Hey People,
How you doin' out there in the real world.
I'm okay here in my own, but it took some doing. You wouldn't believe what I've been through, then perhaps you would.
But first. I was just listening to the radio and heard that an aquaintance of mine passed away of brain cancer the other day. Her name was Colleen McCrory. Some of you may have heard of her. About 15 or 20 years ago she became quite famous for the stand she made to protect a very rugged and beautiful part of the BC interior called the Valhallas. Today it is a park, but back then industrialists wanted to strip it, clear cut it, and do what they've done to so much of the world. Colleen stood up. Others joined her, and in the end they won some battles.
Many people didn't like Colleen. Some for fear, some for reasons of their own, some for her abruptness, some for her arrogance, some for no reason other than it was fashionable for a time to hate Colleen McCrory. I've probably heard more bad things about Colleen than I ever heard good, and for that reason alone I liked her. There were other reasons.
When I was a beat reporter for Hollinger, Colleen used to call me with tips. She'd give me ideas for stories, hot leads, and a lot of background information. Even years later, when I was out of the biz, she would stop me on the street and say; "Hey Will, how ya doin', have you heard about this issue or that?" She was just one of those people who knew if you told me something interesting, I would look into it, and if there was something I could do to make it more interesting, I would.
I also liked her because when the people around her turned on her, she stayed put. She didn't run and hide. Maybe she had to close up shop and make herself a little less of a target, but she didn't go far. Heck, she turned around and tried to get elected for the Greens in the very community where she was persona non grata. That took some guts. Collen had guts, lots of guts. More guts than most of her detractors have ever mustered.
I didn't like a lot of Colleen's politics. And yes, a couple times she even used me a little for her own purposes. She even had some old fashioned ideas that rubbed my socialist soul the wrong way. And more than once her and I had debates that ended in stubborn obstinence, on both sides. She was intense, at times narrow minded, gruff, and sometimes even harsh, but Colleen McCrory could see the forest for the trees, she knew what was right, and she stood up for what she believed.
I don't care what anyone else thinks of the woman, but as far as I'm concerned she was a modern day Kootenay hero and a Canadian treasure. I'll miss her scowl as much as I'll miss her smile, which I thought was quite delightful, having been lucky enough to see it a few times.
So here's to Colleen, who I'm sure is rocking the boat somewhere up the line.
Anyway, I was in Kisbey after a long ride in the best wind I've ever had. I did 165 K, or over 110 miles that day. Amazing!
Then the wheels came off. No, not really, but it felt like I was riding on my drop outs and not my wheels for the next few days. That first day from Kisbey to Redvers was one of the worst. I had 30 K head-crosswinds and the drivers on the amazingly busy Highway 13 were intent on teaching me not to play in traffic. I don't know how many times I was buzzed and honked at, and cut off, but it was a lot. And the semi-trucks were doing their part, letting out their engine brakes, refusing to push over. It was nasty, but it ended nice enough.
After about eight hours riding I wound up in the little village of Deleau, named after one of its early citizens who gave the railroad a quarter section of his land on the condition they would name the town they planned to build after him. His name was Deleau, and I met his grandson, now 86 years old. Actually, I met nearly the entire town of Deleau that night. Well, there is no town anymore, but the site where they'd had their schoolhouse still remains as a picnic ground and "free camping" area. Its a lovely little patch of green on the prairie, surrounded my big old spruce trees that old Deleau himself planted. There's a travellers guestbook in a little shack there, in case you're passing through.
On the night I got there the townsfolk, who are really local farm families, were gathered to honour the town's 120th birthday with a round of lawnmower races, a hot dog roast, an old farm vehicle show, and something they called a "Redneck Fashion Show" which consisted mostly of the some of the more grueseome and tougher men of the area parading around in drag! The girls were boys and the boys were girls, and the best fun was the lawnmower race, during which the frontrunner lost a rear wheel, but still managed to win the race by hopping off the vehicle and pushing it to the finish line on three wheels.
Through the evening, in singles and little groups, the townsfolk came by to visit me, to ask where I was going, where I came from, and to tell me I was most welcome there.
I slept well and got an early start the next morning, but it was more of the same - headwinds and traffic. By time I made Souris, some four hours and only 25 K later, I was ready for a change. Waiting out a T-storm that rolled in, I decided to ride the wind north to Brandon. I'm not sure why I decided to do that, except I was sick of the head-crosses. If I was driven by some desire to visit Brandon, that desire would soon be nipped in the bud.
It was a good road going north, freshly paved, not too much traffic. I was making good time for about 5 K when I saw a truck coming up in my rear view mirror. There was something protruding from the passenger side window so I got over far as I could. As it passed I heard a popping sound. At that very moment I swerved to avoid a dead porcupine on the side of the road. Between the popping sound, the porcupine, and the noise of the car passing, I wasn't sure what was going on. Then I heard it, a slight hissing sound coming from my rear tire. I stopped.
There was clearly a BB lodged in the roadside of my tire, right near the rim. But there was something else, a porcupine quill, sticking out and rubbing against my brake pad. Wheels had been shot by a BB gun, and stabbed by a dead porcupine, all in the same moment!
I walked Wheels and BoB to a nearby pull out, disengaged BoB, took all my panniers off, then flipped Wheels up, loosened the brakes, undid the quick release, and dislodged the wheel. Digging into my tool kit, I produced a couple spoons and began peeling the tire from the rim. While I was doing all this, a farmer came by, pulled up his truck across the road, and got out. He came to see if I was okay. While we talked I continued the repair, bemoaning the fact I didn't really see what the shooter's vehicle looked like, and not really paying close enough attention to what I was doing.
Replacing both tire and tube, I put the wheel back in its drop outs, lifted the chain in place, and began using my pump to blow it up. I got it nice and hard then it went soft again. I repeated the charade. Then the farmer, who was a very sweet man, but deaf as a doornail, pointed to a white garage near some silos about a K away.
"That's my place over there," he said, "there's a compressor there. Feel free to walk your bike over and deal with the problem there. I'll be back in an hour."
An hour later, when he returned, I'd finally managed to fix a tube and replace it. Turns out I'd punctured the first one when I foolishly doubled up the tube inside it. While I had the compressor at my service I took a minute to patch an extra tube, just in case. But there were other issues. I had to put my narrower gauge tire back on, the one that had been shot, because the wider gauge one was rubbing against the forks. So, as it turns out, my rear forks are once again warped and the drop-out maligned. Its okay to use a thinner tire, but I will have to get it fixed, I told myself.
By time I was done a good two hours had passed. Instead of getting to Brandon by supper time, I now knew I'd be there by dark, maybe, if nothing else went wrong. So I set off again, and was amazed how quickly I covered the remaining 20 K to Highway #1, the TransCanada. Then I made another decision. I'm not sure why, but for some reason I thought it would be more fun to run a dirt road then ride the Trans Canada. So I did, no surprise.
Two hours later, about 7 pm, I'm four or five K up that road when a thought occured to me. 'Will, you gotta be the craziest person I know. What are you doin' six K up a rocky, bumpy sandtrap. You'd be in Brandon by now if you took the highway! Besides, what's this all about today, running away from the wind, gettin' shot at by bb guns, making new holes in tubes while you're patching them? Maybe this is a bad idea all together. Remember Brandon Will, that's where all the hitchhikers used to get stuck back in the '60s and '70s. You had to walk by a hundred people just to get past all the other hitchers. It was hitchiker hell Will. Remember?'
Some time went by. I tried to empty my mind. Then another thought occured. I always got a ride from Brandon, a good one. And one time, when I showed up on the street with sunstroke, some folks took me in and nursed me back to health. I wanted to see it again, and I wasn't about to turn back into the wind.
A side road north came up and I took it to the highway. At the junction my greatest fear manifested itself. There was no shoulder, just gravel and sand! The thought of dying overtook me. I stood a good ten minutes staring at the road as if it were my own demise. Finally I decided if it was time to die, then it was time to die, and if it wasn't, I wouldn't. I said a few last tender goodbyes to myself, then pulled Wheels and BoB into the slow lane.
Trucks rumbled by, giant Winnibegos, horse trailers, little race cars, then it went quiet for a good five minutes, at the end of which a sign appeared, "Brandon, 1A, Next Right."
Before I knew it I was off the highway and onto the 1A, happy at first until I saw the posted speed, 100 Km/hour. The wind was in my face, right out of the east now. I ploughed on. After nearly two hours I'd ridden the 16 to town, robbed my bank account, and did it again!
I saw cyclists heading down a side street, going north, through the coulee between the town and the highway. I followed them, and wound up on a river cycling trail that wound over a steep old railway bridge, up and down some light hills, through some trees, and out into a large grassy area.
There I stopped and asked a fellow who was playing with his kids how to get to the campground on Highway 1. He told me how to get there, then checked with his wife who was nearby. They explained the route about three times, then he said: "Yeah, that's where it is, but if you go north down this road two kilometers, there's another campground that's probably cheaper."
I'd heard of it but thought it was miles away. I thanked the couple and rolled, finally with some wind. I did that two K in minutes, without blinking, pulled into the campground, which was advertised as the Turtle Crossing, past the rink, and around the swimming pool, up to the office complex. It was all quite large. Walking in, I asked the woman, who was sitting at a computer amid a pile of boxes and papers; "How much to camp for the night, a man and a bicycle?"
"Twenty five dollars," said the young, smiling, plump woman, pausing a moment before continuing, "Plus tax!"
A fire breathing dragon hidden deep inside my larynx awoke and stormed up my vocal chords, determined to emerge and reduce the woman, and her office, into a heap of dust and ash, but I managed to corral it at the tip of my tounge.
"I don't need power or water," I said, politely smiling.
"That's without power or water. There's no restroom nearby but there is a water hose," she explained.
The dragon almost got away on me again. I held it back.
"Twenty five plus tax to pitch a tent eh! Well, you win the award (I could feel the dragon squirm) for the highest price I've had to pay for camping anywhere, anytime, ever. Congratulations. Now where is this expensive patch of earth?"
She pulled a map from a shelf and showed it to me. Pointing to two shaded out areas that were meant to depict swamp, she said: "You can camp on any part of the grass in here, this side is dryer."
I gave her the $25, rolled down the path, found the swamp, and set up on the highest point of land I could find, a mowed patch near a basketball court.
In less than two hours I set camp, cooked dinner, wrote in my rough book, and killed about two hundred million mosquitos, before catching an early bed. It was an amazing sleep, best I ever had, wonderful dreamless death, until a six a.m. when one of the kids of a Winnibego camper decided he needed to play basketball, and started dribbling a big leather ball on the wet concrete of the basketball court.
"Hey Kid, could you do that later!" I called out, once I'd extracated myself from my hovel, after pulling on my sweatpants and bike jacket in order to insulate against the buzzing world outside my mesh.
"What?" asked the kid.
I felt so bad, but I just had to say it: "Do you think you could do that later, I'm still trying to sleep over here?"
"Oh," said the kid, a boy about 12, with a totally dejected look on his face as he walked away. I thought I heard him thinking, "That guy's a grump."
Couldn't get back to sleep so I did my morning thing, made coffee, heated water for porridge, disassembled camp, and took some time to write. At eight I was on the road.
Leaving, I felt the dragon huff, so I went back into the office where I came face to face with the owner, the previous night's attendant's mother. I went in and said: "You know, this is one of the prettiest sights I've seen for a campground, all treed and full of flowers and bush, but the price you're charging for a solo person on a bike to camp is outrageous. Nowhere outside of the National Parks have I seen such rates, even in Banff."
"I'm sorry you feel that way," she replied, smiling. "We've just taken over three days ago and we're still getting a sense of things."
"Well, most campgrounds these days are offering a deal to cyclists," I said, lying through my hat. "They set up a little place with some shade, a few picnic tables, sometimes a cooking hut, and charge $10 maybe $12 a head. We're low impact you know. We come late, leave early, don't tear up your roads or waste your electricity."
I saw a light come on in her eyes. She got what I was talking about and I knew it. There was no need to say more. I said goodbye and she wished me a good ride.
Back into the wind I went, but I'd figured a back way, right from the campground, out a paved regional road, 457, that would keep me off the highway for several kilometers. When I did finally reach the highway there were a series of well used, albeit gravelly, service roads I was able to switch back and forth on until I came to Secondary Highway 351. That was one lovely road, lotsa small hills, trees, a few streams.
Unfortunately, it did not take the wind out of my face and after nearly eight hours I'd only managed to go about 45 K, to Carberry. By time I arrived in that funky little town my legs were watermelons again and my knees were like the tin man's. There was no campground within 20 K, so I was thinking of turning south again, just to get a crosswind instead of the header. It would mean 20 K in a heavy cross, but I thought I could do it. Then I checked the time, 5:30 pm. Then I checked the rates at the Carberry motel. For $10 more than I paid the night before I could get a room with a shower and bath.
That was one helluva good idea. I sat in the bath, cooked dinner, sat in the bath, ate chocolate, watched tv, showered, then fell asleep about 9:30.
At 11 the next morning I was ready to go again. Actually, I was ready to go earlier but wasn't about to give up my room while it was thundering and lightning out. The storm died out about 10, and with it the wind. I headed out in a light south crosswind, and within an hour and a half was 20 K up the road in Sidney, where I pulled in to make a tire change because I realized my back rim was too warped to hold the size 38 tire.
Pulling up to the General Store, on Canada Day, I found some folks loading a barbeque to take down to the local park for their Canada Day party. I asked if they had air, and one of the three, a fellow, said he could go home and get his electronic pump, if I'd hang on a couple minutes. I explained it would take some minutes for me to do the change, so that would be fine.
He left with his wife, and I was left there with one of sweetest people I've ever met. Her name was Amanda, she grew up in Sidney and has always been there. She runs a local store and that's about it, except we had an amazing little moment in time and I left her with the thought: If I'd known you were here, I'd have showed up sooner. She laughed.
When she invited me to join them for the party, I told her only if she knew of a pickup truck that would take me to Winnipeg on Monday. She said: "No. Not on Monday." In retrospect I should have said: "How about Tuesday?" but I didn't. It was time to move. I'd found my good luck charm. Its always a good sign when I meet a beautiful woman just as I'm leaving town.
Miraculously the wind was down and the shoulder was paved to within a few K of Portage La Prairie. At about 5 p.m. I stopped in MacGregor for dinner and thought of staying in the camp there, but after a good feed decided I had time to make Portage.
Pulling into Portage just about twilight, I found my way to Island Park, where great crowds were gathering for the annual Canada Day Fireworks display. I had to time to set my tent and make a cup of tea before the night sky was littered with brightly coloured clusters and the air full of gunpowder charges. When it was done, I crawled in my tent and had a nice sleep, out alone in an empty field under a big oak tree.
When I awoke the following morning I was greeted by the smiling camp attendant, Doug, who told me I could pay $10 for camping and gave me the code to the washrooms. There was something familiar about Doug, but I knew I didn't know him from Portage. Last time I was in Portage was over 30 years ago, when I was a kid hitchhiking across Canada. Yet the guy was familiar somehow. It wasn't until I was over halfway into Winnipeg before I realized who the guy was. I hadn't seen my brother Doug in over 27 years! He was smiling and knew who I was, obviously, but I had no idea who he was until later.
Leaving Portage I received another good omen. This one's name was Brittany. She too was lovely, about 25, and apparently very happy to see me. I asked her if there was a paved shoulder on the highway into the city. She said: "Only here and there."
Then I asked about Highway 26, the old Highway, which ran paralell, sort of, to the new one. She explained, with a smile like she'd been waiting for someone to ask that question. "It would be much safer to take 26, no one takes the old highway anymore. There is zero to no traffic, you'll love it."
I did! And it was one of the nicest spins of my trip, along a long winding but flat stretch of land that skirted some woods and took wide turns around wheat fields. Eventually it led to the village of St. Francis Xavier. There I went into a store and bought myself some homemade chocolate banana bread, and sat on a bench devouring it. Hours later, after checking into the mosquito infested Welcomestop Campground on the Trans Canada Highway, using their internet signal, and talking to several people, including the camp hosts on numerous occasions, I went for a shower. In the shower was a full length mirror. I was seeing myself for the first time since Carberry in the morning, and all around my lips was a great swath of chocolate banana bread, or the remnants thereof.
When my shower was done I went out and waited to speak with the camp host, a nice mid-eastern woman, and told her: "When someone comes in with chocolate all around their mouth don't be afraid to tell them they have chocolate all around their mouth!"
She laughed. "We were all betting on when you would notice and knew the jig was up when you went to the shower!"
Instincts! That's it. Instincts. That's why I turned north at Souris and went off down the gravel road. Instincts is why I went down the bike trail in Brandon and found the campground I found. They led me to Carberry and to Amanda. They led me to Portage and the sighting of my brother, and put me in Brittany's company. Instincts is why I even took on this trip, and now I'm here, safely in Winnipeg.
This morning my instincts took me directly to a bike shop where they charged me the grand total of $35 for a new tire, a wheel truing, and a rear fork adjustment, as well as a new chain. Instincts also got me there early, so I could tap into the wireless connection and link up with the world. This afternoon those same instincts took me to downtown Winnipeg, where I heard a great little Barbados funk band, and met the woman who got me a gig as a volunteer at the Folk Festival.
Instincts and a lot of good luck. Its like the farmer who let me use his compressor told me: "Who knows buddy, maybe its a blessing. There might have been a semi-truck with your name on it coming for you when that kid blew out your back tire with his BB gun! Thanks to him, you might actually get where you're going."
Anyway, tomorrow the festival begins, and I still need to find my crew boss. So I'd better sign off now.
More soon.
Will
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