The Second Last Day

I’m going to be honest, and why wouldn’t I be in my very own blog; I started out yesterday with the lofty notion of making it home. Yup, I thought 224 km was ambitious but doable, and had it been a June day with endless hours of sunlight, or had I had a west wind, it would have been. But alas it was otherwise. From the moment I started riding east, the wind made it clear it was not going to assist me in any way. Okay, fine, I would be a little slower, but if I could hold 20 km/hr, I calculated in my head, I could cover the distance in 12 hours and arrive by sunset.

When you are riding across the flat, open expanses of southernmost Ontario, there is little to distract your attention from the woeful fact that you are grinding along at 18 km/hr. There are few trees, fewer bodies of water, and so you churn along, trying to will yourself not to look at your computer to see if you have gone another km.

I rode through Petrolia and was briefly cheered by the lovely old homes on the main street, but seeing only Tim Hortons and a local bakery that was closed, I kept going.

I had a brief respite from the wind as I rode north and stopped in a little town, Watford, where I found a bakery and loaded up with a sandwich and a few treats. At this point, I still thought the distance was doable.

Riding into Strathroy at noon, I had 150 km to go, and onwards I pushed. From there things went downhill, as I somehow made a wrong turn, or missed a turn, I am still not sure how, though fatigue definitely entered into the equation, and ended up in Mount Brydges, 10 km further south of the route I should have been on. Okay, it was time to take stock and replan. There was no way I could cover another 150 km before sundown. Not that there was any sign of a sun to set.

I started searching for towns with hotel offerings, and set my sights on St. Marys, where the Westover Inn looked promising. I emailed a request to book, and then started heading there—it was another 50 km, but honestly it felt like 100 km.

When I next stopped to check my phone, they had texted to say they had rooms but would be closing at 4, so to call if I wanted a room. From the side of the road, with traffic rumbling by, I spoke to the woman on the front desk who explained she would charge me their lowest rate but put me in the cottage, as that was the easiest room to get my bike in. God bless you, I said, it has been a pretty crappy day. She laughed and said, it seems kind of windy out there. Too right.

Once I had the room booked, I could finally let go of my initial ambitions and focus on the final few hours of the day, just as the sun started breaking through the dense clouds. It was amazing how the combination of a shift in my mindset and the sun’s arrival transformed the day.

The wind was determined to make those last km as hard as possible, but once in town I found the LCBO and Foodland, then made my way to the inn where they had left a key for me with all of the instructions I needed.

I was greeted by a very friendly duck, who may or may not have been employed by the inn as an official ambassador; he was not willing to say, and there was no one around to ask. I opened the cottage door to find a lovely room with a portrait of a bicycle over the bed; it was clearly meant to be.

Dear reader, it’s now time to pack up and ride the final 90 km home, and what a word that is with all its lovely connotations.

Into Every Bike Trip Some Rain Must Fall

I have been so lucky on this trip, in terms of having incredible weather and wonderful roads to ride on, so I shouldn’t complain about a hard day; it’s just that the rain, wind, and really lousy road conditions all arrived at once, and at times the combination almost flattened me.

If I began my ride through Michigan on its prettiest roads, I may have ended on its worst ones. Lest in my grumpiness I veer into hyperbole, I should qualify that last statement and say that I took back roads in an attempts to avoid traffic during the rain, but it seems many drivers did the same, so the back roads weren’t quiet, just lousy. Once I got to the shore of Lake St. Clair, and rode from New Baltimore to Algonac, there was a decent shoulder, even if it was covered in debris. And then there was the relentless wind, which along lakeshore, as you can imagine, kicked up an even greater fuss.

In short, I was pretty weary as I rolled into Algonac. It was about 3:00 by then, and I had been debating all day whether to stay in Michigan for the night, or push on to Canada. Algonac provided a definitive answer as it had no accommodations I would wish to call home for a minute let alone a night, so I decided to aim for Wallaceburg. I called the Inn in Wallaceburg, but got no answer. No problem, I would take the ferry and call again when I was closer.

As I came into Algonac, I could see the ferry chugging towards the dock. Perfect. I had just enough time to stop at a pharmacy to pick up a few final US snacks before getting to the dock as the cars were loading. The ferry is run by the community of Walpole island, and holds under a dozen cars. The ride was only about 10 minutes, cost all of $3 for me as a cyclist, and when I got to Walpole island, the customs officer waved me to the front of the line, gave my passport a cursory glance, and sent me on my way.

Things were looking up. When I got off the island, I saw the sign for the St. Clair Parkway that would take me north along the shore of the St. Clair River, but I opted to head east into Wallaceburg, and entered the town to find the main street completely under construction. Talk about a difference from the US. There were signs indicating that someone would be stopping traffic, but there were no flagmen in sight, so I kept going. There was traffic making its way up and down the street, despite construction vehicles moving in and out of the lanes, so I got up on the sidewalk and went a little further, then stopped to call the inn again. This time a woman answered. I asked if the inn was open and if they had any rooms free. She said, I think you have the wrong number, even as my phone showed the name Wallaceburg Inn. She said the inn had been converted into a seniors home some years ago. I apologized, said I needed to get rolling, and hung up. I then pulled up the details for an inn that was along the St. Clair shore that I had looked at the night before, and that I clearly should have booked, and made a reservation.

I still had plenty of daylight, and as I had to backtrack west about 10 km, I had an amazing tailwind. Not only that, as I turned north, I also had a tailwind, so the last hours on the bike were the best of the day.

I stopped in Port Lambton to get a few groceries, including a good old Canadian cider, and then headed to my final destination: The Frog Point Inn. Dear reader, if my day began in rain and darkness, it ended with a charming owner, Shane, and his dog, Happy, coming out to greet me, and to show me to my newly renovated and beautifully designed room, offering such creature comforts as a heated floor in the bathroom. It is the first night since the cabin when I have felt at home, and I cannot help but feel this is the sort of occasion when the famous bard might observe that all’s well that ends well.

Today, I will be back riding on the roads I know and love so well in Ontari-ari-ari-o!

Good and Doughnuts

No, I am not so weary as to resort to worn out cliches; I am referring to the name of the bakery in Clare, MI. Yes, indeed, it is called the Cops and Doughnuts bakery, and what a story it is.

The local bakery, which had been in business since 1896, was on the verge of closing its doors, and the police department of Clare, all nine officers, got together and bought the bakery they so dearly loved and frequented (thus the cliche). They now have over half a dozen locations, but the storefronts in Clare are the headquarters, where in addition to divine doughnuts, they sell lots of merchandise such as colourful T-shirts and hoodies.

Suffice to say it was difficult to narrow down my choices, but I had to go for the bavarian cream, which is shaped like a long john, and a nutty doughnut, which an Instagram follower had suggested. On a windy day that ended in the rain, both were like gifts from the goddesses, but of course the photos make that clear.

I was going to title this post, What a Bike Trail Will Do for Your Soul, but I think you would have suggested, Mary, and rightfully so, that I was burying the headline, so I led with the doughnuts; however, the rail trail was a close second in the day’s highlights.

The Pere Marquette rail trail, rated one of the top 10 in Michigan, is a paved trail that runs 50 km between Clare and Midland, and it is glorious. Much of the trail follows the Tittabawassee River, and it is very sheltered with lots maples, birch, and beech trees on either side of the trail. It passes through several small communities before taking you past Northwood University and into Midland, which is a very pretty college town. As I rode through town, I was struck by how quiet it seemed, as if everyone was tired from rushing around the countryside all weekend.

It was a nice sort of sleepiness compared to what I encountered ahead as I navigated my way around Bay City. I managed to stay on the northern outskirts for the most part, but then saw signs for bridge construction on the Harry Truman Parkway, so was forced to ride south into the city and then east on the next bridge I could find over the Saginaw River. I definitely saw some seedier parts of town, and was happy to get on the M15 south, which I knew I could take for the rest of the day. My goal was to avoid the major highways, the large cities like Saginaw and Flint, and the touristy destinations like Frankenmuth.

The day seemed to divide itself naturally into chapters. The opening chapters, with the bakery and rail trail, were pretty euphoric, then I hit chapter three with its southern Ontario feel of open fields snd nothing to stop the wind. Coming south of Bay City, I battled the wind for several hours and then hit the small town of Vassar where the landscape changed again.

Chapter four was the final forty km of the day, in which I was once more in the land of rivers and lakes and tree-lined roads. Yes, a light rain began, but I was on newly pavement, and the wind had dropped, so it was much easier going. The rain stopped for a bit, but I could see on the horizon a much more threatening sky, so I started pushing hard for Davison. As I entered the town and stopped to find a hotel, the rain started in earnest, so I was all too happy to roll into the Best Western.

I didn’t realize how spent I felt until I headed out to a nearby deli to get dinner and felt my legs lamenting. The wind, rain and the final push of the day all took their toll. Though I had composed much of the blog in my head as I rode, it would have to wait until morning, as I had no more words in my head to put together.

Not sure I am much more coherent this morning, but it will have to do. From here I will stay on back roads as much as possible to Algonac, where I will take the ferry over to Walpole Island, and then ride into Ontario. With the forecast for rain and winds out of the east, I haven’t decided how far I will ride today. If the weather were grand, I would push home in two days, but I will let sense prevail as it has served me well thus far. Today is the last day to enjoy the bountiful snacks that the US has to offer. I can’t say I have grown weary of them just yet.