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.