You Just Have to Look (Harder)

Yours truly spent a good number of hours looking for the beauty in this town, well specifically in the west part of Saint John, as that is where I decided to stay since it is only 4 km from the ferry. I am happy to report that my efforts were not completely in vain, even if the results were not overwhelmingly positive, to borrow some phrasing from my old bank of essay comments.

I fear I peaked early in the day with a run to the Irving nature park, which was established in 1992 by J.D. Irving Limited to protect distinct ecosystems along the Bay of Fundy. I ran/walked along the rocky and rooty trails that went right down to the water’s edge, got some good views of the bay, then headed back, not wanting to push my luck on tired legs. I met a lovely couple with three dogs who reassured me I was heading back in the right direction, and then on my way home I ran briefly alongside another couple with their Dalmatian named Ollie.

Back in the hotel parking lot, I met two friendly women from Ontario, and ended up joining them in the breakfast room to hear about their travel plans. They were flummoxed by the notion that I had ridden the distance they had just driven, as they were busy googling senior-accessible tourist attractions, they said. Even if they were moving at an entirely different speed, it was nice to chat over breakfast, and I shared with them the tip of packing up a bagel and fruit for later.

After gently poking fun at Dollarama, I need to confess that I was astounded by their vast inventory, and for just $1.75, I was able to procure disposable cloths with which to clean my bike. I headed for the car wash with my pocketful of toonies, and tested out the power washer before turning it on the bike.  I almost blew myself into the back wall. Clearly, it was far too forceful to put on my bike, as it might damage the precious paint job, or force water into some of the seals, so I kept it on a forceful mist setting, and washed off as much grime as I could. I then rode back to the hotel patio where I had lots of room to remove the rear wheel, and to clean the cassette more thoroughly. It’s not perfect, but it is a good deal cleaner than it was a day ago, after riding on dusty trails and gritty gravel for days.

With my morning behind me, and the afternoon looming, I walked up the strip to Starbucks, where I ordered a latte with oat milk no less, and enjoyed some fabulous people watching. I had wanted to go to a local cafe, but the one I found nearby, that looked charming, is closed on weekends. Now puzzle that one over. Is Saturday not the biggest day for business? People bringing their dogs, or their newspapers, or their friends, and enjoying a latte in  their favourite neighbourhood cafe? I shall not continue. I have to let that vision go. At least Starbucks had a brilliant 80s playlist, and I watched as some of the most unlikely people rocked out to songs like “Part-time Lover” and “We’ve Got the Beat.”

I took a walk past the diner to see if it might appeal, but the fare looked decidedly fair to middling, so I opted to pick up a pasta and a Greek salad, some fresh fruit, along with, you guessed it, a local cider. Oh and a chocolate cupcake, lest I miss my sweets today.

The birds are chirping happily outside my window, I can still see the green hills in the distance, and I am enjoying my cold cider.

It is hard to believe this is the end of my second week on the road. It doesn’t feel nearly that long, but that is the nature of such trips, I guess. You get into a routine, and you just go. I am already busy checking the weather for tomorrow, and mapping out a route I might ride, as I am staying in Digby, but since the ferry is only two hours, I will arrive just after ten, giving me lots of time to cycle along the Digby Neck, the peninsula to the southwest of Digby. How could I resist riding through such communities as Sandy Cove, Mink Cove, or Whale Cove?

Alas as I didn’t take my phone when running today, the only photo I have to offer is of my clean(er) bike, but I hope to take lots tomorrow. For now, gentle reader, adieu from New Brunswick.

What the Day Yields

I tried to write the blog last night, but after another long day on the bike, my efforts to describe the banalities of NB became banal themselves, and that is unforgivable, so I plugged in my portable typewriter, turned off the tv, and promptly fell asleep long before the sun went down.

Some eight hours later, I am watching the sky turn pink as seagulls circle overhead. Now I don’t want to pull any AI stunts, and edit out some of the less savoury parts, though I realize writers have always had the powers to do so. I will be honest. My room at the Travelodge is perfectly nice; I have a suite with a big living room area that could easily accommodate a yoga or line dancing class, and a bedroom with two beds. I might just use them both. However, the hotel is of course on the highway, so as I peer at the lovely sky, with green hills in the distance, I can also see the sign for the ubiquitous Dollarama on the other side of the highway, and that just about sums up this province: beautiful forests, lovely sky, Dollaramas everywhere.

I had said I would have 200 km to find the charming elements beyond the natural beauty of the province, but the ride to Saint John turned out to be only 194 kms, so I had less time than I thought. If only I had had six more km, I might have fallen in love with this province, but I fear that was a long shot.

Still, let’s start with the positives. The ride itself was quite lovely if hilly. Boy, was it hilly. Over 1700 meters of climbing. Most of the climbs were long and gradual, but on one back road, I had some steeper pitches at 15% grade. Now my front tire wasn’t coming off the ground, but I certainly wasn’t moving quickly.

For the most part, the roads were in good shape, with paved shoulders, and very little traffic. I turned onto one road, the 645, that had a sign in French only, warning it was open only to local traffic, or so I deduced, but at that point, to reroute myself would have added another 20-30 km to my day, and as I saw cars coming towards me on the road, I thought I might as well go for it. I was mentally preparing for a construction zone, where they would tell me I couldn’t get through, and where I would plead to be shuttled across, but as the road suddenly turned into rough and rocky gravel, no construction crew appeared. In fact they weren’t even working on this section of the road, and bear in mind this was a marked highway. The road reminded me of the routes on top of the mountain in Cape Breton, and since I was on a gravel bike, well, I couldn’t really complain. I was just happy there was no one preventing me from riding. I passed several motorists who all waved in return, and I just kept bumping along until I could see pavement in the distance. The gravel section was almost worth it to appreciate how good it felt to glide along smooth pavement. I finally saw signs for construction ahead, but at this point they were merely patching up a dilapidated section of the road that seemed to sink and rise, no doubt from the frost in the winter. They had signallers at either end of the construction. I was waved through by a young man, and when I said to him, what a road, he laughed and replied, isn’t it! At the end of the construction, the other signaller must have been at least in her 70s. Now maybe she was still working because she loved it so much, but in that depressed area I was riding through, I suspect she was working because she had no choice.

Just beyond the construction, in the little village of Tracy, I stopped at the general store, complete with a slushy machine, spinnings its red and blue concoctions. It brought to mind my first real bike trip back in the 80s, when I spent five days riding through the Okanogan. I had stopped on a hot afternoon and bought myself a huge slushie, promptly giving myself a brain freeze, and a bad blue moustache.

I would have passed this off as just another convenience store, but for the wonderful smell of fresh baking coming from the back corner where a woman was taking cookies from the oven, and turning out loaves from their pans. What an oasis. Though most of the baked goods were packed by the dozen (too much, even for me), they did have donuts on offer, and I got the final apple fritter. Now objectively I would give it a 7/10, but on this day it felt more like a 10/10.

I was back on smooth pavement, with a nice tailwind, and the rolling hills reminded me of so many other places I have ridden that for many minutes at a time, I lost track of where I was. I even went over a covered bridge that of course brought to mind West Montrose.

It was warm, but not as unbearable as on Thursday, and I tried to stay on top of my hydration more effectively, and also cooled the back of my neck with water from my water bottle as I rode along. Yes, it definitely felt like a hot day riding in the Rockies, and that was a good feeling.

I had mapped a good route into Saint John, taking me through small communities along the 177, and then I missed my turn for Westfield Rd, and suddenly I had no choice but to get on the main highway. I was truly annoyed with myself. I had a huge shoulder and felt safe, but the traffic was intense, and at the end of the day it was unnerving. Still nothing to do but to ride on it for 4 km, at which point I took the first exit onto route 100, where the Travelodge was only four km away.

I confess I had a vision of where I would stay for two days, and this was not it. The hotel itself is fine: very clean, newly painted, if pedestrian, but nestled in a quaint harbour it is not. I know, I know, the strip is where they put hotels, and I am grateful for the amenities. In fact, I was downright excited to see a car wash across the street, where I will clean my bike today. Yes, dear reader, as my friend Janine observed, I must find the gems where I can.

The receptionist also suggested visiting the Irving Nature park, which sounds charming if ironic, given that Irving is the biggest name in the lumber industry in this province.

It is now light out, so I will venture into the day. The challenge I see before me, and I accept it, is to make this a wonderful day. I saw there is a local diner—Island Girls Diner—run by two women from PEI, which looks like it makes good comfort food, even if there is the usual emphasis on meat. They love their meat in this province, not unlike in Cape Breton, where the vegetarians in the crowd often settle for coleslaw.

Whatever the day shall yield, I am determined to recount it sans banality.

In Search Of

Well, dear reader, I made a valiant effort to find charming aspects of NB today, but I have to say, I was hard pressed.

I started out at 5:45, and wanted to take a shot of the river, but the factories along the water were already pumping out steam (I hope it was steam), making it look more like an industrial wasteland than an early morning pastoral scene.

Heading out of the city, there was a lovely fog hovering above the fields, but the rusted railway tracks were a bit of an eyesore, so that wasn’t an ideal shot either.

The best I could do was a photo of lovely horses, but even then the star of the show was only interested in munching on the prickly-looking bush.

I couldn’t find a store open at that hour, but I did see two car washes already operating. I have noticed that in both Quebec and NB they do love their cars. I have gone through small towns with a garage on every corner, and yet no stores. In Aroostook, there were several mechanics, with dilapidated automobiles strewn in their yards, yet not a store in sight. Oh wait, there was the sign for the old White Rose; it was still there, though the store was long gone.

In my effort to find charming elements of the province, I saw the following: an inordinate number of lumber mills, pickup trucks, motor bikes (one of which roared past me on the shoulder), and Catholic churches. I stopped at the Catholic church in Saint Leonard to take off my vest, only to feel a distinct plop on my shoulder. No, I had not been touched by the lord, but rather by the excrement of a Catholic crow sitting smugly above me on the wire. I think you will agree that is an utterly  charmless act of aggression.

I will say that my ride from Edmunston to Grand Falls was very peaceful. I stopped in GF to get some breakfast, and my choices were Tim’s or KFC. Pretty easy choice. I asked for the BELT without the bacon, and was offered sausage instead. So much to explain. Still I got out of there with my ELT nicely wrapped, and stored it in my pack until I could navigate out of town.

From Grand Falls, I took the 130 along the Saint John river, and that was a beautiful stretch. I kept meaning to take more photos, but with the temperature rising, I just stayed focus on putting in the miles.

I stopped briefly in Perth-Andover at Nissen’s Market, right along the river, and it was quite lovely, dare I say charming; I got an amazing date square that had just the right amount of saltiness to it.

I stopped one more time in Florenceville-Bristol-Bristol, aka the French fry capital of the world. Imagine growing up with that legacy? Well of course it is McCain’s that put them in the map, but here’s something I did not know and which I find slightly horrifying: McCain’s also produces fertilizer. Weird, right?

As tempting as it was to stay and bask in French fry Mecca, after finding a school with park behind it, where I was able to wash my face and reapply sunscreen, I made my final push for Woodstock. NB is not big on mileage signs. In fact I saw none. Oh sure, they will put up a sign with a directional arrow, telling you Woodstock is this way or that way, but they’re not about to tell you how far away Woodstock is.

With the wind picking up, and the pavement falling apart, the final 20 kilometres stretched on interminably, yet I finally reached my turn off. Of course it was uphill to the hotel. With cars pressing to get past me, I just held my line.

Once I reached the main drag with auto dealers, grocery stores and fast food chains, I got up on the sidewalk qas some NBers really drive like lunatics, in cars that are a long way from being road worthy.

As I crossed at the lights, a driver rolled toward me while simultaneously giving me a thumbs up. I couldn’t help myself; I shouted, stop moving; just stop rolling toward me. Hey looked a little crestfallen, but I just kept going. The hotel was in sight.

The young man in reception could not have been kinder. He took his job seriously,and he made quick work of checking me in, no doubt as he could see the sweat trickling down my red ball of a face.

Once I showered, I regained my equilibrium, and went in search of groceries. First stop was the liquor store to pick up an NB cider, and then onto Sobey’s. Well the IGA dream is certainly over. I settled for a very plebeian salad, augmenting with an avocado and cheese.

And here I am completely sun-baked, ready to say bonne nuit. Tomorrow I have a 200 km ride to Saint John; that’s 200 km in which to find the beauty and charm of this province. Plenty of time, right?