The Long Ride East

I awoke on Day 9 to a bit of somewhat concerning news. The forecast was calling for a good chance of showers – 60% to be exact. I weighed my options. On the one hand, I could relax in bed, have a leisurely breakfast and maybe write a couple entries for here. On the other hand, after a couple of hours, staying in a hotel would get pretty boring. I’m not a big fan of television, I didn’t bring any books to pass the time, and there’s only so much web browsing one can stand on an iPod’s screen. I resolved to go downstairs, grab breakfast, and make my decision when I got back upstairs.

When I looked outside, it was overcast but not actually raining. At that point I thought back to Day 2 and realized that if I couldn’t handle a little rain I had no business being on this ride. So, as nice as the idea of slipping back under the covers and sleeping the day away sounded, I gathered my things and went out to the shed to pack my bike and pulled it around to the front of the hotel to check out.

Getting back to the path was far easier than finding the hotel was and before long I was back on the Route Verte and headed eastbound again. And about 10 km in I stopped at another tourist information centre where I got another bit of helpful information. The woman in the centre asked if I had skinny tires (I don’t) and mentioned that while the Route Verte goes up Mount Orford, the trail is quite rough and very steep. She suggested an alternate route along Highway 112 that those with road bikes use. I opted for that one and when the trail crossed Route 112, I hit the road.

After riding on mostly gravel trails for over 100 km, riding on the road was something of a dream. My speed picked up and the kilometres seemed to fly by. At the same time, instead of the storms that had been forecast, I was now in the middle of a gorgeous sunny day. Finally, it was lunchtime and I found myself entering the village of Eastman. Though it seemed that most of the businesses were closed, a health food store was open that had a kitchen. And actually, it appeared to have an entire house attached where a young father and mother were taking care of their ~3 year old while they worked. I ordered a greek pizza and sat out on the porch to wait for it. While I waited I talked with the owner about my ride so far, including how much I had been enjoying cycling in Quebec. Finally, though, the pizza arrived and it was as delicious as it looked.

After lunch I refilled my water bottles and headed out on the road. However, I didn’t make it more than a couple of kilometres before I had to stop again. This time for “Les Beignes Dora” a bakery with coffee and donuts. I pulled over and ordered a maple donut and a coffee and went back outside to drink my coffee and watch the world go by. I was beginning to think that while the roads might make for faster cycling, the extra speed could easily be offset by all the great things I found to stop for!

Finally, on a bit of a sugar high, and well-caffeinated, I got back on the road and continued east toward Magog. As I went, the wind began to change and I picked up something of a tailwind that made the riding easier and put my average speed back up to about 27 km/hr again. Eventually I rolled into Magog and found myself on another lovely paved path along the shores of Lake Memphremagog. The longer I rode the harder it was to make progress with all of the beautiful scenery.

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I took a break to look at my map and I estimated that I had about 20-30 km to my next host’s house depending on where they lived in Sherbrooke. However the sign I saw later seemed to indicate something completely different.

I made the decision that I would stay on the road all the way to my next host’s home. After a bit of confusion trying to find my way to the road out of Magog, I found myself on something of a hellish suburban arterial. Fortunately, though, there was a curb lane for much of it so while it was ugly, it didn’t feel particularly unsafe. Meanwhile, I noticed that the wind was picking up even more, and off in the distance to the west was a rather scary bank of clouds that looked not unlike the ones I tried unsuccessfully to outrun on Day 2. I picked up my pace and crossed my fingers that I wouldn’t get drenched again.

The closer I got to Sherbrooke, the bigger the tailwind got. Unfortunately, at the same time, it was clear I’d be racing this storm to my host’s house. Finally, I made it to Sherbrooke by the time the tailwind had reached it’s peak. It was so windy, in fact, that with only a little extra effort I rode into the city at just under 60 km/hr – about 37 mph down Boulevard Bourque. The further into the city I got, though, the busier the traffic got. Fortunately, though, I was going fast enough most of the time to just take the lane and keep up with the automobile traffic – a much better alternative to going slowly and being passed too close as everyone tried to squeeze by. And, of course, the other advantage was the fact that maintaining 35-40 km/hr meant I would be that much more likely to beat the storm that was bearing down on me.

Finally, after a few consultations with google maps, I managed to find my way to my host’s street at which point I learned something about Sherbrooke. It has some serious hills. The last one before their home was even bigger than the one I had to climb to get to the ski resort. But on the positive side, I did manage to beat the rain.

When I arrived I was warmly welcomed by Eric and Josiane who made me instantly feel at home. Like my partner, Sage, Eric is also a storyteller, and like me, Josiane works behind the scenes providing what I might call “creative support” but also acting as something of an agent. So we spent much of the evening talking about storytelling, soon finding out that Sage, my son, and I had seen Eric perform when he was last in Toronto a few years back instantly making it feel like an incredibly small world. Eventually the topic turned, as it often seems to when couchsurfing, to travels and they both shared some fascinating stories about their travels, Eric having recently returned from Serbia, and Josiane having visited Iran twice, including one trip in which she spent several months there studying Farsi. And of course a visit to a storyteller wouldn’t be considered complete without having heard another of his fantastic stories.

Though it was a short day of riding by comparison, I was still quite sleepy and ended up going to bed relatively early that night, hardly waking up once that night, and, mercifully, not once waking up and looking for any of my teammates or worrying that I might have somehow missed a Bike Rally departure.