There Are More Things

In what is arguably the most famous play of all time, Hamlet remarks: “There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” Had Hamlet witnessed what I did on the G2G trail this morning, he might not have been moved to make such a lofty observation, but perhaps he would have felt compelled to pedal home and compose a blog post.

One of the things I saw today was endlessly charming; I will leave you to draw your own conclusions on that front.

Getting on the trail at Marden Rd, I had it pretty much to myself, at first, but for one or two people walking their dogs. 

It was just cool enough to call for a merino wool jersey, or, had you been running in a Speedo, perhaps a long sleeved shirt would have helped fight off the chill.  That’s right, a Speedo bathing suit.  No, I wasn’t sporting one, but the man running in front of me certainly was.  He was also wearing a long sleeved shirt, a ball cap, and sunglasses.  Once I passed him, I resisted the temptation to look back, not out of fear of turning into a pillar of salt, but because I didn’t want to appear to be gawking, nor, god forbid, did I wish to take a spill while trying to look like I was not looking.  Alas good manners, and a fear of being denounced as a voyeur, prevented me from taking a photo, so dear reader, I am limited to the details I noted while passing him.  I would suggest that, like me, he was in his 60s, and that both the Speedo, and his derriere were, shall we say, slightly droopy.  Who of us isn’t? I offer these details not in judgement, but in the name of sound journalism, and its demand for objective details. 

Of course I had to text some of you to report my sighting, because let’s face it, that’s an unusual sight in an area more known for buggies and bonnets, than European beachwear.

As I neared Millbank, and was about to cross over Chalmers Forest Rd., I gazed to my left to check for traffic, and saw a Mennonite woman, perhaps in her 70s, her dress kicking up a little in the wind, riding towards me on a small tractor.  Such is not an unusual sight in itself, but it was the train of blue cars she was towing, each occupied by a small child, that was fascinating. What made it even more wondrous was that, for the woman and children, this was clearly an everyday routine; thus, they were not fascinated by themselves whatsoever. She stopped to let me cross the road, explaining that they were going to get on the trail.  I asked if I might take a photo, but she said they were not her children, so I put my phone away.  She then asked the children to say hello, and all six waved in unison, and gave a cheerful hello. I would have loved to have ridden beside them and chatted, but they were going in the opposite direction, so I pedalled a little further, then turned back to see that she was off the tractor, attending to the little one in the last car, who was wearing a bicycle helmet. Had I the power to bottle the magic of those six little hands, and six little voices raised in greeting, I would do so. I hope, instead, my words will suffice.

When I woke this morning, I felt the usual desire to hit the road, to see something new; no doubt you have felt the same. How lovely that we need not always travel far to see the unexpected, and, in some cases, the very charming.

All Good Things

In the 1300s, Geoffrey Chaucer wrote: “All good things must come to an end.”  Just as that truth has not changed, I imagine what prompted Chaucer’s observation was the timeless truth that when good things come to an end, we often grieve, and feel a sense of loss.

I know for myself, I was not quite ready for my trek to be over.  Perhaps it was because this trip felt rather slight in comparison to the journey across the country that took 40 days of riding.  I am not dismissing my recent efforts, but rather trying to explain to myself and to you, dear reader, why I wanted to keep riding.  The reality is that at some point, I would either need to pack the bike up to return home, or, had I followed a fanciful daydream of turning west and riding back home, I would have had to stop, and to face the inevitable letdown of the trip being over.  And why not avoid the mistake of starting to ride home only to feel that I had made a colossal error. Luckily, I came to my senses, and spent a wonderful weekend with Janine and Kieran.

When I last posted, I was still in Ferguson Cove, writing with one eye open after a lovely day at the beach. My route into Halifax was short, less than 15 km, but I knew it would involve cycling up Quinpool Rd, which is one of the main roads leading into downtown, so at rush hour it is bumper to bumper.  I started on Purcell’s Cove Rd, with a bike lane the entire way, then hopped on the sidewalk along Quinpool.  I wasn’t going to perish in an ironic fashion a few kilometres before the end of the trip! I had told Lisa of my plan to ride on the sidewalk, but forgot to tell Janine, so she envisioned me battling it out with impatient commuters, and was thrilled to hear I rode on the sidewalk. In fact, she enjoyed telling all of her cycling pals that we met that after riding on the Trans Canada all the way across the country, I had opted for the sidewalk going up Quinpool.  

After making my way to Janine's, I took all of my packs off the bike, and we dropped it off at Long Alley Bicycles, where they did a beautiful job of packing it up for me. We then set off in summery conditions, for a big walk around the city that took us through Point Pleasant Park, and down to the harbour, where we had a delicious lunch on a patio.  As we finished lunch the fog started to roll in, and the temperature dropped significantly.   Suddenly, I was shopping for a sweater to stay warm on the trek back home.  

With my tendency to wake before dawn on this trip, I was usually heading to bed by 9:00 p.m., and wasn’t sure how I was going to stay awake until Kieran’s flight arrived at 11:00 p.m., but Janine made us a lovely dinner, and Andrew concocted some exceptional gin & tonics, and the next thing it was 10:30, and we were heading for the airport.  Though I am all too aware of how quickly one can fly to Halifax, it still amazes me that in little more than two hours, Kieran could cover the distance it took me weeks to pedal. 

Much as we love each other, when we got home around midnight, we said a brief good night and then headed to bed. Janine and I had had notions of running with her friends in the morning, but they started out at 6:50, which was not enticing given our late night, so instead, we met them for coffee at Dilly Dally, a nearby cafe, which I can’t recommend enough for both its amazing coffee, and its delicious baked goods and breakfasts.  While Kieran slumbered, we walked a little further, buying supplies for breakfast in our travels.  

The three of us had a great day exploring the harbour, checking out the market and a few shops, then enjoying a latte while looking out at the brooding sea.  It was a true Halifax day: cool, gray, and drizzly.

In the evening, we walked to The Narrows Public House, which is an amazing pub in an old Captain's house on Gottingen street.  They don’t take reservations, so you need to go prepared to wait, but they do serve you drinks while you wait, and the cocktails are superb. We waited about an hour for our table, but it was well worth it, as the food, which was traditional fare, was incredible.

Arriving home, I was bleary-eyed with fatigue, and headed for bed.  I woke, as usual, before 6:00, and with no one else awake, I put on my running shoes, and went for a slow run through Point Pleasant Park.  I envisioned myself returning to the house buzzing with activity, but the house was just as still as when I left, though slowly everybody gathered for breakfast before heading to the airport.

I cannot imagine what my trip would have been like without my visits, first with Christina, then with Lisa, and finally with Janine, Andrew and Kieran. As Janine had observed earlier in the weekend, there is nothing more important than our relationships with family and friends, and I couldn’t agree more. Even on the way to the airport, there was still more to talk about, and after she dropped Kieran and me off, Kieran and I talked until the very moment I had to get in line for my flight.

It feels extraordinary that suddenly we were together once more, and feeling as connected as we had been for those five life-shaping years in high school. Even as I write this, I realize there is no need for grieving, for there are so many visits and good things ahead, and though they too will come to an end, it is their fleeting nature that makes them so magical, and for each of such magical moments, I am truly grateful. 

So Many Roads Travelled

I imagine that all of you know Robert Frost’s poem, “The Road Not Taken,” and its most famous lines: “I took the [road] less travelled by,/And that has made all the difference.” Those lines echoed over and over in my mind yesterday, as I took quite a few less travelled roads from Wolfville to Halifax.

My ride started out conventionally enough as I cycled up the south mountain, which, despite being a challenging way to start the day, was well worth the views of Wolfville and Grand Pre below me.

I then descended into the valley and rode along Bog Road. Though it might sound unappealing, it had been recently paved and wound its way through beautiful wetlands. Soon enough, I was crossing the Avon River, and riding into Windsor.

My route was a little circuitous, all but avoiding Highway 1, which would have been a much more direct route, but it was a sunny morning, and there was no urgency to get to Lisa’s as she was working from home, so I was content to take the quieter roads.

After riding through small towns like Hartville and Ellerhouse,  I got onto the 101 service road which was gravel, but well maintained gravel, so I could manage the steep climbs and descents without too much difficulty.

From the service road, the route took me onto an unnamed gravel road away from the highway and into the forest. No problem. Probably just a short cut through to the next main gravel road. Um no. Not  a short cut through, and though there were signs of tire tracks, perhaps from an atv, there sure weren’t any signs of bikes. I got to the first steep pitch, and the gravel was so chunky and dense that there was no way I could ride up it, so I climbed off and pushed the bike upwards. That would be the first of many episodes of hiking my bike.

The road, and I am using that term loosely, then wound deeper into the forest where it deteriorated into a maze of rocks and roots and deep swampy puddles, around which I carefully walked the bike.

At this point I wasn’t feeling panicky, but I was starting to wonder what I had gotten myself into. I still had lots of water, and an oatcake or two, but I started to envision myself arriving at Lisa’s at sundown, covered in muck and deeply disgruntled.

I cursed myself for not having checked the map more closely. I had seen that I would be on minor roads, winding around the lakes in the middle of the province, but I hadn’t imagined they might be poorly maintained atv roads, or, worse, not maintained at all.

At this point I reminded myself not to waste emotional energy perseverating on what I should or should not have done, and thought of Frost’s poem “A Servant to Servants,” in which he suggests that “the best way out is always through.” Onward I went.

Coming out of the rocky and rooty swamp, the road improved slightly, as did my determination to stay on the bike, even on the rocky climbs and descents, and through the vast puddles.  I gave myself a few good soakers, but that was preferable to spending the rest of the day in the forest.

I turned onto Hiking Trail Road, which ran for kilometres along Rafter Lake and Sandy Lake, and as the quality of the road improved, so did my pace and thus my mental state. I now felt like I was riding on the mountain roads in Cape Breton; this was doable.

Finally, my route took me to the St. Margaret’s Bay Rail Trail, and after riding less than a kilometre, I saw a rooftop, which turned out to be The Train Station Bike and Bean cafe. With my last oatcake long gone, and my water bottles almost empty, this was truly an oasis. I parked my bike with as much restraint as I could muster, and then headed for the takeout window where another cyclist was just picking up his order. When I tried to explain the route I had just taken, he looked completely bemused. Fair enough. As we wished each other well, I took my iced latte and carrot cake back to my mud-splattered bike, where I promptly devoured both.

With water bottles replenished, and now sporting a moustache of cream cheese icing, I got back on the bike, more appreciative than ever of the domestic nature of a rail trail. There was helpful signage; there were fellow riders; there were highways nearby should I wish to change my route.

Lisa had texted offering to pick me up at the cafe, but I felt fine if somewhat grubby, and besides, I was not about to end my trip by accepting a ride. Imagine!

The remainder of the ride was quite enjoyable, especially in comparison with the wild adventure of the morning, and within an hour I was at the Halifax rotary, a place of organized chaos, or so it seemed, and then I was flying out the first exit to Purcell’s Cove road, which took me to Lisa’s home in Ferguson Cove.

I arrived feeling weary but recovered from the stress of the morning, and we have not stopped talking since. Thus the delay in writing the blog. We stayed up late sharing a bottle of wine, and then headed for Crystal Crescent Beach this morning.  What a perfect spot with its beautiful shoreline, stunning rock formations, and lovely trails weaving through the forest.

I couldn’t ask for a better recovery day, even finding time to wash my poor bike.

Tomorrow, I’ll make the short ride into Halifax to spend the weekend with Janine and Andrew; what a perfect way to end this trip of so many roads travelled.