Day 69, Little Bras d’Or, Nova Scotia
Wycogomach to Little Bras d’Or
Distance: 144km

Day 70, Argentia, Newfoundland
Little Bras d’Or to Argentia, NF
Distance: 6 km (14 hour ferry to Argentia)

Day 71 St. John’s, Newfoundland
Argentia to St. John’s
Distance: 144km

The last few rides seemed to distill all the elements over the course of the tour and deliver a potent cross section of all the elements that came across our paths: wind, cold, rain, heat and of course, hills.
We were all feeling like we’d been put inside a tumble dryer as the conditions seemed to change so frequently, leaving us with a feeling of being slightly disoriented, or at least, this is how I felt.
That morning the Aussie Crew had their last galley duty; it was a bittersweet moment when they finished up that morning, as they were the last to cook; they were of course ecstatic about being done, as we all were, but since their meals were always such a success, and they always seemed to have such fun, it was sad to see their kitchen serving its last meal.

Lewis and I set off on our own that morning; I had asked Alex whether I should take along my rain booties; I had come to rely more heavily on him for his weather predictions, as he had a better track record at this time than did Environment Canada.
This was the first time that he let me down, as I did not bring them, and quickly came to regret this.
Within minutes of setting off the clouds started to dump their contents on our heads; we knew that there was supposed to be a Timmy’s up ahead, so we turned on the gas, and charged our way over the beautiful, wet Nova Scotia countryside.
Since we could see sun up ahead, we rode even faster, trying to escape from the rain and expedite our passage to our savior, Tim Horton’s, but as we approached our sanctuary, our wet faces fell in bitter disappointment - it was closed.
It must have been the only closed one in the entire country, and we happened upon it.
Sadly we got back onto our wet steeds and pressed on into the next town.
Luckily we found a great little place, lined with many of the bikes from our tour, as others had obviously had the same experience.
As it turns out not everyone got rained on, some were lucky enough to stay ahead of the rain.
Needless to say, we took off our wet things and tried to dry out as much as we could.

After camping out there for as long as possible, we pressed on, and shortly found ourselves at the foot of an amazing 11km climb called, ‘Kelly’s Mountain.’
Since we were on the edge of the Cabot Trail, the hills were one after the next.
I didn’t realize we were there, but soon clued in as this climb would just not end; I was wearing my rain jacket, which is an excellent insulator, so by mid-way up I felt like a hot-dog in a microwave.
Near the end of the climb there was a fabulous look-out onto the valley below, and gave me the chance to again shed my insulating layers.

The descent from Kelly’s Mountain was fun, but cold as it had started to rain again, and we’d cooled off from the climb.

That night in camp was to be our last night camping, and along with it came the sad task of stripping the truck, which had become so much more than just a truck, of all of our possessions.
This 5-tonne Ryder truck had come to represent our relative comfort and solace after our long and often arduous rides; sighting the truck after coming into camp was always a comfort, and we’d come to associate the truck with relaxation and nourishment (food and beer.)
We would have to bid a sad farewell to ‘Sam’ as he’d come to be called.
Before that however, all of our stuff had to be taken off from the shelf that had housed it over the course of the trip, and packed for transport on the ferry to Newfoundland, where our journey was to draw to a close.

Lewis and I set up our tent on the water’s edge, a good idea at the time, as it was a gorgeous setting, but the wind was relentless that night and our tent was beaten and battered throughout; not conducive for sleeping and we both got up in the morning feeling as if we’d slept in a wind tunnel.

The next morning all we had to do was ride 6 km to the ferry terminal, so most of us rode in our ‘civilian’ clothing, making us feel even giddier than we were already feeling at the prospect of a 14 hour ferry ride.

The ferry was a big ol’ thang that looked as if she’d seen some pretty rough seas; we raced aboard to find our reclining chairs, on which we’d hopefully sleep that night-they were very similar to airline seats, and it looked as if it was going to be a long and uncomfortable night.
I am not very sea-worthy, as I pretty much get sea-sick in the bath tub kind of thing, and since the weather was rough, the sea was rolling and pitching the boat so that everyone looked slightly drunk as they lurched along the corridors.
For some, the only cure is alcohol, perhaps in the hope that it will stabilize or equalize the body’s equilibrium.
The bar was opened soon after the ferry set sail, and this is where many of our riders spent the next few hours; someone asked what time the bar closed, and was told, “when the first punch is thrown.”
They thought they were kidding, but unbeknownst to them, this was a little bit of foreshadowing.
There was a live band playing, which really set the scene for some big drinking, as they were belting out Newfoundland folk songs and Irish music that seems to make the alcohol flow more freely; there was nothing to indicate that we were on a ferry, crossing over on the stormy seas of the Atlantic, as we could have been in any wild pub anywhere in the world at this point.
There is nothing sadder than an aging punk-rocker; faded tattoos and hair that has been bleached one time too many, along with aged punk rock tees that have seen better days.
This was ‘Steve’ who was returning to Newfoundland after being away from home for many years, in as he said, “26 states.”
Lewis asked him if this meant “26 states of consciousness,” but he was too far gone at this point to get the joke.
Steve rolled and pitched along with the ferry, lurching around the bar, mistakenly thrusting drinks into people’s faces, followed by loud, indecipherable yellings that no one could quite make out.
Later on in the evening, one of our riders happened to be beside him when someone else, equally drunk, stumbled up to him and proceeded to punch him in the nose.
He went with the punch, much like one of those punching bags that wobbles, but comes back to its original positions, where he was then punched a couple more times before some people clued into the fracas and broke them up, or rather removed the punching bag from the other guy’s reach.
As soon as punching bag and puncher were separated, the bar shutters were pulled down ‘tout de suite’ immediately, and the band hastily packed away their equipment and beat a retreat; it was hard to believe that moments before the place was hopping with people, weaving in every direction, jamming to the sounds of music and imbibing on copious amounts of booze.

We made our way up to our reclining seats where we all spent a fitful night, trying to get into a comfortable position, impossible as the seats jammed their unforgiving hard parts into our backs, forcing us to shift positions every few minutes.
Gratefully, morning arrived eventually; we were un-rested, but thankful to get off the damn boat, and onto, for the last time of the tour, our bikes for what turned out to be a very difficult ride.

We felt the wind as soon as we got onto our bikes, the kind of wind that sucks and blows almost at the same time, forcing one to hang onto the handlebars not just to steer, but for support as well.
Immediately after setting off we got a taste of what was to come, a steep hill that made us feel the effects of the last two sleepless nights.
The going was really tough as the winds were howling, forcing us to crawl along at a painful pace; many of us, myself included just wanted the ride to be over with, as we were tired and anxious to get into St. John’s where we could relax and unwind once and for all.

The past week of the ride I had been feeling very tired; physically and mentally, and I was more impatient than Lewis for the ride to come to an end; with the wind and cold and hills however, it made for a long day.
As we neared St. John’s the hills just did not stop, perhaps even increasing in size, pitch and number.
We had arranged for our group to meet at a pre-determined Timmy’s, so that together we could dip our wheels into the Atlantic, and then do our last climb of the tour, up Signal Hill.
We waited for a while, but very few people seemed to be coming by, and we were getting cold waiting, so figuring that the others had taken the alternate route into St. John’s and skipped the meeting, we pushed on for our last 11 km of the ride.

We made our way to the water, where we had our ceremonial dipping of our wheels; I was very tempted at this time to just let go of my bike, sending it down to a watery grave, where it could not inflict any more pain and misery upon me.
But the moment was fleeting, and on we went towards Signal Hill; I was not prepared for what we were about to climb; the Mother of all hills.
It was deceiving as once you’d round one corner, the hill continued-it was the steepest one I think we’d climbed all tour, and it just kept on going-yikes.
We could hear yelling and hollering as we neared mid-climb and could see little dots on the top jumping up and down; we were being propelled up the hill by the yells of excitement and encouragement of those already there-it was very exciting, I felt as if we were in the Tour Du France, and the crowds were pulling us along.
Lewis made a break away, and I could not touch him as he floated up towards the end.

What a feeling as I finally ascended-exhilaration, and exhaustion all in one; it was a bittersweet moment to think that this adventure had finally after so much, come to an end.

There was much celebrating on the hill, someone even broke out the champagne and we toasted to our journey, from Victoria Mile 0 to St. John’s Mile 0 of the Trans-Canada Highway-what an adventure it was.

The following day we had our awards brunch, which was a lot of fun, as we all received gag gifts and laughed a lot about all the silly things that had happened over the course of the 10 weeks.
Lara-Lynn did a fantastic job of putting it together, and making up all of the appropriate gifts to give to people.
She and the other Lara, incidentally, rode up Signal Hill in their bikinis’; I don’t know how they did this, as it was freezing cold out, but I am sure it was pure adrenaline that got them to the top.

We spent the next few days in St. John’s wandering around, and getting used to Life After Biking; I think for many of us it will be an adjustment to break ourselves from the daily rhythm of biking and camping, day after day, to get back our regular lives.

Overall this trip has been everything one would expect it to be: fantastic, exciting, boring, exhausting, exhilarating, frustrating, fun, hilarious, and at times even ridiculous.
Seeing the country from the saddle of one’s bike has been an amazing way to see it; it’s been fast enough to cover decent daily distances, and slow enough to get a sense of each place we have passed through; in a vehicle one is in a bubble, and removed from the smells and sounds of a place, the bike allows the rider to momentarily submerge oneself into the surroundings.

I have so many memories on which to draw from, from this trip; each place and person on the tour has offered something to make up the experience that it was.

My impression of Canada has changed; living in a bustling multicultural city of Toronto, with a population nearing 3 million, one thinks that the rest of the country must somewhat reflect this, but it does not come close.
We did not enter many of Canada’s major cities, as we mostly skirted them, or went to the smaller ones’, giving outsiders the opinion that Canada is somewhat under-populated.
Perhaps it is, as the impression we got from the Western Provinces like Alberta, Saskatchewan and Manitoba, is that many little towns are slowly dying out.
I recall Youngstown with less than 100 people, and the next town Cereal, with less than 40, with the main street with businesses and houses that have been neglected or closed down; it’s quite sad that all these farming communities are slowly shutting down, I naively thought that this kind of thing does not happen here, but it is happening all too often, as we witnessed right across the country.

The other thing that struck me, besides the vastness of the country, was how it changed geographically from region to region, province to province; sometimes so much so that one felt almost as if in another country.
Each province had its own flavor and personality; in New Brunswick, as soon as we crossed the border, the architecture of the houses changed drastically compared to the way the Quebecois kept theirs.
I noticed how many churches there were in Quebec, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia; it seemed that at times there were more churches than people, with bold signs along the road that seemed to almost demand guilt from passers-by, “REPENT for thy sins as Christ DIED for YOUR sins,” and “Our Lord Jesus was CRUSIFIED for YOUR SINS, repent NOW.” kind of signs.
I am not Christian, but couldn’t help but feel guilty anyhow as the signs were so accusatory that one felt somehow responsible.

I am now back in Toronto, not quite with my feet back on the ground as I am still feeling slightly removed from the reality here; I am sure it will take a while to come back down to earth from what has turned out to be, quite an excellent adventure.
I suppose the only remedy is to start planning our next big trip.

There were some amazing people on the trip, and I hope to see many of them again; some not so much.
Although there were problems with the organization of the tour, I would still recommend it to anyone who has a tolerance for the unusual, and a sense of adventure.

Sandi Danilowitz
Toronto

For a link to the last few albums click on:
http://www.kodakgallery.com/Slideshow.jsp?mode=fromshare&Uc=w1ru7rm.7hzk4ldy&Uy=-5sm1bh&Ux=0
This link includes 32 albums; to see the rest click on ‘browse all albums.’

For albums of St. John's and the awards banquet see:
http://www.kodakgallery.com/Slideshow.jsp?mode=fromshare&Uc=w1ru7rm.95f8a51i&Uy=-j9sqze&Ux=0