To Dine or To Dash

I had planned to enjoy my free breakfast, and then to be on the road by 7:00, but since I fell asleep in front of the tv last night at 9:00 p.m., with the pressing question of Who Shot JFK, and then woke at 3:30 a.m., with the question seemingly still unanswered, I decided to rethink my options, especially as the winds would be most favourable in the early hours.

I imagine there will be some difference in opinion over my decision to choose dashing over dining. While some of you might say hell yeah, you’ve got to capitalize on a sweet tailwind, I suspect many more of you would be aghast at the notion of passing up a free breakfast. (Don’t make me name names.) Would I pass on lattes and croissants at Christina’s? Of course not. But could I live without a bowl of Raisin Bran, and a day old bagel from the Day’s Inn? Certainement!

I had wandered by the breakfast room last night, in hopes of finding some milk for my coffee, but that seems to be kept under lock and key. The best I could forage was two packages of instant oatmeal, which I will use for my breakfast tomorrow.

I had a good portion of a raisin and apple baguette left from Monday’s breakfast, so I made a banana and jam sandwich, had a coffee sans milk, and waited for sunrise.

Here are the upsides of cycling at 5:00 in the morning: the roads are empty, the sky is continually changing, and it is quiet enough to hear the birds. With the generous tailwind, I managed the fastest pace of the trip.

I stopped only to shed my leg warmers, to take a bathroom break, and to photograph some of the charming homes along the route.

I can’t recommend this portion of route 132 enough. It runs along the shore, through farm land, and then it actually dips below sea level along the flattest road I have ever been on, before climbing again so that the last 10 kilometres into Rivière du Loup offer beautiful views of the St. Lawrence from above.

It felt funny to be done my ride for before 11 in the morning, but it was a short(ish) day of 130 km, and I was averaging 25 km/hr, so it really didn’t take long.

I stopped in at the motel where I had booked a cabin, and the manager very graciously said I could leave my bike at the office, and then check in at 12, as opposed to the usual 3:00 p.m.

I marched off to the IGA in my biking shorts and running shoes, free of all self-consciousness, since I knew no one, and, more to the point, I was too hungry to care.

Have I mentioned how good the IGAs are here in Quebec? They have endless options for prepared foods, and I was thrilled to find bagels with smoked salmon and cream cheese, which I ate at a nearby picnic table, thus avoiding the lowly act of consuming one’s lunch in the parking lot. Believe me it took some restraint to wait until I reached the picnic table.

With 5% of remaining battery, I then navigated my way to the rather dark and cavernous Brulerie Ange & Demon. It had more of a tattoo parlour than a cafe vibe, but I discovered they roast their own beans, sell top of the line espresso makers, and make divine lattes.

By the time I wandered back, I was able to pick up the key for my charming cabin. I have cheerful red chairs on a wee front porch, which is where I am presently, composing this post. Looking up I can see the St. Lawrence in the distance, and am enjoying the chatter of birds all around me.

Tomorrow is another short day, and it will be almost entirely on the trail from here to Edmunston, one of my favourite parts of my trip back in 2021, which brings me to my final reflections of the day, regarding nostalgia. To be honest, it if I were at home and writing on my laptop, I would insert the following section earlier in the post, to maintain a more coherent narrative structure, but as I am on a porch in Quebec, I am just going to leave it where it is. Forgive me my English teacher friends.

Feeling nostalgic this morning, I asked Siri to play some 70s songs, a few of which really made me smile, thinking of my younger self loving songs like “It’s a Heartache,” by Bonnie Tyler: “It’s a fool’s game,/nothing but a fool’s game,/standing in the cold rain,/feeling like a clown.” I wanted to say, Bonnie, just get out of the rain, take control of your life, but I am sure my younger self would have stood in the cold rain too.

As I was hitting the flats, which I could remember so vividly from my past ride, Karen Carpenter started singing “Yesterday Once More.” Together we crooned, “Every sha-la-la-la,/every wo-o, wo-o still shines./Every shing-a-ling-a-ling/that they’re startin’ to sing’s/ so fine.” There I was, my younger and present selves merging under the seemingly endless sky. I think that moment will stay with me for a long time.

Now it is time to say adieu, treasured reader, as I am once more at 5% battery, and must head inside to charge my travelling typewriter.

This Is The Day

Many of you will know the song, “This Is The Day” by The The, from 1983, and have no doubt sung the line, “this is the day, when things fall into place.” Well if yesterday was a day when things fell apart, with the rain, wind and threat of thunderstorms, today was indeed a day when things fell into place.

Although the day started very chilly, and even offered a brief shower mid morning, by noon, I was riding under brilliant blue skies, through beautiful farm land.

I headed north to RTE 132 about 30 kms west of Montmagny, and with the wind picking up, I was flying. What a contrast to the last time I rode into Montmagny, when I was battling a fierce headwind and was limping along from town to town, trying to will myself to go further.

Today, I arrived at the hotel so early my bathroom floor was still damp from a recent cleaning. After a quick shower to remove the grime (why did I bring pink socks you might well ask), I walked down to the IGA for another salmon poke bowl (highly recommend; made fresh daily), some fruit, and of course a cider.

Walking back to the hotel, I took a wrong turn and found myself on a narrow street with funky shops and a lovely cafe full of women who were all well heeled, as my mom would say, and who were sporting funky eyewear. You certainly can tell a lot about people from their glasses, and I have to say the French tend to have stylish eyewear, or at least this crowd did. In my usual fashion, I muddled through a request for an iced latte, splicing together French and English.

What could be better? I had a walk through some cool neighbourhoods (check out this extraordinary mural) while sipping on a wonderful latte, with the sun blazing overhead.

Tomorrow I will ride to Rivière du Loup, which had always been one of my favourite places to stop on the way out east. This time, I am staying in a chalet as they call it, with a little kitchenette and a view of the St. Lawrence. A woman could do a lot worse. I continue to be blessed with beautiful moments each day, but today was just jam packed as everything fell into place.

Chez Christina

Saturday’s ride was such a treat. Though it might have been relatively short, at 90 kilometres, it was full of lots of long climbs. Christina and I both set out at 8:00, and ended up meeting almost halfway between Farnham and Mansonville, where the fun began as I worked hard to keep up to her, and she waited patiently for me at the top of every climb. Riding close to the Vermont border, we could see the Green mountains, and Jay Peak ski hill in the distance.

We stopped in the little village of Abercorn, where Christina had read there was a bakery.  It was on an unlikely little street and seemed closed, but inside we found shelf after shelf stacked with packages of cookies. Yes, the ginger ones were amazing. It was a decidedly English bakery, more likely to be found in Elmira than Quebec, whereas the Owl’s Bread Bakery in Mansonville, which we went to later in the day, was truly French.

After having a few cookies, we got back on our bikes, and finished winding our way back to Christina’s, hopping onto gravel roads for the final stretch. I was prepared this time for the hardest hill of the day—the one leading to Christina’s house—which my Garmin told me was a 13% grade. Last time, I got off at one point and walked, fearing I would roll backwards, but this time I kept my weight over my front wheel, and just kept pedalling. I was quite chuffed with myself for making it up.

I am hesitant to make this declaration, lest you all try to book in at Chez Christina, but she truly is the consummate host. She made me feel so comfortable in her space, and she made the best lattes I have ever had (roasting her own beans certainly adds to the charm). She also remembered my favourite ginger cider, the Dirty Mayor, and my love of chips after a ride. Her house is nestled in the woods, and if you don’t feel tranquil in such a setting, you are unlikely to feel tranquil anywhere.

It is a mark of a good friendship that we could pick up your conversation exactly where we left off. We have seen each other in Guelph over the years, but I have not been here for a visit since my last cycling trip. Funnily enough, little has changed. We talked on into the night, then were up at 5:00 to have more lattes, and croissants from the Owl’s Bread bakery. It would have been all too easy to sit there for hours, but we were on the road by 7:00 so as to get a few hours in before the rain began.

After riding together for 40 km, we parted ways just before the skies opened on us both, and thus began a day of contrasts. The rain began just as I turned onto a gravel road, but it was in good shape, with only a few stretches of newly graded gravel, so I kept my cool, and tried to follow the clearest path I could.

The rain stopped after an hour or so, and then the sun was blazing. Time to switch back to my darker lenses and to take off the anorak. I had just stopped in Warwick, to apply more sunscreen when I saw dark clouds moving in from the west. I mean dark, and menacing. With the first droplets, I stopped to put on my anorak, and then it felt like someone had cracked the sky open. and the rain came down hard. It was coursing down the road; it was pelting me in the face. To top it all off, I heard the rumble of thunder, and saw off in the distance, the faintest flash of lightning.

There was only one thing to do, and that was to pedal harder, so I rode through the wall of rain, and I could see beyond, the sky looked lighter. The rain started to lessen, but I could hear rumbling behind me and knew the storm was going to keep coming My goal was to keep ahead of it for the final 30 km to Plessisville. To say I rode with focus is an understatement. My gaze narrowed, and I hammered as hard as I could, making it to town in time to pick up a few snacks before heading to the same motel I stayed at five years ago.

As I rolled my bike into my room, the storm arrived, but I was safe and would soon be dry.

My light blue socks may never be light or blue again, but overall, I would say it has been a wonderful two days. Thank you, Christina!