Bike Touring Journals by Neil Anderson and Sharon Anderson Partners in Grime
Hang in There
"Happiness isn't good enough for me!
I demand euphoria!"
~ Calvin (Bill Watterson)I peeked out the tent door. A thick coating of frost covered the grass. Icicles clung to our tent poles. I shoved my hands into wool socks and prepared to watch the lazy sunrise as rosy morning light irradiated Percé Rock. Sharon sat up, sleeping bag bunched around her shoulders.
We gazed out into the bay. A beluga whale's white bulbous head and hump appeared. It swam around the bay in tight circles, round and round. "Must be doing laps to warm up," Sharon joked. She got up and began performing jumping jacks.
We dismantled the tent, and struck off for Percé Rock without eating breakfast. The rock didn't look all that far away, and pedalling was sure to warm us.
It took an extra long time to complete those final few kilometres to Percé Rock. The fault was not just with the terrain. Glasspé finally did us in. Sharon's tires became enamored with the shiny stuff. As rocker Rod Stewart once crooned in his just-swallowed-a-beer-can voice, "The first cut's the deepest." Sharon suffered two flats in two kilometres. As if that weren't enough, we met with the cyclists' double bugbear: road construction and steep climbs.
The final hill into Percé was a smoking 17 percent. But it was downhill! I zoomed down like a rocket sled on rails. I could have set a new personal land speed record. But the highway emptied onto main street. As pedestrians and cars turned into the street, I envisioned my bicycle becoming a two-wheeled human rocket launcher. So, at 88 kilometres per hour, polar wind tugging at my watering eyeballs and teeth a rattling whine, I hauled on the brakes, saving life and limb - and speed record - for another day. After all our tribulations on the way to Percé Rock, I had no intention of making it my final resting place.
I cruised along the main drag and spotted a shop advertising postcards. "Just a quick stop," I said. Sharon's empty stomach protested. We still hadn't eaten a thing. "I'll be right back," I promised. Tipping my bike against the building, I dashed inside, intent on making a quick purchase.
Once inside, I became trapped by Frances, the shop's talkative owner. A full-fledged history accompanied each postcard I selected. And, since we were in Percé, she felt obligated to fill me in on the rock. The tourist attraction rose 290 feet, sheer out of the Atlantic. "And it's 300 feet wide and over a quarter-mile long," she informed me. "Its name, 'Percé,' comes from the big 50-foot arch at its seaward end - that means 'pierced,'" she explained helpfully. Even though she must have delivered the same information countless times before, her genuine affection for the area - and her fellow humans - was undeniable.
When I hadn't returned after 15 minutes, Sharon abandoned the bikes and came in to look for me. When Frances saw my riding partner, she repeated over and over how worried she was about "poor Sharon" riding her "little bicycle" out there in the big bad world "all by herself." Apparently she had forgotten I was there, too.
An hour later - tummies snarling like a starving wildcat - we extricated ourselves from the matronly owner. But before allowing us to leave, Frances handed Sharon her address and insisted we notify her when we made it home safely. It never failed to amaze us how concerned some folks were about the well-being of complete strangers. Bless their hearts.
I opened the shop door. A blast of cold air gusted in around my ankles. I shivered. "Next time," Frances advised, "come in the summer."
We bought sub sandwiches and headed to windy Ile-de Bonaventure Park. We had seen the rock from afar for so long it felt strange to be so close to it. A strong attraction drew me, like some unseen force, compelling me toward the rock. I needed to touch it.
The tide ebbed. We strolled along a shale sandbar to the rock. Standing next to the rock took me by surprise. From afar, sunlight striking its chiseled surface, Percé Rock seemed indefatigable. Herculean. Majestic. But up close, cracks fissured its surface like so much abused earthen pottery. Shards of shale perched precariously on its sides like old fish scales.
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and wended my palm over the rock's surface. "Tired. Tired. Tired," it seemed to whisper.
"So am I, my friend," I muttered. "So am I."
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