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Québec Welcome "CAUTION - I Brake For Stop Signs!"
At Hawkesbury we crossed the Ottawa River, and entered the belle province of Québec. Bonjour! My plan was to cycle around the Gaspé Peninsula while checking out the fall colours, then head back to Toronto and catch a cheap flight to Spain. But, with the weather being so cold, Sharon wasn't keen on my plans. She argued we should head for Montréal and catch a flight to warmer climes immediately. I persuaded her. "How about we try it for a ways, and if it's too miserable we'll turn around." (Unfortunately, going around the Gaspé Peninsula is similar to a swimmer making it halfway across a lake. Then, deciding he can't make it all the way, turn around and swim back.) Sharon, still not entirely convinced, followed me along the river, heading for Lachute. Immediately we noticed that Québec's motorized wheelmen were far friendlier than their neighbouring clumsy oafs in Ontario. (Of all the places we've cycled in North America: Québec drivers are second only to Washington State for the most courtesy extended to cyclists.) "Is it because of the French love for cycling and the Tour de France?" Sharon wondered aloud, impressed with the considerate attitude of motorists. With better drivers, rather than concentrating solely on not being untimely dispatched by vehicles, we were able to look around and enjoy our surroundings. A church's brilliant white steeple glared in the sunshine, poking forth from an ocean of multi-coloured leaves like a submarine's periscope. "Looks like a great place for the night," I said, surveying the church's ample lawn. A vicar was outside, checking his remaining hardy blooms. I wheeled over to the holy man. "Je'm'apelle Neil Anderson," I began. "Say," the monsieur said, interrupting his gardening and suppressing a snicker, "you're not from around here, are you?" Sharon affirmed his sleuth work and asked if we could camp outside his church. "Pick any spot you like," he said. Then, he hastily added: "Mind the flowers!"
The next morning, sidestepping the church's immaculate flower beds, we followed peaceful Route 344 - Chemin de la Grande Côte (Way of the Large Coast) - past Montréal's teeming millions. All along the Riviére des Mille-Îles (River of the Thousand Islands), there wasn't one spot without a building. That wasn't causing us concern, however. Rather, it was the vast number of stop signs we had to contend with. On the main route, four-way stops at each street forced us to a halt. "Does Québec have a fetish for stop signs, or what?" I asked, after having stopped a dozen times in a kilometre. "No kidding," Sharon complained. "All this stopping and starting is killing my knees." "Mine, too," I agreed. "Not only is it taking us forever to get anywhere, but I'm not sure the over-abundance of stop signs is making travel any safer. Maybe even less safe," I grimaced, watching a motorist whiz through a four-way stop, barely letting up on the accelerator, let alone coming to a stop. With so many stop signs, motorists tended to ignore them. Sharon and I, meanwhile, stopped at each and every one, scanned both directions twice, making darn sure the coast was clear before scuttling across! We also found it frightening that a two-way bike lane we happened to be following was abutted to the very edge of the main highway. The bike lane markings indicated we were to ride in the lane closest to oncoming traffic! Our only saviour: separating us from an onslaught of vehicles was a thin white line! A freightliner pounded toward us. "Aren't engineers brilliant?" Sharon shuddered. Feeling like two toads about to meet a steamroller, we hopped as far over to the left as the path allowed. The truck rumbled past, not more than two feet away. When the whirlwind and truck's thudding (or was that my heart?) receded enough to make myself heard, I answered Sharon's brilliant engineer question. "Yeah," I said, "but it's too bad more of them aren't cyclists." |
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