Day One

We had slept well, camped next to a river. On its cobble shore, we breakfasted on oatmeal. Only the most enduring maples had traces of their summer coats remaining on this, the 10^th day of November. It was cold and I, lacking the requisite wintry conviction, cleaned dishes in the river while James and Ben spent all of fifteen seconds swimming.

We tossed our kit haphazardly into the car and drove in search of supplies and parking. By 10am, we’d amassed a solid 15 pounds of edibles and we stood, gear strewn about us, in the public parking lot in downtown Baddeck. Sleeping bags & pads, kitchen kit, tent, food, spare parts – the mental checklist (would we really consider carrying the printed version?) seemed complete. And amazingly, everything fit with reasonable comfort into our panniers and onto rack tops.

Come time for departure, the sun shone brightly and the air had warmed enough for us to bear single-layers. The Bras d’Or Lakes glowed ripple-less as we rode in laughter along its shore, rejoicing in our successful escape from the confines of city life, if only for a few days.

An encouraging tailwind made most of the trip northward a breeze. Cape Smokey, the final barrier (and only mentionable climb of the day) lay between us and Ingonish. Its punishingly steep, 2km ascent spread us apart by a few minutes, but we reconvened near the top to bask in the amber glow of the full moon as it rose over the Atlantic horizon to our right.

Darkness fell heavily as we pedaled the remaining 10km into Ingonish. James led us straight to his perennial campsite – a wide open field next to a shallow rapid. We cooked sausages over the fire built with James’ summer cache of wood and we waxed philosophical into the night, charged by the moon and the dwindling embers.

Day Two

Environment Canada had promised us a mostly unpleasant day. As we stirred around 8, their promise seemed on course for fulfillment. Admiring a tombstone-grey sky and a heavy mist in the air, we needed little persuasion to don our impermeables. A gear nut at the worst of times, I think I looked a bit better prepared than James or Ben, both of whom used plastic bags and duct tape to waterproof their shoes, neither with tremendous success.

It began as a drizzle. By the time we were pulling into Neil’s Harbour nearing 11am, the rain fell drenchingly, and monstrous, wind-conjured swells crashed like thunder against the jagged, rocky coastline just a few dozen metres to our starboard.

Our only hope for a moment’s peace faded depressingly when we discovered that the grocery store was closed for the holiday and the only restaurant in town was closed for the season.

Just a bit further down that ol’ soggy road, we noticed the vehicles of what was surely the entire population of the town parked in droves next to the parish hall. Imagine our delight when two locals invited us to dry off and attend what turned out to be a very genuine Remembrance Day ceremony. And now, imagine our thrill when they invited us to stay for lunch!

In true Cape Breton fashion, Dave, the host of the ceremony, invited the three of us to make use of a washer and drier, to stay the night in the comfort station at the fire hall, and further, to join the town’s populace at their monthly pub night in the parish hall. With some regret, we declined – we simply needed to make more progress in the day. Chocked full of unexpected calories & coffee, we raced headstrong into what had by now become a positively violent torrent of a storm.

The final 9km of the day were an arduous lot. The road had curved southward and we thrusted head-on into a vicious and forceful wind that was being funneled and accelerated by the steep mountainsides that lined the valley through which we rode.

We pulled in to a Parks Canada picnic shelter that, thankfully, was to remain open year round. Expecting a quiet night amongst ourselves, we were initially confused and skeptical at the thought of sharing the rather small concrete floor with the two Swedes, the German, and their Canadian host Simon (all constituents of the Mount Allison University outdoors club) who all had arrived moments earlier by car. But once the wood stove was roaring, once the wet clothes were hanging, and once our bellies were chocked full, riotous laughter abounded.

After the Europeans had settled into sleep, Simon (who, incidentally, grew up but a five minute bike ride from my parents’ house) approached Ben, James and me with a bizarre proposition. He asked, “do you guys want me to read to you from my book Famous Speeches of Cicero?” We glanced at each other momentarily and after a unanimous telepathic vote, someone excellently let out, “heck yeah!” The speech – it was an epic – may have been a bit dry, but Simon did not disappoint.  He even tacked on his synopsis of the history of Sparta. An informative evening, it was.

Day Three

Despite the absence of intoxicants beyond a few paltry sips of Glen Livet, we awoke with a hangover-like feeling in our minds. The forecast had broken its promise of a cleared Saturday and we gawked through the windows (not daring to open the door) at trees being thrashed under a lifeless sky and occasional bouts of snow flurries. We somberly packed up while the motorists, to our delight, fried bacon directly on the surface of the woodstove.

As we loaded up the bikes, the sun shone upon us just momentarily. What a tease! Without a warm up, we began our ascent of North Mountain. Mom seemed to take delight in abusing us with her foulest of weather. Her ceaseless wind, which surely gusted at 70km/h, whipped our faces with ice pellets without reprieve.

Keeping a sustained pace on a 7% grade is hard enough when the weather’s calm, but this ridiculous scene, without exaggeration, regularly reduced our crawl to a standstill. Tremendously, we surmounted the 5km climb, only to discover that the top, whilst topographically devoid, was cursed with a wind dramatically more intense. The now constant precipitation was, at best, horizontal.

With a big descent forthcoming, we crammed ourselves into the peak’s emergency shelter to add layers. And glad, we were, that we did. The descent to Pleasant Bay, though lasting only 12 minutes, was one of the least pleasant rides I’d ever endured. With nothing exposed but for my cheeks, lips, eyes, and nose, I rode in comfort, albeit blindly, with my head down. To lift my head to see the road forthcoming as it hurtled towards me at 35km/h was to have my face blasted with ice pellets.

For the second time in two days, we took coffee and snacks on the floor of a small grocery store, puddles forming all around us. With a modicum of dread, we resumed course, expecting the worst. But then something miraculous happened – little by little, the thick cloud cover morphed into a bright, clear day. The arduous ascent up Mackenzie mountain turned out to be borderline pleasant. The wind, vicious as ever, was forgivable, given our newfound visions of azure.

Our traverse of the French Mountain plateau ended with hummus & cheese wraps mere meters before the descent to Cheticamp. An explosive sunset over the Gulf of St. Laurence blinded us for much of the ride down, but we cheerfully embraced every second of it, at one point laughing hysterically, filled with a joy of no tangible origin, hurtling coastward at 60km/h.

Heaping platters of artery-clogging battered halibut and magnificently salty fries, we devoured with little fanfare. Darkness long since fallen, we solicited at random a house behind which we would camp, in its lee of the still-raging wind.

Day Four

Up and at ‘em well before the sun had come over the highlands, and at least an hour before the temperature had climbed above 6 degrees, we tore down our tent and finally made the early departure to which we’d been aspiring for the preceding 3 days. We took shelter from the directly confrontational and ever fiercely gusting wind behind an abandoned gas station where we squatted around our stove and coffee pot to eat the dregs of our oatmeal supplemented with the dregs of our trail mix.

The sun crested the highlands as we packed up the kitchen and, with the first glimmering hope of warmth in three days, we excitedly set out upon the final 100kms of our journey. We bore the wind, taking comfort in the knowledge that it would soon be in our favour.

The road cut eastward and inland at Margaree Harbour and from there, we might as well have put up a spinnaker. We fell into an efficiently rotating paceline and cruised at 30+km/h all the way to an extraordinary coffee and cookie break at the Dancing Goat Café. Having suitably readjusted the caffeine-blood ratio in our circulatory systems, we hustled forth, to and over Hunter’s Mountain, barreling free of care downward with home blinking on the radar.

Strewn about like rubbish, we lay/sat/squatted on a patch of grass to enjoy our final velo-meal featuring peanut butter, cheese, hummus, veggies, bread, cookies, and my best attempts at The Beatles’ Something on the ukelele. I can’t apologize profusely enough for that one.

With hands in the air, we gleefully cruised down the final hill back to Baddeck, returning to our parked car. Under a clear afternoon sky, we embraced one another in mutual congratulations. Plumes from a celebratory Cohiba filled the air, passed around as we packed the car to begin the drive back to reality.

More photos and detailed descriptions are available on Flickr.

Day One

As per usual, my plan consisted of “get on the bike and go.” I held little regard to the fact that this was likely to be the most challenging ride I’d ever in my life undertaken. As I vaguely recalled from a quick glance at Google Maps weeks earlier, the pinnacle of the day’s trip lay somewhere around 25km from the town of Lourdes. Having not actually ceded any worth to a regional map, I pedaled ambiguously southeast from Lourdes towards what looked like some pretty seriously mountains. My destination? The infamous Col du Tourmalet.

The col, situated on the northern cusp of the middle Pyrenees, is famous for its consistently devastating effects on riders of the Tour de France. The climb is of about 19km in length, with elevation gain of about 1400m (an average grade of 7.4%). The first 14kms build a casket of between 5% and 8% grade, while the ultimate four hammer the nails in, averaging 9.5%.

A magnet to cyclists from around the world, the col was graced by an estimated 60 challengers that day. It was noontime when I finally began climbing so I encountered far more spandex-clad speedsters riding with the aide of gravity than in her opposition. Quite surprisingly, I found myself overtaking numerous others along the climb.  I settled into 12km/h pace over the lower 14km and despite the eerie sense of impending doom that comes with inexperience while passing other riders on a climb, I carried on at that pace.

Paint abundantly adorned the roadway during the home stretch, encouraging in the boldest of letters some of the more famous names in the 2010 Tour de France. I felt part of a bizarre new league, suffering in spirit along with Shleck, Contador, and the almighty Thor. I took a quick break to devour a banana and stretch my legs once more before the summit bid. I allowed was forced to drop the pace down to 9-10km/h for the more heavenwardly ultimate four kilometers, but I felt little in the way of inadequacy.

The immense heat I was surely radiating quite effectively masked the fact that the temperature had dropped significantly as I approached the top. The sunny day in the valley had faded into obscurity from the fog-consumed crest. My first reaction upon arriving at the top was simple amazement at how bloody cold it had become. Second, where’s the missing monument? And third, let’s get the hell out of here. En français pathetique, I persuaded another cyclist to take a quick snap of me before I donned my warmers and began hurtling towards Lourdes at straightaway speeds nearing 80km/h.

Perhaps it was adrenaline or the thrill of accomplishment, but I obviously failed to recognize just how draining the climb had been. After a solid half hour of rapid descent, I stopped for a stretch and a cheeseburger (with the most amazing mustard I’ve as yet known) then despite my legs' firey protests, I tediously pedaled the thirty flat kilometers back to Lourdes – I couldn’t bear the thought of being seen on a city bus for the home stretch.

My three-piece grocery store dinner (meat, cheese, bread) temporarily filled the insatiable cyclist’s void until I soundly passed the night under a trickle of rainfall, stretched out in the vacated back two-thirds of my rental minivan, dreaming of climbs to come.

Day Two

Waking up to rain is seldom inspiring, but I summoned the conviction to re-transplant the cargo from the driver and passenger seats back to its rightful place on my bed, before heading off to a three-piece grocery store breakfast.

On this, the 4^th of June, the aforementioned missing monument was atop the bed of a truck, waiting to be delivered to the crest of the col. In the ten years of this tradition, the delivery had become quite an event. As many cyclists as were willing could join the party, parading up the col to celebrate the grand re-opening of the cycling season in the Pyrenees.

The call to battle was preceded by the distribution of commemorative yellow scarves and surprisingly strong coffee with pastries. The overtly grey day didn’t seem to foster inhibitions here like it did at Falmouth in May; cyclists started turning up by the hundreds. A veritable sea of spandex, riders of all ages and inclinations turned up to celebrate. Marvelously, they had even hired the local brass band with whom I quickly made friends (let it be known that trombonism transcends all linguistic barriers).

The ride approached the col from the opposite side today. In the face of yesterday’s epic, today’s 17km ascent was comparatively tame with its net elevation gain of merely 1,260m. Thankfully, the bar was raised by the inclement weather. 15 minutes into the ride, a tolerable precipitant spit had turned into a healthy light rain and cyclists by the dozens were pulling over to don their impermeables.

On this day, I endured a much more encouraging mix of passing with being passed. There were visibly fit riders delighting in the treachery of the climb at a break-neck pace while alongside them rode their older and wiser counterparts from a different era, now well into their sluggish, but golden years of fitness.  Amongst the fittest of the group was the day’s celebrity guest, five time TdF winner, Miguel Indurain. He didn’t give the impression that he was there to impress. I fit somewhere in the depths of the spectrum: passed regularly, but more often passing.

Locals in the few villages en route came out (but not from beneath their umbrellas) to cheer everyone on. One farmer even brought out a large herd of clearly confused cattle just to rile things up.

Even at a slightly brisker pace over yesterday’s (+0.5km/h average), today’s ride felt much more manageable and relaxed. There’s tremendous encouragement in being surrounded by hundreds of like minds, even whilst attempting feats of positive ridicule. But perhaps the feed station (mandatory video) inspired the most confidence of all – seldom, if ever, has a wee toss of Bordeaux red been a hindrance to the ambitions of the cyclist.

Despite its fine luxuries, I made a very brief visit of the feed station, knowing that to get comfortable in its glorious warmth would be a terrible mistake. With only 5km from there to the crest, I pushed on. Remarkably, I found myself crossing the line amongst the first 50 finishers. Evidently, I still have yet to comprehend the finer points of casual cycling. The now steady rain and genuinely cold temperatures left me little reason to linger at the top. I stood awkwardly amongst a dozen chilled cyclists, squeezing wet legs into insulating garments then began hurtling downward.

After thirty seconds of descent, I had lost all distinct sensation in my unprotected fingers. With my hands on the drops, I wrapped all four quivering unopposed digits around the brake levers and prayed to the mountain king that I not lose the ability to hinder the pace of this terrifying, cold, wet downward spiral. Moaning like a frost-bitten baby, I made it back to the feed station and stuck around long enough for most of a meal, a second glass of wine, and sufficient time to come up with a plan to evade death over the remainder of the ride.

Re-inspired by the choir (yes, the choir) at the station, I yanked my arm warmers out from under my jacket sleeves and fashioned them into a pair of sock puppets to take the place of a real pair of gloves. With a pair of chilly elbows, I gradually felt the temperature rise as my vertical distance from the crest grew. The descent was much more solitary than the climb, passed only once or twice in my soggy hesitance and only a few times finding myself more hurried than another.

After a long cold voyage back down, an eerie hush loomed in the village, the real energy clearly dwelling somewhere well above me. Completely devoid of shame, I bore my pale posterior and razor sharp bike-short tan lines for all to see in the mostly vacant parking lot as I toweled off.

Under the delightful protection of dry clothes and a heated car, I concluded that I’d had just about enough of cold weather and mountains. All and all, 'twas a successful voyage, so I promptly made my way to the beach.

John pulled up to the house around a quarter past nine. I was waiting just inside the door, clad in a blue sweater & black tights with my baggage and bicycle in hands. Removing both wheels, there was barely enough space to squeeze my upside-down frame into the trunk of his Volkswagon, adding subtly to the large collection of chainring grease marks smeared on the fabric ceiling of the car. I rode shotgun while John's bike occupied the whole of the back bench for the drizzly drive towards Falmouth.

Admittedly, I was quite nervous for this, my first ever road race. I semi-confidently threw around the lingo that I'd accumulated over a few years of race enthusiasm in conversation with John during the drive, but cluelessness was surely painted all over my face. I had chosen to race in the B-group, second class between A and D. John, an experienced racer, praised my desire to enjoy an ass-kicking rather than a cake-walking.

Throughout the 45-minute drive, the weather deteriorated steadily. The scarcely heated shack of a registration centre offered little in the way of relief. The muddy parking lot had a smattering of cars, their cyclists and their bikes somewhere nearby. A mist on the brink of condensing into rain hung in the air and few riders made an effort to hide their discontentment about it. In the two hours before the race started, the parking lot steadily filled until a grand total of about 90 riders had arrived. John and I went for a quick warm-up ride out and back on the last three kilometres of the circuit. He graciously explained to me some of the behaviour I could anticipate come the home stretch - advice that would turn out to be of questionable value. Heeding the word of an authoritative man with a megaphone, the registered masses made their way down to the start line.

Behaving not unlike a herd of cats, the B-group assembled behind the A-group at the start line. Not having even a clue how a start worked, watching the A-group hit the road first instilled a modicum of confidence. Our role call began just a few minutes later. Riders chattered until the 30-second warning, when the percussive racket of clipping-in en masse took over. With the mention of ten, there was evidence of some focus amongst riders. An eery silence hovered in the absence of a second by second countdown (my illusions of NASA caliber start were dashed) and the group slowly got into gear as instructed with, "Go!"

The course was an 11.5km circuit and we the 20 B-group riders had been committed to doing it 8 times. There was one 'mentionable' climb of about 750m in length not too far from the start line, succeeded beyond its crest by a descent of about 1.5km. A hard right turn at the bottom of the hill led into a long straightaway with little worth mentioning in the way of topography. The feed zone (How did that work?, I wondered) was a motivating group of volunteers at the side of the road midway through a shallow climb of about 400m in length. Beyond that came a 200m stretch of possibly the most dreadful pavement west of Roubaix, followed by a steep descent into a sharp right turn and two kilometres of home stretch on rolling hills.

Traveling clockwise, the route starts at Eldridge Road.

Once the pack got moving, I settled in somewhere around the 6th rider, making sure (as so wisely advised by John) not to gesture that I was in any way shape or form interested in taking the lead. We moved along at a pretty comfortable pace for the first lap, taking the climb pretty easily and not getting too excited on the descent. The backside of the course was calm and quite by accident, I found myself up front. I never pushed hard at the front and yet I seldom felt any motion of overtaking from anyone behind me. I drifted to the centre line approaching the climb at the feed zone so as to allow any of the more ambitious climbers to take their wont. I quickly learned how unaccommodating a drafting cyclist can be when you want to cut in front of him into the middle of the pace line. I soon found myself looking at the backs of all 20 riders in the group.

The rough section took more than a few riders by surprise. The pace slowed dramatically and there was more than enough swerving going to make me fear for my life. I found myself more than a little thankful for the preceding day's 'race skills training camp' during the rough patch - especially the lesson about rubbing wheels. The group was a tight pack as we pulled over the crest onto the smoothly paved descent, but the last hard right turn was in sight. The lead riders ground nearly to a halt approaching the corner then put the hammer down as soon as they were through. As the 17th or so rider in the pack, I was a solid 30m behind the leader as I pulled out of the turn. I floored it just to hang on. It took full steam for thirty seconds until the group finally reassembled; no casualties yet. We crossed the lap line to the hoots, hollers and applause of the dozen standers-by. One down, seven more to go.

Coming into the climb on the second lap, I was stricken by something peculiar. I unexpectedly found I was enjoying myself. The pace on the climb was a little stiffer, but still manageable. The group (or was it just me?) seemed to be relaxing a bit - perhaps settling into a rhythm. We were all going to be here for another two hours; might as well get comfortable. I once again found myself at the front of the pack on the backside of the course, but this time I wasn't really upset about it. The pace was still more than manageable (since I was setting it) and there were a few other riders that were willing to trade breaks at the front. There was some drama - lost bottles (one of my own included), wheel rubs, and even one crash, but the train kept moving. We crossed the lap line to the same unabashed fanfare we had received the lap before. And again on the third lap.

Come the climb on the fourth lap, there was a new sensation. There was a tiny hint of protest coming from my calves. "That's interesting," I thought to myself like it were one of those blinking red lights on a car dash that I so readily ignore. And ignore I did. I even stuck it out front despite the wind that had picked up noticeably on the backside. My lost bottle had found its way to the feed zone at some point during the third lap and with my onboard bottle approaching depletion, I committed to retrieving my lost this time around. I let myself fall to the back of the pack so as to make for a smooth retrieval. I saw the bottle sitting on the ground. I pointed and shouted, trying to get one of the volunteers to pick it up and hand it to me. I foolishly touched my breaks. "Keep going!" he shouted, running along beside me. I chuckled dishearteningly, thanked him, and put the bottle in its rightful place. I looked up to see the next rider more than two bike lengths ahead of me and three more riders spread out between him and the bulk of the group more than 10m ahead. Whoops. I stepped on the gas to catch the group by the top of the hill, expending lots more energy than I should have. I hung on, but that little red light of protest was flashing a little more attention-hungrily as we slogged up the stretch of rubble.

Temporarily expended and in last place would be a pretty sad state of affairs at the best of times, but it was a particular nuisance at that last right hand turn. I was glued to a wheel approaching the turn, but a few riders wiser than I knew that the pack was wounded and it just so happened that they had a bit of salt for the rubbing. They set a fire out of the turn and by the time I was on the straightaway, it was a raging inferno - solidly 40m ahead of me. I kept a pace only a little shy of theirs, but could only watch as the gap grew. Thankfully, I was in good, albeit grumpy company, dropped from the pack with three others like dust in the tail of a comet.

The pack remained within sight and illusively within hope for about 5 minutes, but after crossing the lap line for a fourth time and arriving at the base of the climb, my ambitions of finishing with the pack seemed all but lost. I hopped off the bike momentarily, no longer to incur a cost for answering nature's call. I saw purity of wisdom in abandoning this foolhardy endeavour, but for some as yet inexplicable reason, I chose to continue. With little foreseeable reward (what's pride worth, anyway?), I dragged myself along the course for another four solitary laps. And in spite the rather pathetic, semi-capable, drooping mass of humanity that I surely appeared to be, the volunteers were ceaseless in heralding their encouragement. I even received an inspiring, "good job!" from a breakaway rider in the A-group, two minutes or so before his entire chasing peloton whipped past me at a break-neck pace. As my sole driving force took on the form of completion, I took to reminding myself that this companionless spin through the hills could just serve as another training ride, motivational fodder for the next race in which I'd surely trump all challengers to my developing reign. It's funny how quickly addiction can set in.

John and a few friends that I hadn't seen since my falling into the abyss on lap four were waiting at the finish line. Waiting, that is, for the shortly forthcoming of the A-group's finish. All but the A-group having finished, the idling mass of riders stood laughing, praising, and empathetically bemoaning of exhaustion while waiting for the finish. I took solace in learning that a mere four riders had not been left behind by the B-group's leaders. I was even thanked by one of the leaders for all the work I had done in the first two laps. Yeah. You're welcome.

A platoon of beaten down, but high-spirited cyclists attended a parking lot awards ceremony worthy of the finest Olympian just as the blackflies came out for supper. Many winners, from many walks proudly received their kudos, recharged with the right to brag of a podium finish in the Falmouth Flyer Spring Classic. And I, having replaced my struggle to pedal with a newfound struggle to remain upright, took notes. I'm definitely bringing my A-game to the B-pack in Riverport. Just you wait…

The B-pack, pre-tragedy. Thanks to Brianne for the photo.

I cannot recommend highly enough the cycling classic 'The Rider' by Tim Krabbé. Please read it for a fascinating and highly entertaining glimpse into the twisted mind of a road racer - something to be, I hereby aspire. I own a well-worn copy and will happily lend it out.