Bike Touring Journals by Neil Anderson and Sharon Anderson Partners in Grime
Think Heavy
"Now is no time to think of what you do not have.
Think of what you can do with what there is."
~ Ernest HemingwayWe headed toward New Brunswick, 288 kilometres distant, where we planned to exit Québec.
Rolling along a dead flat road, a slight headwind hampered our progress. A greater population peppered the Gaspé Peninsula's south side. "I hope that's because the winds are less," Sharon muttered.
In Pabos-Mills, a sign for a gym caught our eye. We needed showers. "I'm not sure I can say that French word for shower."
"Force yourself," came Sharon's reply.
I entered and asked the attendant in English if we could shower. She didn't understand. I gulped, and forced myself to say the d-d-D word. "Douche." I couldn't believe I said it. But the simple utterance opened a whole new world for me. I was soon splashing in hot, soapy delight.
"I feel like a new man," I said, exiting my refreshing douche. "Er, nouveau homme," I sputtered to the amused clerk.
We had frolicked so long it was dark by the time we reemerged. A nearby school with a protected recess around back provided shelter.
All was well till 3 am. Then the wind hit, yowling like a poltergeist tripping on bad acid. It blew into our alcove, ripping out tent stakes. The vestibule flapped about like a wounded albatross. A huge gust lifted one side of the tent off the ground. "Think heavy," Sharon advised. She groped out an arm and grabbed the flailing vestibule. A steady stream of biting air flowed into the tent. Wearing all our clothes we were still cold.
For the past two weeks, we had pushed our equipment's limit. My thermometer read zero Celsius. "My feet are so cold I can't sleep," Sharon griped. (On prior occasions, she had stuffed her frozen tootsies into my wool socks ... while I was wearing them. I didn't think her tactics accomplished much, other than keeping me awake.)
"Misery loves company," I muttered as she tried it again. "Would you like my wool s-." Before my sentence was fully formed, Sharon had whipped my foot coverings off. I laid there, wondering how on earth it was possible for socks to come off so fast. A snore jolted my pondering. My thoughts shifted to: How can anyone fall asleep that fast?
Wrapped in cold, I meditated mysteries - content in the knowledge that at least one of us was sleeping.
In the morning, I complained: "I was awake half the night with frozen feet." Then I added, "And I spent the other three-quarters of the night restraining the stupid fly."
"New math?" Sharon squinted.
"See?" I snarled (not unlike a mean-spirited wolverine). "I told you I didn't sleep at all!"
Unwisely, she pressed the matter. "So, what was all the snoring about then?"
"See?" I growled again. "You know I never sleep well when I snore." (Just call me Mr Wonderful.)
"Yeah," Sharon blinked. "Neither do I."
We packed and got underway in hopes that the pedalling would warm our bodies and spirits. But the frigid wind snorted straight into us. Frequent gusts brought us to a near standstill. Suddenly, a freak, doubly strong, gust hit me. I skittered into the middle of the lane before wrestling my bike under control.
I took back my comments about the south side of the peninsula being calmer. "Amazing anyone has any hair left!" I yelled, the wind practically ripping my lips back and forth. It was then that I realized why our former French-Canadian prime minister spoke out of the side of his mouth (a perfect trait for a politician). That horrendous Québec wind! Yep, whenever I tried to speak - the crosswind blew my lips like Jean's. And I sounded just like dat.
"Plenty scary!" I shouted as speeding freight trucks and autos bulled past our unsteady forms, a hair away.
"Maybe we should look for alternative transportation," Sharon suggested. "It's so cold, we're not having any fun. Maybe it would be different if you weren't so cheap and we stayed in bed and breakfasts or motels once in a while. And," she added, "we could at least eat in restaurants to warm up."
But my frugality was heavily ingrained. We stopped to eat, huddling against the leeward side of a building, ingesting a modest few hundred calories. Sharon nodded toward an approaching cyclist. "See how Québec bikers deal with drivers that come too close?" The fellow was clad in hunters' orange with a shotgun slung over his shoulder.
We cycled the windiest, dustiest, most rock strewn construction area ever. Jolted to bits, spitting sand, we could not resist the lure of a Port-Daniel train station. The grit and hissing wind had taken its toll. We were ready to be whisked away from the infernal peninsula. Sharon checked the possibility of hopping a train to Toronto. Upon learning how much it would cost to transport us and our bicycles, she changed her mind. "No wonder so few people use the train in Canada," she complained.
Half-frozen, we locomoted ourselves back outside, swung a creaky leg over our ice cars, and shivered our cabooses down more grueling kilometres.
In Shigawake, at lunch time, I bought my old standby: barbecued chicken. "Our ride in Québec should be named 'Tour du Poulet,'" Sharon chuckled as we emerged from the grocery store. Outside, on the sidewalk, Mrs Malapropos with "the only yellow house in town" immediately accosted us.
"My daughter cycle tours," she said. My ears perked up. Someone sympathetic to our frosty plight? "I saw you two go by." I smiled. "You looked half-froze," she said warmly. I shivered on cue. "I almost invited you in."
"Uh, thanks," I said, any feeling of warmness evaporating.
"But the last time I invited cyclists in they didn't even write to thank me."
My smile vanished. Cripes, I thought. If I ever meet them, I'll give them a piece of my mind! "We'll write," I promised.
But no invitation was forthcoming. Fortunately, the more we spoke with Mrs Malapropos, the more we realized that the non-writing cyclists had done us a favour. The woman was wound tighter than a cheap wristwatch.
Thinking thoughts about the coming ice age, we pedalled away from Mrs Malapropos and Shigawake. At a nearby rest stop, we hunkered down behind a building to escape the glacial wind. The sun shone warmly upon our faces. Whitecapped Baie des Chaleurs (Bay of Warmth) sparkled in the distance.
Basking in the sunshine I took a bite of hot chicken. "I'm glad Mrs Malapropos didn't invite us in."
"Me too," Sharon sighed contentedly.
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