The Mother of All Hills

James has been very introspective lately and spending considerable time on the phone. He and I are riding together this morning, enjoying the descent down the lush and green Matapedia River Valley. The weather, however, remains overcast, misty and humid. James reflects that he misses Jackie. I tend to think his quietness is mostly loneliness, or a sort of homesickness. Since leaving the Toronto area, when he enjoyed Jackie's company for those few days, James seems to have lost some of his zest and intensity. For now we chat about other things, mostly bicycles and riding technique. He is now spinning above 90 rpm as his normal riding pattern and feels he has become a much more accomplished cyclist during this trip. I concur. James has also grown up a whole bunch, which I don't mention. I become somewhat confused trying to relate the highway signs to our map at the Matapedia River crossing, but after a brief side-trip into a small town (read "lost") we get back on track.

Crossing the provincial border this morning marked a couple of big milestones: simultaneously entering our seventh province and our fifth time zone. James duplicated my victory ride as we crossed the border, raising his arms upwards in a victory V.

A very quiet but hilly back road led us to Campbellton, New Brunswick. Here we stopped for lunch, eating our usual PB sandwiches, then getting back into the saddle for the afternoon ride. During lunch the weather changed for the better, the sun came out and the temperature climbed into the low 20's. Again today, though, the headwind continued. We noted a subtle difference in the appearance of homes, shops, etc. in New Brunswick. We also discovered that while French was still the language of choice everyone easily switched into nearly faultless English to converse with us. Entering the town of Dalhousie a detour interrupted our route, directing us down a slight hill to the Bay of Chaleur's shore. After riding for a few blocks along the water's edge we turned inland. Confronting us was a WALL. This was a total and unexpected surprise! The road appeared to go straight up, and for much too great a distance. This was, without doubt, the steepest long-hill I had ever looked at from the saddle of a bicycle. Turning to James I said "I'm gone," and picked up my pace to attack this thing. Mentally assessing the hill, I knew I would need to stand for much of it. I guessed the visible crest to be 700 metres away; the hill must have been at least a 15% grade. I wasn't long in deciding that it wouldn't be worth the extra effort to remain seated for even the first bit of the climb. Seeing a semi-trailer forced to come to a full stop midway up the hill and shift into its lowest gear before continuing to crawl upwards didn't boost my confidence any.

With a game plan in my head I shifted to my second-lowest gear on the middle chainring, a 38 x 23 combination, as the road went vertical. When standing on the pedals in this gear I had always been able to climb anything—optimistically I started out to do it again. Initially I was climbing OK, rocking back and forth, keeping up a good rhythm and fair enough speed. But it was a long way. The top was still away up there and my legs were letting me know they had limits. Of course I was huffing, puffing and panting like an old steam engine but I was truly confident of my fitness. There was still room to slow the pace if I became desperately out of breath. However, this was taking longer than anticipated and by now my quads were on fire. Something had to change or Don wasn't going to climb this sucker.

Knowing I had one lower gear (38 x 26) I could shift to and still avoid using Granny-gears I mentally rehearsed how to make the shift. Only one chance would be possible. If I messed it up I would immediately slow to a stop, be totally unable to keep pedalling or change gears, and with my feet clipped into the pedals I'd fall over. Accepting this as a very likely possibility I went over the sequence in my head: sit down, push the shift lever on the down-tube one click down while at the same time easing power to the pedals. Allow the chain to move over. Then, when the chain has locked in, stand-up and recover speed and power. OK… Go! Sit. Shift. Stand-up and pedal.

Yea! I made it and I'm still moving at a fair speed. Now just pedal to the top. By now I was about ¾ of the way up. There was enough strength in my legs to climb this percentage of grade, I knew, but I was definitely tiring and my thighs were screaming at me to quit. The thought of quitting and just walking the remainder even crossed my mind. But then "no Granny-gears "and "ride every inch of the way " burned into my mind, and I kept grinding upward. On steep grades, accompanying every downward leg-stroke occurs a strong, opposing upward pull by the same-side arm, adding significant power to the stroke. For the first time that I can ever remember now even my arms were starting to tire. Then the crest was only 50 feet away. I knew I could do it. Grunt, grunt. Pant, pant. Over the top, and Yahoo! — I was up! The hill continued at a much more moderate grade for an additional 100 metres or so but I was now able to sit and recover and simply enjoy the victorious feeling of beating this hill.

That was the steepest hill I ever hope to encounter. It took me to the very limit of my ability. The hill totally winded me, my legs were weak and burning, and both arms were sore and tired by the time it ended. But boy, did my brain feel good! Just a question of mind over matter, I thought. Like I used to say when walking The Four Days of Nijmegen — my brain didn't mind and my legs didn't matter.

A major intersection loomed. A gravel truck entering from a service station cut me off, leaving me no option but to dodge behind him onto the station's concrete parking lot. No matter, I was feeling so high from making the climb that I didn't even resent his dumb driving. I just rode around behind him and carried on.

The road twisted and turned upwards for perhaps another kilometre but I was flying now. Knowing that James would be away back and still battling the hill I just motored onwards for about half-an-hour before stopping for a snack. My high didn't last. The final 50 klicks into camp were a real grind. I stopped about 35 kms out and stuffed in six fig bars which picked me up enough to make it to the campground. The day's total was 175 hilly kilometres.

In camp everyone talked about the hill and we concluded that the detour likely put us on a hill not previously encountered by TDC. There were no warnings of it from any previous TDC riders and something like that would have become legend if it was a known quantity. Dalhousie will always live in my memory as The Big Hill Town.

Patti's leg has become so sore that she is considering sitting out tomorrow. She, too, has ridden every inch so far and I know she really wants to do it all, so spending a day in the van will be a major disappointment to her. She never complains about anything so I know there must be real pain for her to consider not riding.

We had a couple of treats for supper tonight. Somehow I beat Jeff to the park. When he arrived I jumped in beside him on his quest for a donut shop and a bakery. He was searching for an ice-cream cake for Ken and Annette as our farewell to them, and also for donuts that they had asked him to buy for us as their farewell gesture. Not wishing to offend anyone, Jeff got both. Of course there were no complaints as we consumed them. Our final days of cycling will not be as enjoyable without Ken and Annette — they are great people and excellent bike riders.

Just as we finished eating supper, a stranger rode in. Ascertaining that we were the current Tour du Canada crew Mark Lewiecki told us he was aspiring to ride the Tour next year, 1997. He lived close to the campsite and worked in the National Park nearby. Totally bubbling with enthusiasm, Mark asked how we were enjoying our adventure, and Tour du Canada as a whole. Paddy immediately put a damper on everything by saying "Buy four panniers and ride it by yourself!" After a few seconds of pregnant silence Mark asked why, and was told by Paddy that he would "just have a lot more fun." (My instant reaction was that if Paddy was so miserable on this trip why didn't she just quit and go home? I knew she wasn't talking to me but I now realized she actually must not be getting along very well with anyone.) We got the young man seated and in a rush of our own the rest of us enthused about how much fun we were having and how great the overall trip seemed to us. He later spoke to some of us individually and I'm fairly sure he left with a good impression, rather than Paddy's impression. I hope so. As far as I could see, 10 of the 12 of us were finding the Tour meeting all our expectations. Even Bob basically enjoyed the riding and the people, disappointed only with the frugality necessitated by the tight budget.(NOTE: Mark completed TDC in 1997).

Jeff has been trying desperately the past couple of nights to contact the tour director concerning our ferry crossing to Newfoundland. It seems that no campsite arrangement is in place on the Newfie side. Darkness will have fallen when we dock at 2130 hrs, so no matter what, conditions will be difficult for cyclists. In years past the Tour stayed at an American Naval Base in Argentia, about a five kilometre ride from the dock. This deserted facility is no longer available. Bud seems to be floundering desperately about setting up an alternative. We are confident he will provide something but as a precaution I mention to Jeff that, if all else fails, a service buddy of mine lives very close to the dock. Jeff says thanks but he doesn't think he'll need help.

I still don't know whether my nephew Mark Witt and his wife Marilyn are meeting me tomorrow night. Just wait and see, I guess.

One more long day tomorrow, then a much needed rest day. Weak and out-of-sorts, I'm just kind of dragging myself around and doing whatever is necessary. I still don't consider myself sick but I'm not perfectly healthy either. It must be this perpetual Maritime fog, humidity and rain we've had since hitting Gaspé. Hey, it could be.

And Then There Were Eight

Knowing that Annette and Ken are being driven to Moncton today, and unsure of timings and distances, most of us pack clothing and shower things into our sleeping bag stuff-sacks. Patti has decided her leg may not make it if she continues to ride. She will rest it for at least one day and hope it will recover enough so she can resume riding. Consequently, for a while this morning Patti, Ken and Annette all cram into the truck's cab sharing Jeff's space. Jeff drops Patti and all the tents off at the campsite in Saint-Louis-de-Kent before continuing to Moncton's airport with Ken and Annette. Having 150 kms to ride today everyone should reach camp around the same time, we think.

With just eight of us now cycling it seems like no time until Randy and me are ahead of everyone. We are progressing well but again today we're fighting a slight headwind. Paddy waved us by where she and Christine had stopped to repair a flat, with Christine looking to be doing most of the work on Paddy's wheel. The humidity, too, is high again, but the day is warm and we encounter no rain. Randy is riding strongly, only falling back on a couple of big, long hills and by day's end he is taking strong pulls at the front. I find that I am struggling to keep with him. Nearly out of water, eventually we find a well in a closed picnic site. In my impatience I tried drinking the well water too soon and got a mouthful of iron rust. Randy pumped until the water ran clear and then it tasted fine.

No sooner are we back onto the highway when Randy begins to cough, splutter and gasp for breath. Between gulps of air he chokes out something about swallowing a bug. This seems absolutely hilarious to me and I laugh and laugh. Poor Randy is having a terrible time and slows to almost a crawl, still coughing and even attempting to upchuck. This seems even funnier to me. By now I'm into nearly uncontrollable laughter. Randy stops on the shoulder and doubles over. He's trying desperately to throw-up. To no avail. Still sputtering and coughing, he tells me he can actually feel and hear the bug buzzing in his throat. Off I go into more laughter. Randy continues to struggle with his bug. Even knowing this really isn't funny I continue to laugh, almost hysterically. Finally he gets the bug washed down with some water. I stop laughing and we continue to ride. I felt guilty about laughing at his plight but honestly couldn't help myself. Perhaps I was simply glad it wasn't me. It just seemed hilarious for him to actually inhale a bug.

We rode into the campsite and found Patti all alone and cleaning her bike. Supper preparations are well underway. It's our turn again, but no problem at all because today, unfortunately for her, Patti has more time than she wants.

Randy and I had just set up our tents when the rain began. Like the other day, we'd kept dry but all the others rode for quite a while in the rain. With nobody else yet in camp and having some free time I took my bike under the cooking-area pop-up tent, out of the rain, for cleaning. While wiping it down I noticed that the small hole in the front tire's casing was now 5 mm long. This worried me. A rupture while I'm riding might prove beyond my repair, guaranteeing a late arrival into camp. By Murphy's Law that would be the night relatives come to meet me. Then I would be angry with myself for persisting with the cut tire. I resolved to replace it with my spare in the morning. By 1700 hrs I had all my dirty clothes washed and dried in the camp laundromat. Now if Mark does come I have most of my chores finished. When I phoned him about 2000 tonight I learned that they will be driving up tomorrow. Good, we can spend much of the day together and have a good visit.

We are camping in Parc Daigle, about 2 kms outside the town of Saint-Louis-de-Kent and about 5 kms from the entrance to Kouchibouguac National Park. These distances mean that if we are to visit either place tomorrow we must pedal to them, which means another day off with no place to go. For some reason, cycling on off-days is an option seldom considered by any of us.

Discussing the next few days' activities with Jeff during the evening we learn there will be two options on the Newfie side of the crossing. The first is to stay right at dockside on the ferry-terminal building's grassy lawn. Whenever the building is open there are washrooms available, but no showers. The bad news is the building isn't open from midnight until 0600 hrs. The second option is to ride in the darkness some 15-20 klicks to a campground having absolutely no facilities. A couple of the women find both options "unacceptable" and grumble loudly. When I have Jeff to one side I tell him I'll phone my friend Hank Patterson, in Dunnville, Nfld. to see if he has any contacts with the people still remaining at Argentia. Maybe he can suggest other options. Hank isn't home when I phone but his wife, Sharon, tells me that the Americans have gone and Argentia is a ghost town. She immediately suggests we stay at their place. Thanking her for the offer but uncertain what we'll do, I tell her I'll get back to her one way or the other once the entire group has a chance to talk everything over. Sharon assures me that staying at their place would be no problem. They have a large yard to camp in, and much floor space if anyone might prefer to sleep inside. "It has been known to rain on occasion in Newfoundland, Don," she says with a smile that is visible right through the phone line. Jeff thanks me for the help and says he will be talking to Bud again tonight.

Covering over 500 kilometres during the past three days, this becomes the greatest distance ridden during any 72 hour segment of the trip. And into a headwind every day as well. I am really feeling exhausted, but I'm not alone. Everyone else is, too. Tomorrow's day of rest will be very good for us.

About 2200 hrs I phoned home, knowing that today was a big day in Edmonton. Lynn's brother got married, with the ceremony and reception taking place in their backyard. All had gone well, the weather had cooperated and the day was a big success. By the light of the van's interior bulb I wrote up my diary. Afterwards, with the light off to keep the bugs down, Jeff and I quietly enjoyed a beer on the tailgate. Jeff then went off to make a phone call and I called it quits for the day.

Mark of Excellence

Overnight we had a huge thunder and lightning storm. Unable to sleep any longer I got up just after 0700 hrs. It had really poured in the wee hours and a mini-lake had formed beside Randy's tent, growing to within a few inches of the tent's side. Luckily, they hadn't camped right in the middle of the unnoticed depression, sparing them from a really wet night. My little tent never leaked a drop but the heavy humidity did cause a large condensation build-up on the inside. The sleeping bag and mattress dried quickly in the open air once the sun came out. I changed chains again—for the final time I realized with relief — and put my new, spare tire on the front wheel. I kept the old one "just in case."

Yesterday, of necessity, Ken packed his tent away while it was still soaked with dew and condensation. Knowing that the dampness would ruin it, he asked me to air it out it when I had a chance. I readily agreed to do so. With breakfast finished, I spread it out to dry, then packed it away awaiting their reception on its return to Ontario.

Just after 1300 hrs Mark and Marilyn drove in, bringing their children, Alyshia Ruth and Luke Gordon, with them. The kids had sure grown since I saw them several years ago. This was a great chance for us to become reacquainted. Showing them around our setup, I made introductions as we went. A day at the National Park sounded like fun, especially since none of us had ever been there. Kouchibouguac is a most interesting park, with miles of sandy beaches.

A big sand dune parallels the shoreline, providing a barricade from the sea. Between the dune and the shoreline proper is a long, shallow lagoon where birds of many kinds abound, as do many plant varieties. We walked along the shoreline for a while, dodging the bathers, with Mark and Luke finding many natural treasures close to, in and under the water. Leaving the beach I treated all of us to some ice cream, then we drove into St-Louis-de-Kent to find supper. My visitors treated me to a feed of delicious fresh scallops; we can't get them even half this fresh in Edmonton.

On their arrival in camp this morning Mark donated two or three cartons of fruit bars, wondering if we would have any use for them. I think they lasted two days. Three days, max. Each of us packed several on our bikes for snacks as long as they lasted, and they were a real nice treat from the accustomed fare of GORP and fruit. Thanks, Mark.

While we were in town the others ate at a restaurant near the campsite, recommended by the campground manager. He drove them to it and agreed to retrieve them when they finished. All they had to do was phone. People everywhere treated us so well!

Over supper, discussions raged regarding the campsite options in Newfie. It seems that Jeff took some of the remarks against Bud personally because Jeff feels he is responsible for decisions made on-the-go. Both of the co-ordinator's options were not good enough for Marny so Jeff later asked me to confirm with Hank that we could stay with them.

I phoned, Hank answered this time, and he was totally open to having us. Another bit of serendipity—their daughter, Bride, and her family will be leaving the Island on the same boat we arrive on, having visited with Hank and Sharon for two or three weeks. Hank was already planning to drive them to the ferry that night and will consequently be there to meet and escort us right back to his home. He even offered to bring a utility trailer for our bikes, because, as he said, it will likely be raining and for sure it will be dark. I thanked him for the offer but told him that there were at least two of us who would be riding in almost any circumstance.

Later I passed on to Jeff that all plans were in place to stay at their home. Marny was happier and I think it relieved Jeff knowing that acceptable arrangements were in place. Personally, I thought it was a big to-do about nothing—we had all used the wide-open spaces for a bathroom on countless occasions all the way across Canada. Marny included, James later told me. What would one night from midnight to 0600 hrs really matter? But Marny had her principles too, and felt there must be proper arrangements at all locations.

The only other worry is that no ferry bookings to Newfoundland are in place. Again Jeff will have to get there early and take his chances in the wait-and-hope line-up. It would be really terrific if the van didn't get over — a most interesting day indeed! However, that is still days away and we have every confidence it will work out.

Tomorrow, my sister Ruth and her husband Ron are planning to meet me at Murray Corner. We camp at spots closer to Halifax than Murray Corner but tomorrow is Sunday and a day off for Ron.

One week from today the trip ends. We still have around 700 kilometres to traverse, and three more provinces to experience. The days are now really passing quickly for me. Lots of visitors, but also there is so much new each day: the Maritime scenery and its different flora; the mannerisms and accents of the people; and their down home way of life. The ride spends too little time in the Maritimes in my opinion, but I really don't have a suggestion to include more of this area without extending the trip farther on into September. Unfortunately, a later finishing date would only further limit the number of those having enough time for the trip.

Lobster for Lunch

It is our 60th day since leaving Vancouver — a relatively short one with only 131 kilometres to pedal. (Boy, we do have a distorted view of the world when 130 kms of cycling seems like a short day.) Patti's leg felt better so she was going to ride and see how it went. I set off alone, being keen to reach camp early in order to enjoy as much time with Ruth and Ron as possible. We were following Highway 134, a secondary road adjacent to the major route of Highway 11. Traffic was reasonable and courteous. Despite a slight headwind, the morning was very enjoyable — the sun was shining and the mist gone.

Riding along, I overtook Albert around 1000 hrs. It dawned on me that this was Sunday and he was likely looking for a church to attend. I passed one or two churches just as I entered the town of Shediac and speculated that he would probably choose one of them.

Slowing for a look, I turned in and learned the town was staging their annual Duck Races for the United Way campaign. A local country-music station was broadcasting live from the site. Walking my bike onto the giant lobster's gravel-pad, I mingled with the crowd. The timing was right for lunch and this seemed like a perfect opportunity. While eating I watched a line-dance demonstration taking place on their waterfront stage. As I munched away on my PB sandwiches, fellow spectators questioned me regarding my bicycle trip. How far was I going? Where did I start? Etc. My seven-week journey from Vancouver to Shediac seemed most enthralling to them. Looking about, I saw a cyclist approaching on the highway, recognized him as Albert and waved madly to get his attention. No luck, but he, too, noticed the lobster monument and stopped on the road's edge for a photograph. Hastily I scrambled onto one of the large rocks encircling the base and waved at him, but he still didn't notice me. I smiled to myself, knowing the surprise awaiting him when he eventually viewed his slides and observed a person in the crowd waving at him. I wonder if he'll recognize me? Shortly thereafter the road beckoned and I too rode away, not waiting around to learn if my duck won the race.

By 1300 hrs the cycling seemed very difficult. My pace was slower than normal and I didn't have any power or strength in my legs. Knowing that my sister (Ruth Witt) would likely be travelling this same stretch of highway, the closer I got to the campsite the closer I scrutinized each passing auto for a Nova Scotia licence plate. Then I noticed a car parked on the opposite side. A lady scurried out of the passenger side and peered at me through a camera viewfinder. Ruth! She waved at me to keep riding, taking a photo or two as I pedalled by. They leapfrogged passed me in their car and at the next turnout they were waiting again. Ron now had the camera, and I nearly ran him over. Attempting a "both-hands-held-high" victory salute, I almost lost control as I reached him. After handshakes and hugs I continued riding. They continued leapfrogging me and taking pictures until we reached the campsite. Again Jeff wasn't there. Following the camp manager's directions to one of the few cooking shelters with electricity, we waited. Tonight we were camping in the Murray Corner Provincial Park, a very clean and well-maintained facility. Numerous cooking shelters dotted its huge grassy area. The view from here, looking out across the Northumberland Strait, was really gorgeous.

While talking and catching up on the past couple of year's news we strolled up and over a huge grassy hill. There in the distance was the new inter-provincial bridge stretching out from Prince Edward Island. Most impressive! Oddly, only one or two spans were standing on the mainland side. A national contest was underway to determine its final name but Ron referred to it as The Fixed-Link. The words slipped so readily off his tongue that I knew this must be the customary local terminology, but it was a totally new phrase to me. Due to open in 1997, ours will be the last tour taking the ferry to the Island. While wandering back to the selected cooking shelter we became fully aware of how strongly the wind was blowing across this exposed point of land.

I was full of PB sandwiches and fruit so another two hours until supper was just normal routine for me, but as we sat around chatting I realized that Ron and Ruth were starving. They hadn't eaten lunch yet because of the uncertainty of my arrival time. When I mentioned it, Ron stressed that I was to do whatever it was that I needed to do and we would eat later. Jeff arrived, introductions made and I showed Ron and Ruth through the van. Moving my gear to an appealing flat spot I began threading the tent poles through their loops while bragging about my wonderful little tent. Ron helped me erect it. Then he helped me take it down and set it up again, this time threading the centre pole through all of the loops, including the one that I had missed the first time. The whole tent, inside and out, was still soaking wet from last night's condensation. While I showered, Ruth took photos of Ron holding the fly outstretched to dry in the wind. Ron's patience was remarkable that afternoon. He waited without complaint until I finished all my chores, then drove us to a fantastic restaurant in Shediac. And treated me to supper!

I was really enjoying Maritime cuisine — restaurant meals two nights in a row. Halibut this time. So fresh and delicious. The shortage of cod was very apparent — not even listed on the menu after being the region's mainstay for countless years.

We returned to the campsite around 1900 hrs, and after meeting the remainder of my fellow cyclists Ruth and Ron departed for Halifax. I would be seeing them again in less than a week, in Halifax. Plans were in place for staying with them for a day or two while en route home from St. John's. They left me with good news — their daughter Dawn (D'Arcy), husband Derek, and their family hoped to visit our campsite at Lower Barney's River in Nova Scotia. We camp there two days from now. Hopefully they make it. Having all these visits makes me feel very special.

Catching up on the other's activities I learned Patti had ridden all day; her knee was sore but okay. James had slept in, then travelled in the van for the first 100 kms, no explanation given. He has been poring over the map, asking about airports, and seems very homesick and not interested in riding much farther. Tonight he announced that he isn't going to Newfoundland.

The wind had increased to gale-force level when I walked across the park in the fading daylight to become third-in-line at the phone booth. James was using it, and had been for some time. Ten feet from the booth a party of four was grumbling about the length of his call, but they weren't much quicker during their turn. Total darkness had fallen when I fought my way back through the howling wind. Pitched right in the open, my tent was standing rock-still and steady despite the huge winds blowing over it. All the other tents were against the tree line, out of the main blast and having no trouble.

I've decided, after resting all day yesterday and still not feeling up to normal levels, that yes, I am sick. But just a little. Nothing I can't handle or that will prevent me from enjoying the days to come.

Tomorrow we cross to Prince Edward Island and must be at the ferry dock around 0800 hrs. Jeff hopes to be in line somewhat earlier. Everyone is looking forward to seeing the bridge close-up, and experiencing the Island of Prince Edward firsthand. We'll have a short cycling day — not much total distance on two wheels.

The Bright Red Mud

A few minutes longer sleep-in today, perhaps until 0630 hrs, since rushing to the dock was pointless. Facing a total riding distance of only 79 kms we should be able to enjoy a nice, easy day. We stayed more or less together over the ten-or-so klicks to Cape Tormentine, and caught the 0830 ferry. This ferry was huge and obviously much more stable than the previous two little ones. Boarding the ferry first was still a thrill — I loved the privilege of riding to the queue's front, passed all the lined-up cars and trucks. Then when boarding, walking ahead of the vehicles to park my bike. (Cycling is dangerous on the slippery oil-and gas-coated steel floor) Nothing was available for securing our bikes so we just leaned them against the bulkhead.

The departure dock was two or three miles from the unfinished bridge but our ferry edged ever closer to it during the crossing. The structure's impressive height soon became apparent, and the length of each span was awesome. Again we noticed that there were two spans completed on the mainland side, then two standing independently, then fifteen or more spans linked together and extending to the Island. Ron had explained the apparent disparity. The bridge's footing on P.E.I. was at Borden, virtually at the present ferry dock. Consequently, all the approach roads were in place prior to construction. The mainland end, however, required creating a completely new approach-road network before work on the actual bridge could even begin. While docking we saw that the bridge did indeed begin immediately alongside the ferry dock. The completed bridge will be an engineering marvel that I would love to cycle across someday. Will cycling be allowed on the bridge? As of now, no. Plans call for a free truck-lift for bicycles. If there is a sidewalk, cyclists should, in my opinion, be allowed to share it. If no sidewalk?… hmmm. If there is a decent shoulder? Yes, by all means!

Confederation Bridge

Docking at Borden signified entering our eighth province. Highway 1 was the exit road from the dock but we reached our Highway 10 turnoff within a few miles. This pleasant and quiet road took us to Crapaud where we switched to Hwy 13, staying with it for some distance. Our proximity to the shore was obvious — the smell of the sea was overwhelming at times. Despite being exposed to it several times since hitting New Brunswick I still can't say I like this unique aroma. In truth I detest it. Maritime people, on the other hand, love it. Enjoying this stench must be an acquired thing, part of childhood memories like the smell of manure to a farmer.

Lynn and I enjoyed our honeymoon on P.E.I. long ago, in 1970. The Island hadn't changed very much. My memory of its bright red soil was correct. Late August is nearing the end of growing season and today the potato fields were bursting with produce. It seemed as if potatoes were growing on every square inch of land. Harvesting was underway even as we pedalled passed.

The scenery was enjoyable, but I was fighting to get up an unexpected number of hills. Randy was struggling too which made staying together easier. We were taking our time and this pace suited me just fine, but at times I was actually struggling to keep up. There were continual ups and downs—mostly short hills but usually quite steep. Again I wondered if they were really that big or was I really that tired and weak. I pedalled with Patti and Randy but we leapfrogged the others back-and-forth throughout the day.

A moment of fright swept over the three of us when an ambulance rushed passed. Its lights were flashing and siren screaming. Knowing that the other five cyclists were ahead we could only pray it wasn't going for any of them. A few miles later we came upon a car overturned in a ditch. The ambulance personnel were tending one of its occupants, so we relaxed. How or why the driver had lost control on this straight stretch in broad daylight was a big question. I guess one never knows.

Randy and Patti stopped for souvenirs just outside the entrance to P.E.I. Provincial Park, where we were staying tonight. A very friendly girl at the Park's gate directed me to our location, which was a fine site in itself but very inconvenient for a cyclist. Two or three kilometres beyond the gate I turned down a sandy road. Another two or three klicks of tough pedalling in soft sand brought me to Jeff's van. The beach was nowhere in sight. Actually, I never did see it. Reportedly it was through the woods just beyond the toilets, and was an excellent beach. I realize now that my discontent with this park was because: a) the phone booth and showers were back at the entrance gate; b) the ride there for either one seemed like too much effort for too little gain; and c) I still felt weak, tired and lethargic. I didn't call home that night and it was one of the few times I went without a shower. Undoubtedly it was a good park, but I didn't enjoy the night there.

Supper was just winding down when a man cycled in from his nearby home. Another former Tour du Canada rider, he'd learned our arrival date from the tour director. Finding just the eight of us was truly a surprise to him, and also a major disappointment. Forty-some cyclists had reached here the year he rode, obviously '92, '93 or '94. He said he was in touch with many fellow riders and still remembered the trip vividly. As it was close to dusk he didn't stay too long before departing for home.

I'm still feeling tired, but I think slightly improved. Could my problem be constipation? I think it has been three days since I last did anything. Come to think of it, I haven't really been hungry nor eaten very much lately. Not like me at all. But I think I'm a bit better. Maybe tomorrow I'll be back to normal.

Patti's knee is still sore, but she will continue to ride.

Dawn in Nova Scotia

Today we see the Cradle of Confederation, as we'll be passing through the heart of Charlottetown. After making a trip to the washroom (good news) Randy and I set off together. We were the final cyclists to leave camp, and did so under a light drizzle and shrouded in heavy mist. Patti wasn't with us. She rode the van today to rest her leg, which obviously hadn't recovered as fully as she believed it would last night.

Highway 15 to Charlottetown was a major thoroughfare, but whereas yesterday's route had crossed a range of hills today's course was nearly flat right to the city. Entering Charlottetown, one junction of odd-angled roads made us momentarily scratch our heads. Reaching a decision, we resumed riding. Within 100 metres we saw a collection of bikes leaning against a cafe's low retaining wall, and the appeal of the little nook was irresistible. Marny, Paddy and Christine were inside, already enjoying a hot drink. The hot chocolate I ordered really hit the spot. While reflecting on the sedate pace of city traffic we noticed Albert ride passed the cafe's window. Finishing up our drinks, Randy and I left ahead of the women. Obviously they were taking it easy today. And why not? There was ample time to reach the ferry terminal at Wood Islands.

Zigging and zagging our way across the city, a few blocks later Randy and I stopped for a red light at a T-intersection. Facing us was the Prince Edward Island Parliament building. Albert was stationary at the curb, camera in hand, straddling his bike. "This is where it all began," he said, his voice filled with awe and reverence as he referred to Canada's inception as a nation in 1867. Albert was taking pictures even as he spoke. We nodded in agreement, took a brief look and continued on our way.

We stayed on the major highway and were leisurely enjoying the pastoral countryside when Randy advised me that my back wheel was wobbling considerably. He speculated that I'd broken a spoke. Stopping to look at it, sure enough he was right. A quick estimation put us within eight kms of the ferry dock so I decided to just ride to there and try replacing the spoke during the crossing. The wheel held up fine, but the pedalling was slightly tougher because the brake pads were now rubbing the rim on each rotation. I could have released them, but forgot.

Never having suffered a broken spoke before I was anything but sure how to replace one, but fortune had smiled on me. The casualty was on the wheel's left side, not the drive-train side, which meant it was fully accessible. According to the timetable we had perhaps 45 minutes before the ferry left so I removed the wheel, deflated the tire and attempted to extract the spoke. Suddenly Randy yelled at me and proceeded onto the ferry. I shoved the wheel, flat tire and all, back onto the bike and pushed it to the ferry's bow. Removing the wheel I carried it, a spare spoke and a spoke tool to the upstairs lounge. Randy was an old hand at spoke changing. He quickly unscrewed the broken one, screwed in the new one, and tightened it to the approximate tension of its neighbours. Removing the tire had never been necessary I now realized. Returning to the vehicle-level deck I slid the wheel into its dropouts and gave it a spin. The wheel cleared the brake pads and looked to be very close to true, so I left it alone. On this deck the ship's engines deafening noise was too disconcerting to stay. Whatever adjustments might be necessary I would make after we landed.

The crossing was smooth as glass. The only event of significance was eating a terrific ice cream cone, made with Cow's Brand Ice Cream, a legendary brand in P.E.I. Good as it was, $3.75 for two scoops seemed a bit much for an ice cream cone.

We rolled off the ferry and onto Nova Scotia soil.

Randy and I continued together. My rear wheel wobbled slightly but since it now cleared the brake pads I decided to leave it until reaching the campsite. Our route occasionally took us off the secondary roads and onto some stretches of the Trans-Canada highway. We agreed that the big four-lane had its good points, mainly wide, paved shoulders and arrow straightness. However, its lack of turns dictated going directly over any hills in its path rather than circling their base as do the smaller roads. Indeed, there were a few big hills, and Randy worked hard to keep his speed up. When necessary I waited for him at the top. Suddenly Randy announced that he had just seen our van going the opposite direction, with James sitting beside Jeff. Speculating that James had packed it in and was now on his way to an airport, we continued pedalling but with a new topic of conversation.

About an hour away from the campsite we stopped for a water refill at a road-side service station, then started down a tiny sideroad leading to our destination. This little road, CR 245, was fun to ride with its many twists and turns over nicely rounded hills. Eventually we passed a sign indicating Cranberry Campground just ahead. Trees crowded the road's edge on either side and the lush undergrowth filled the lower level with greenery. It was almost eerie cycling through here. There was no sign of habitation and a campground seemed a most unlikely possibility. Do you know what I thought of? The Ozark Mountains and Deliverance. Watching closely, I noticed a sign on the opposite side of the road, almost hidden amongst the dense undergrowth. It said "Tour Du Canada" and pointed down a narrow gravel trail. Not Jeff's sign, I reflected. Likely one put out by the campground management. As I cycled along this one-lane road dodging water-filled potholes and rocks I said to myself "Bud, what the heck have you got us into this time." I was picturing emerging to a primitive, shabby mess of dilapidation, and we already were in the middle of nowhere. The trees ended and a total surprise greeted me—a most scenic location. There was a spacious grass tenting area, a waterfront beach, and a wonderful A-frame building. Inside it were four tables, a couple of sinks, a stove and a fridge. It was virtually a cottage set aside for camping groups. This was a real treasure when least expected. When questioned later regarding the sign Jeff admitted to forgetting the original on P.E.I., and painting up a new one on plywood.

Stacked onto the A-frame's porch were our tents, every apparel basket and most of the cooking supplies — everything needed until Jeff's return. Patti, here for over an hour, confirmed that James had decided to return to Toronto and was presently en route to the Halifax airport. James never said goodbye to any of us nor gave any reason for ending his trip here. But he left. Now there are only seven cyclists. Silently I wonder if anyone else would quit early.

Putting my bike on the stand I tweaked the newly replaced spoke slightly and the wheel became almost dead true. Not wanting to mess up a good thing I quit playing with it. Because it was our turn again, Patti was busily making supper and had everything well in hand. All I had to do was get comfortable. A reporter from a local paper showed up and posed Randy and me busily fussing over our bikes on the repair stand. He briefly chatted with us, took a couple more photos, and left.

The next car that pulled in was full of people I knew — my niece Dawn, Derek, and their well-behaved children, Tyler and Sari Dawn. We did the usual hellos and introductions. I had my first ever look at Sari. She's a great little girl and full of fun. She and Tyler played happily together, chasing their new puppy all over the area. After inviting me to their picnic supper, Dawn and family thoughtfully and cleverly disappeared, delaying their supper until I was ready. After a quick shower I checked with Patti that all was well, then joined my visitors at a table near the beach. If you've been eating mostly pasta for two months, varied by a steak maybe once a week only recently augmented with fish, then you likely realize that Kentucky Fried Chicken can be a true delicacy. They had brought two large buckets of it! I loved it, and ate my fill. Thanks, guys. The last time I tasted KFC was in Saskatchewan. My appetite was apparently returning, and I did feel noticeably better today I realized while chatting with them. Included in the picnic supper was a big supply of fudge brownies. I took some up to those in the A-frame, and of course they were a hit. During the afternoon Patti had cooked some muffins that she, in turn, brought down to us. Equally delicious!

Dawn and Derek took their leave shortly after supper, facing a two-hour drive and work the next day. Their special visit deserved special thanks — a four-hour round trip to share supper with me. Our time together was much too short. They promised we'd have more time together next week in Halifax at Dawn's parents' home.

Together with us in the campsite that night were two German guys, travelling on fully-loaded mountain bikes. They joined our group for supper in the A-frame, chatting and comparing experiences. Jeff and several others sat with them around a campfire until perhaps midnight, but I didn't join them.

Somewhere out on P.E.I. today I crossed the 7,000 kilometre point. Nova Scotia becomes our ninth Province. The total trip distance, predicted at 7,200 kilometres, was going to end up being closer to 7,500 for me, what with the many side trips, laundry trips, etc. About 500 more to go, at any rate.

Tomorrow will be a fairly long day, a scheduled 146 kms that will take us across the Canso Causeway and onto Cape Breton Island. As always, I fall to sleep immediately upon lying down.

Not Up To Par

For the second day in a row it was misty and drizzling as I rode out a few minutes behind Patti and Randy on this Wednesday, August 28. We were heading for St. Peter's, and the crossing of Canso Causeway to Cape Breton just might be an event. Soon separating from my companions I was rolling along solo over this fairly hilly road, again riding into a slight headwind. A couple of hours later the rain stopped, but it remained overcast and humid with the temperature reaching about 24º C by mid-afternoon. Holding a 22-23 kph pace seemed to be a struggle, but the hills didn't seem that big nor the wind that strong. Was this a mental letdown or a physical breakdown? In any case, soon this secondary road merged with four-lane Highway 104 and the causeway came into view. As I dropped to sea-level I had some anxious minutes. Directly in front of me was an enormous hill, with the road going directly towards it. This was going to be a horrible climb, I was thinking. But no. Right at the base of this mountain of bare rock the road turned away from it and the causeway stretched before me.

I don't know the exact length of this causeway, but it's substantial. Somewhere between three and five kilometres I'm sure. During heavy-traffic conditions this would be a nerve-wracking stretch of road, but for me it was fine. The metre-wide paved shoulder was full of debris but I was only on it once, when being passed by a big truck. A short, steep climb away from the water introduced me to Cape Breton Island. At the hill's summit I pulled over, stopping for some postcards at a tourist junkshop. I noticed Jeff's van parked outside a fast food joint across the highway.

From there to the campground I enjoyed the maritime scenery. Staying close to the water, the road provided an occasional view of Canso Sound. And all too often, that pungent smell of the sea. A busy highway, but traffic was friendly and no incidents occurred. As indicated on today's map, just before the RV Campground in St. Peter's a steel-decked swing-bridge waited to claim an unwary cyclist. The steel would be slippery from the moisture-laden air. Traffic had stopped when I got there and the bridge was open to allow a small boat to pass. On the eventual green light I had no difficulty navigating the steel decking, sandwiched as I was between two very slow-moving cars.

This campsite was one of the poorest we encountered. It was a mishmash of RVs, trailers, and a tenting area. The mini-golf course was a shambles. In fact it was "Closed for Repairs." Strictly controlled by the motel's desk-clerk, entrance to the showers cost $1.00 each. They were of a barely "acceptable" standard. Nowhere previously had a shower been over 25¢. Impressed I was not. A sign at the entrance boasted of this campsite winning an award two years previously for being the best on Cape Breton. There must have been a tornado or something since then because the entire complex was substandard, certainly away below par.

I am no longer attacking the hills as I did in Ontario—no drive, no power, no zest. Talks during the evening reveal that everyone is finding the riding difficult these days and we all agree to be glad the trip's end is near. Perhaps it's mental. If we knew the trip lasted another month would we be still full of energy and charging up the hills? Whatever, I think that 66 days is about the perfect length for this ride. While it means the end of cycling across Canada, most of us are ready to reach St. John's and the finishing point.

My wheel stayed good and true all day and aside from the annoying manner in which my rear shift-lever functions my Cannondale touring bike is still working like a champion. But, like late-night driving over an isolated highway, every little noise now seems amplified, horrible and filled with impending doom. I trust to luck that nothing will break during these final few days.

Tonight's handout is the final page of maps, and the Newfoundland section comprises two-thirds of it. Signal Hill, overlooking St. John's harbour, is in sight! However, we must first cross Cape Breton. Since putting the hills of Northern Ontario behind us, others and myself figured that perhaps only here would we encounter similar major-sized hills. No matter, we're ready for anything and impatient to reach Little Bras d'Or tomorrow knowing that the Newfoundland ferry awaits us there. We all expect Newfoundland to be hilly but that will be the final day. Nothing will dampen our spirits on that day! Map (of Newfoundland)

Somewhere in Alberta Jeff had mentioned that he was really looking forward to tossing back a beer or two in a Cape Breton pub. Alas, not tonight. Not a pub within miles. So, after downing a couple of our own brewskies beside the van, we go to bed.

We Only Have Tea

After a night of hearing raindrops periodically drumming on the tent I decided to wear tights and a rain jacket. Temperature-wise it was cool, 15º - 16º C and still raining. Randy, Patti and I left last, and we departed St. Peter's together. The hills began almost immediately; the first few were quite steep, but short. Feeling slightly chilled I realized that a steady pace would be necessary to keep myself warm in the light rain. So, reaching the next hilltop considerably ahead of my companions I waved back to them and struck out on my own. Very twisty and hilly, this road was narrow but not too busy. Something did strike me as peculiar, though. Even in this gloomy day's poor light very few cars had their headlights turned on. This recent safe-driving practice obviously hadn't caught on yet in Cape Breton. Today, cycling over this challenging terrain was enjoyable in itself, but on a clear and sunny day it must be spectacular. Frequent views are open to Bras d'Or Lake close beside the roadway.

Carrying several postcards, I was closely watching for a mailbox when passing through each town. I really wanted to mail these while still in Nova Scotia. Then, in the middle of nowhere I saw one right at the road's edge. Taken by surprise, I barely stopped in time. While mailing my cards I discovered that, stupidly, one of them lacked an address. Now I must hold on to it until this evening.

With only 110 kms to ride today we were all expecting to make camp fairly early. There was no rush. But hey, the hills today were seemingly much easier and I noticed I was having fun with them again, cranking up and over them with some power back in my legs. Whatever had weakened me appeared to have passed, and life on a bike was again excellent.

Riding along, soaked and on the edge of being chilly, thoughts of a nice big cup of hot chocolate entered my mind. I seldom sought a midmorning drink but today I could really use one. Maybe the next town? … Nope! Well, maybe the next one. The map showed it to be Big Pond, still some 30-60 minutes away. Perhaps there would be a roadside cafe before that. Not five minutes later as I rounded a curve a big billboard announcing "RITA'S TEA HOUSE — ½ Mile Ahead" greeted me. A huge feeling of joy engulfed me. It wasn't just the certainty of a hot drink, but because this was a spot I'd always longed to visit. The fact that Rita McNeil's famed Tea House was here at Big Pond, Cape Breton Island, had totally slipped my mind.

Studying it as I approached, its fine architecture and eye-pleasing shape greatly impressed me. There was a huge white veranda across the front, with broad steps leading to the centrally placed entrance doors. It looked so old-style and inviting that I'm sure few travellers can resist stopping. Once inside I felt so much like I was entering someone's home that there was a strong temptation to take my shoes off before stepping on the highly polished hardwood floor. In front of me was the spacious lobby opening to the dining room on one side and a souvenir store on the other. Between them was Rita's Hall of Fame displaying her hits, gold records and certificates of distinction. Of course her music played softly through the sound system.

As this was 0930 hrs few other customers were present, but I felt out-of-place in my wet cycling clothes. I chose an isolated table. Like the floors, the tables were hardwood, with elegant napkins beside each place setting. Old-style hardwood chairs covered with luxurious broadcloth surrounded each table. I felt so guilty about sitting on this fine fabric in my soaking wet shorts that I asked the waitress if there were other chairs available. "Go ahead. Sit down," she said. "That's what they're for." Once I was comfortable she asked what I would like. Well aware that this was a Tea House, but strongly disliking tea, I ordered a hot chocolate. "Sorry, we don't serve hot chocolate," she said. "Oh, then I'll have a coffee, please." "I'm sorry. We don't serve coffee, either." I guess my eyebrows went up or something as she added, "We serve only Rita's tea, her special blend." "Oh," I cleverly replied, "Then I'll have a pot of tea." A muffin helped it along. It tasted pretty much like any other tea, but it was hot and felt good going down.

Some 30 minutes later Albert joined me. "Marny and Paddy will be here shortly," he said. "They stopped for a break but I wasn't quite ready for one so I kept riding." He wasn't his normal happy self. In fact he was a tiny bit disgruntled. Apparently the women had tended to disregard him while the three of them were riding together. It seemed they had acted as if he wasn't there. They never waited for him at hilltops, despite his hard work to not delay them. Nor had they made any effort to talk to him or include him in their conversations. This was the only time in the entire two months that I ever saw Albert distressed or heard him voice an unkind word.

When the waitress arrived Albert ordered a cup of coffee. "We only have tea, Sir," she said. "Fine, and a hot cherry turnover to go with it," Albert replied. I couldn't resist ordering one for myself also, especially as I still had some tea left. Marny, Paddy and Christine arrived and all ordered coffee. Again, "We only serve tea," from the waitress. While they enjoyed their tea I wandered into the souvenir shop, picked out something that I hoped Lynn would like, then bundled myself up to continue riding. Patti and Randy were just arriving as I left. Rita's is a delightful spot, undoubtedly enhanced by her presence when she's there. Today she was taping a TV special in Toronto.

The rain continued. Actually, it increased in intensity. By the time I rode into the outskirts of Sydney I was in a real downpour. Cycling was difficult. The lanes were narrow; traffic was heavy; the rain was heavy. The roads were an inch deep in water and the muddy spray from passing vehicles coated my glasses, almost blinding me. I needed the acuity provided by my spectacles to pick out the road signs for my highway change but I likely could have seen better without them. I stopped occasionally to blast them with a water-bottle, thereby improving my vision likely 95% for the next few minutes. Sitting stationary at red lights in heavy traffic on unfamiliar roads in the pouring rain is not really enjoyable. Soon I was out of the mess. A quiet country road led me to North Sydney.

This little road took a few strange turns and I appreciated the fine detail of today's map. Only the various odd bends drawn on the map allayed my fear of being lost. Where the road bisected a mile-wide pond it narrowed to a single lane scarcely a foot above the water lapping each edge. There was no guard rail, no shoulder. It was a very weird feeling to ride across this tiny ribbon of land barely above than the water's surface with the rain pelting down on me. I felt like an animated version of a televised golf-match commercial in which a vehicle hovers apparently weightlessly above a pond.

Casting my mind back as I approached the outskirts of North Sydney I realized that this was the wettest weather conditions since the Hemlo goldmine day. And the terrain was likely the steepest series of short hills we had ever ridden across. Between the terrain, the rainwater, the traffic and the mud, it was a tough 100 kilometres.

A combination of poorly signed streets and a wrong choice at an intersection resulted in an unscheduled sight-seeing tour of North Sydney. I was searching for Highway 105, the road to Little Bras d'Or and the Arm of Gold Campground. Find it I did, and was again the first cyclist into camp. Odd-looking at first sight, this quaint spot was likely the finest campground we stayed in. Originally a farm, the pasture was now a grassy field. The huge barn was a classic red wooden structure, now converted to house the campground facilities. Slightly below grade, the lower level housed the showers. Wonderful showers! Huge, roomy, hot and free. Individual changing rooms. The remaining portion of the lower level was now a video arcade. Once a dance hall, the upper level was now only a storage area. I took full advantage of the park's excellent laundromat with its large propane dryers and completed my entire laundry before the last rider was even into camp.

About 1400 hrs the rain stopped. Now we could really enjoy this big open space. Marny chose a spot on the crest of a slight hill, at the roots of a huge old tree that dominated the area. Totally separated from us, some 200 metres away across the grassy field, were the motor homes and RVs.

Jeff's best chance to embark on tomorrow's ferry was to be at the terminal prior to 0600 hrs. That means everyone wakes up at 0445. We may grab some cold cereal if we wish, but mainly we are to load our tents and kit as quickly as possible so Jeff can get the van rolling. To reduce ferry costs and avoid the significant fee charged for each freewheeling bicycle Jeff will attempt to stash all the bikes in the van once he parks in the line-up.

At some point Jeff realized that staying at Hank and Sharon's has another huge advantage — no cooking will be required on Newfoundland. He arranged with the campground owner to store the cooking tables, propane tanks, Ken and Annette's bicycles and some other bulky stuff in the storage area until his return. This opened much of the van's centre aisle for bicycle space. With only seven bicycles making the crossing he is certain they will all fit.

Tonight we individually plan what we need for the next 24 hours. Cycling apparel gets first priority for me. My yellow Gore-Tex rain-suit will provide rain and wind protection. Its Scotch-Brite™ slashes fore and aft will greatly enhance my presence in the dark when cycling to and from the ferry. Ordinary (non-cycling) shorts and a T-shirt will do while on board, and will suffice under the rainsuit for the short distances we will be pedalling. My cycling shoes double as running shoes so my choice of footwear is a no-brainer. With that decided I let myself relax a bit and enjoy the pure thrill of being here.

By early evening everyone was more or less ready, sitting around chatting about today's gruelling ride and tomorrow's expectations. About 1830 hrs I helped Jeff unload the van's bulky equipment into the barn.

We learn there is a pub in town, and close enough to reach on foot. Jeff, Albert and I go for it. On the way we pass a mailbox and my final postcard is on its way. The tavern, in my opinion, is the perfect, stereotypical Cape Breton pub — everything Jeff could have hoped for. It was my exact image of what a Cape Breton pub would be like. There are four guys playing pool, a few more kibitzing with the bartender, and a table of rowdy guys having fun. The bartender's accent is so thick we can barely understand him as he takes our order. He is full of fun, carefree and polite. The beer is Schooner, a Maritime stalwart. Two of them are enough for each of us.

Back in the campground by 2230 hrs, I'm soon asleep.