Bobcaygeon to Halifax by Bike

 

I needed new legs. A year ago I ripped a hamstring apeing the Karate Kid. Implusiveness thwarted healing. Long walks through winter morphed into longer bike rides in spring - only to end in disappointment when I had to take a taxi on the final day of a 400km ride. Then I got an email from my German friend Heike, she is a globe-trotting cyclist and she was coming to Canada to begin a three-year odyssey through the Americas. I collected her at the airport and after a few days rest we set off on a three day trip to visit her aunt in Prince Edward County. Although we are both generally solo travellers, we enjoyed the comradeship. Heike is organized and efficient, while I’m tatterdemalion, that said, we’re both pros at stealth camping and route planning, we clicked like the gears on our bikes. My plan was to at least make it to Picton, then perhaps Ottawa. My dream was to continue along the St. Laurence North Shore, across Newfoundland and on to Halifax. CBD oil - lots of CBD oil - numbed the early morning jagged pain until the endorphins kicked in with peddling. The likelihood of long ferry waits made me change plans, I would bike across New Brunswick instead of the North Shore. I had no maps for the Maritimes, Google would guide me.

 

 

 All was good, indeed magical, along a verdant rail trail from Rivière du Loup towards New Brunswick. Abruptly the trail ended in a massive highway expansion project, the hillside gouged out by marauding earthmovers. The adjacent Trans Canada Highway was reduced to single lane detours through lines of beacons. I had joined the slow moving east bound traffic on what seemed a service road. Suddenly the roadworks ended and I’m on a long downhill stretch of motorway with trucks thundering past me at 120kph, I’m maxed out at 35kph wondering what to do, the highway is lined with high page wire moose barrier and the next exit could be miles away. Then I see a police cruiser has pulled over a vehicle in the west bound lane - ahh nah, now I got blue meanies on my trail. An upcoming bridge is my only chance. The packed rock beneath the bridge was at a 45 degree angle, too steep to push a loaded bike up, I traversed it at an angle, avoiding falling into the chasm beneath me, trucks flashing by below honking horns in encouragement as they roared by. A successful assent and I’m back on a service road paralleling the highway. I see the cop car go by where I had just been. I had done a Gandolf and disappeared into thin air. Three weeks and 2,500 kilometres I had new legs again.