, they didn't get off Scott-free. All the shelves' contents had spilled onto the floor and surrounded the bikes. The most glaring upset of all was the sloppy mess created by the spilling of a huge ketchup container. The blood-red sludge obliterated some things and dripped from others. A lake of the stuff oozed on the floor. A real ugly scene. Nevertheless, finding the bicycles undamaged made them momentarily forget the splattered mess. Ray and his bike got on the plane and Jeff had help cleaning the van on his return to Ken's.

As planned, on their return trip Bob stayed at the mechanic's where Ken later joined him to fetch the bikes home.

Ken, meanwhile, was busily ferrying many of us to a nearby laundromat. Passing a different mall on the return trip I noticed a bike shop and on impulse had Ken stop at it. Great luck—they had the correct cleats for my cycling shoes. Once back at Ken's I found a quiet spot on the sunny deck and set about replacing the one that had been slipping. Carefully I traced the outline of the existing cleat with a pen, removed it and mounted the new one in its place. It lined-up easily and I tightened it down. Tomorrow, hopefully, my shoe will hold tightly and the "squawk" will be history.

Jeff, meanwhile, had contacted the Ryder company hoping to have their Mobile Unit service the van where it was, but no luck. He had to take it across town to their service centre. James went with him for the company and to see the city.

Taking advantage of the luxuries of a home I stepped on the scales, weighing myself for the first time since mid-June. I learned I had lost over 10 pounds—all of it fat. Patti had been telling me I was losing weight, as had Lynn and my sisters as we passed through Saskatchewan, but 10 pounds seemed like quite a bit. It turned out that nearly everyone had lost about the same, all except Marny who had gained weight and was overjoyed about it. She so much wanted to add muscle-mass to her legs and it seemed to be happening.

Shortly after lunch I accepted an offer made by another friendly neighbour. His swimming pool was next door and he welcomed us to use it. Annette cleared the way with a phone call and I wandered over. The water was refreshing on this hot, humid day and I splashed around, sun-tanned and cheerfully accepted a cool beer brought on deck by my host. Very interested in our trip, he questioned me regarding our daily routine, home town, distance per day, etc. Not wanting to overstay my welcome I declined a second beer, thanked him for his hospitality and returned to Ken's.

After the swim I browsed through a Robert Bateman book in Annette's den and read a long and short version of Tour du Canada 1992 by a former rider, John Gaskill. The many similarities were interesting, but even more so were the differences between their route and ours. I was much happier with our route. In my opinion, each revision of the trip makes it better. Jeff returned with a video, Heat, and several of us started watching it. Much longer than most movies, we had to put it on hold during supper.

Returning from the mechanic's house Bob was exceedingly happy that his headset was back to normal. He recounted the hours of work and various tricks that the mechanic had used trying to break it free from its "frozen" position. (Dissimilar metals will corrode together if left in contact with each other too long, as happened here.) The mechanic had also done a thorough tune-up on both bikes and they were ready to go. Later that evening, while telling me how hard the mechanic had worked to repair his bike, Bob bragged about how little it had cost. Bicycle shops charge upwards of $40.00/hr, and this fellow had worked hard for at least three hours. He humbly suggested $40.00 in payment. Bob gave it to him, then remarked that he wouldn't be able to pay for his supper that night. (At Ken's?) When the mechanic offered to return $10.00 of the payment, Bob took it! (Ken recounted this humiliating incident to one or two others. Annette, too, felt awful about subjecting their friend to such treatment.)

Having just done my regular maintenance three days earlier, today I simply dusted my bike off and called it quits. The bottom-bracket noise was nothing, I'd decided. Now hearing Bob rave about this excellent mechanic gave me second thoughts and made me wish I had taken it to him. Suddenly I realized that I'd overlooked a long-standing right-hand shift-lever problem. The lever had been working less than perfectly ever since the prairies, acting less like an indexed shifter and more like a manual one. i.e. After making each downshift (that is, pulling it one or more clicks towards the rear) I now needed to nudge it slightly forward. A week or two ago I'd decided that it was simply wearing out. Still, I wondered if refurbishing it was possible. Ken's mechanic could have done it if at all possible but I'd missed my chance. Rats! (I lived with this minor inconvenience for the trip's duration, replacing the shift mechanism once back home.)

Annette didn't have a terrific day. Her stove quit while preparing chicken for supper—none of the four burners would work. When resetting the circuit breakers didn't fix the problem we left the repairs for someone else at a future time. Then she dropped their portable phone and it too quit working. (At her request I took a look at it and fixed it.) But she worked around it all, doing up the chicken in an electric frying pan and we enjoyed another delicious meal.

Tomorrow's route map, drawn from previous tours that had stayed at Carleton University, shows 163 kilometres to Hudson, P.Q. Ken figures that starting from his place will reduce the total distance by some 10 klicks. Sounds good to us. He will guide us across the city and assures us there will be very little "big-city" traffic. It looks like a good day ahead. One more day of riding in Ontario, then we enter Quebec. Only four days to our next rest stop in Quebec City, with the bright lights of Montreal to negotiate along the way.

The highlight-filled adventure continues..