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Bridge Over Troubled Water "We cross our bridges when we come
to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our
progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption
that once our eyes watered." An early start, coupled with an assisting tailwind and flat terrain, enabled us to crank out over 200 kilometres. (The strong wind at our backs reminded me of when we toured Newfoundland. From Gros Morne National Park, a brutish tailwind had pushed us north, past windswept vistas, past rocky fishing villages, past unhappy cyclists struggling haplessly in the opposite direction. We had clung to our handlebars for dear life, eventually covering 330 kilometres (over 200 miles!) in a single day - still our personal record for fully loaded touring. We could have gone farther, but on Newfoundland's northern tip, at Saint Anthony, we ran out of road.) Our windy Québec breakfast was beside a church, its massive stone walls sheltering us from the blasting wind. Sharon decided hot chocolate, café au lait-style, in our soup bowls, would be just the thing to warm us. It was, being both the right size for our morning thirst, and the perfect solution to cold weather blues. A church caretaker spread maple branches along the church walls, making a splendid colourful autumn display. Upon finishing, he padded over proudly and asked us something. Of course, we didn't understand him. "C'est bon! C'est bon! (It's good!)," we said, then I quickly added, "Je ne parler pas français" - I don't speak French. (I was getting a lot of mileage out of that line, along with my favourite: "Une poulet barbecue.") "It's really too bad I didn't pay more attention in French class," I lamented to Sharon after the chap gave up and wandered away to another part of the yard. "Madame Currie always said she'd have the last laugh." We waved so long to the caretaker and cycled northeast toward Gaspé. The mighty Saint Lawrence grew ever wider, smelling sharply of salt and mud - more like a sea than a river. It even had a tide. And when it ebbed, it left a slick of black mud, like some sticky Valdez oil spill. Fishing nets hung stranded, row upon row, high and dry, awaiting the great river's return. Flocks of southward-bound snow geese honked overhead like traffic jams of pearly white Hondas, wings beating the air in perfect synchronization. Farmers' fields, crowded with squadrons of wooden decoys, and hunters imitating bird calls, did their best to lure the big birds into landing. "Hmmm," I muttered, riding past the legions of mighty hunters, swathed head to toe in the latest camouflage gear, lying in silent wait. "Scientists think the shortening daylight hours stir the migration instinct. But, seeing this, I'll bet it's the start of hunting season that triggers migration. After all, it doesn't take much of a genius to figure out that if someone is shooting at you, it's time you went somewhere else." "Sure," Sharon said. "Let's make like the birds and flock off."
Hunters notwithstanding, folks in Québec were peaceful and friendly. They spoke French first, then, discovering I was lacking in the communication ability department, they quickly switched to English - even when they didn't know much of the language themselves. "Big wine today," one fella said. "Yes," I agreed, nodding. "It is windy." "Oh, yes ... 'wind,'" he corrected himself, a trifle self-conscious at his error. Still, his attempt was better than I could have done (and a big mug of hot mulled wine right about then didn't sound half bad). Besides the language, other differences in the belle province had struck us as well. Church steeples replaced the ubiquitous grain elevators we had seen everywhere on our march across the prairies. Québec's predominantly Roman Catholic population liked big churches - some even sported double steeples. Large white crosses, statues of Mary, statues of Jesus, statues of Mary and Jesus, and other religious artifacts were unabashedly displayed on people's front lawns. Québec towns supported far more flower shops than other provinces. And lingerie boutiques! Even the smallest villages usually boasted at least one flower and lingerie shop on main street. Ooh la la! Vive la difference! Traffic was intermittent until our secondary route ended in Rivière-du-Loup. Freight trucks became a grating reality again. They plagued us all the way to Trois-Pistoles, blowing us off the road on several occasions. "Trois-Pistoles [Three Pistols]," Sharon grumbled, "no doubt inherited its name from irate bikers." "Huh?" I said, intrigued. "What do you mean?" "Cyclists, weary of bonehead drivers, packed three guns." I screwed up my lips, nodded, and she continued. "A machine gun, mounted on their handlebars to pick off head-on passing imbeciles; a revolver, pointed sideways under their seat, to keep cars a respectable distance when overtaking; and a third, a double barrel shotgun, bungeed to the rear rack, to deter smart aleck motorists from honking their horns at cyclists to get off their God-given road." "No repeat offenders," I observed wryly. Sharon grinned. Her outburst had cheered her. Back on the road, ignoring a detour sign, I blithely pedalled past the orange caution markers as if I knew what I was doing. Traffic worries became a non-issue. I smiled at my cycle logic. "Um, what are you doing?" Sharon asked. "What?" I replied. "You don't suppose there's a bridge out, or something, do you?" Sharon shook her head at my illogic. After a few kilometres, we learned the reason for the detour. A bridge was out. Or, at least, it wasn't open for normal traffic. And what it spanned was no little stream. Fording was definitely out of the question. The under construction bridge deck had no approach. It stood above our heads like an illusory mirage. A lone worker toiled away, mid-span. With his back to us, he hadn't heard our approach. We waited, wondering if we were going to have to pedal back, or if the worker would allow us to cross the almost finished bridge. A couple of minutes later, we were still standing there, unnoticed. "What do you think we should do?" I asked in a loud voice. The fella turned around and saw us. He smiled, waved, and dropped his tools. Striding to us, his well-muscled arms reached down and hoisted our bikes onto the bridge. Portage! At the other end of the bridge deck, the worker propped a piece of plywood against the ledge. We eased our bikes down the incline, and gave our helpful friend two thumbs-up. Traffic was non-existent for quite some way. "We should take detours more often," I grinned, relishing our traffic-free environs. "You have no idea how lucky you are sometimes." "Hey," I replied, "living life as an adventure requires the odd detour now and then." "I think 'odd' is the key word there," Sharon said.
It was late afternoon by the time we pulled into a roadside picnic area to eat. I noticed it sported all the necessary amenities: running water and flush toilets. What else does one require? "This looks like a perfect spot to spend the night," I said. "And the facilities will be close at hand in the morning." "Do you think anyone will mind?" Sharon wondered. "I can't see why they would," I said, attempting to allay her fears. "We can set up behind the shelter." "You don't suppose this place gets used as a party spot, do you?" she asked hesitantly. "Naw," I sniffled. There was no broken glass or even any burnt up picnic tables in sight. Since we arrived in Québec, the usual partying platoons of roving Canadian and American youths, bent on vandalizing everything in sight, hadn't plagued us as they had elsewhere. Even weekends had been bastions of relative calm. "Maybe it's too cold?" Sharon asked, still wondering. "I prefer to think that Québec's young adults have better things to do." (Nothing like praising teenagers to tempt the party gods.) We set our tent behind the picnic shelter and went to sleep. Around midnight, two carloads of uninvited guests interrupted our peaceful slumber. Hidden behind the shelter, they couldn't see us. But we could hear them just fine. Although we couldn't understand most of what they said, the tone was jovial. The good-natured adolescents joked and laughed for a few minutes, then piled back into their vehicles and motored off without the usual screeching tires and tooting horns. "Hmmm, how about that?" I said to a wide-awake Sharon. "No cursing. No smashed bottles. No kicked in garbage cans." Québec youth were still Number 1 in
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