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Lost Showers "It does not matter how slowly you
go so long as you do not stop." Ice pellets tapped the rigid tent roof. It tinkled on our metal bike frames like faint strains of Aeolian music. Asininely, we ventured forth. At 83 kilometres an hour we zoomed down a steep hill, ice crystals stinging our faces like sandblasting grit, wind biting our tender cheeks. Tears streaming, we blew into Grande-Vallée - fingers so deadened I could barely squeeze my brake levers. We entered a restaurant, chose the warmest looking location (by the kitchen) and ordered a round of hot chocolates. When my mug came, I just wanted to hold its hot frothy goodness to my frozen cheeks. After more hot chocolate, and fingers and toes thawed, we headed back out into the frosty world. Conditions had not improved. In fact, they may have deteriorated. Snowflakes fluttered through the air, as light as feathers, tickling my nostrils. "Oh, this is something I always wanted to do," Sharon said. "Ride in a snowstorm. I could have done that in Edmonton!" "Do I note sarcasm?" I asked. "Ice bikers!" I shouted into the wind. "Mount your sleds." We dejectedly pedalled out of Grande-Vallée, a lot slower than we had entered. Hills on our route varied between 10 and 15 percent. Toiling up the grades, we sweated profusely, lathering like old plow horses; then, on descents, rivulets of perspiration froze into icy tributaries. Each climb started at river level. We ground up, slowly, slowly, conquering the knee-busting inclines, thighs threatening to cave in ... only to shoot back to river level and lose all precious elevation we had laboured in vain so hard to attain. In 100 kilometres, we climbed a mile vertical. "My aching patella," Sharon lamented, massaging her swollen knees. "This is a masochist exercise in sadism," she declared, her teeth chattering after our umpteenth roller coaster descent. "Yeah," I agreed. "If it's true that suffering builds character, we have a pretty good shot at becoming protagonists in the next Steven Spielberg blockbuster." Pointe-à-la-Frégate registered a bone-chilling four degrees Celsius - and that was before the wind chill. Our feet had morphed into lumps of ice. My fingers registered no feeling at all. "Is this what frostbite looks like?" I asked, showing Sharon my whitened fingertips. "I think we better get inside and thaw out." A warm bistro lured us in. I could have stayed forever. "Mexico is sounding really good," Sharon said, only half-kidding. I think she was about ready to exchange her bicycle helmet for a sombrero. But, before she could do so, she discovered the clean rest room and its accompanying hot-air hand dryers. Sharon camped out beneath the hot stream (dreaming of warm tropical breezes, no doubt) until both she, and her clothes, became dry and toasty. She eventually returned. Reluctantly. A nebulous smile, like misty smoke from a wet wood fire, curled from her lips. I was happy to see she still had facial expressions. In due time, we pried ourselves away from the salubrious environs, and continued on. In late afternoon, we arrived at Forillon National Park. It was closed. "Perfect," I sighed as we cycled around the barricade to find the best overnight spot and ran smack-dab into two workers. So much for best-laid plans. "Is it okay to camp here?" I enquired, hoping they'd say "Sure! Pick any spot you like! They're all empty." No such luck. "Not possible!" they both replied in unison in that French tone comprised of half-mockery, half-derision. "The park closed yesterday," one stated. Great. The dang place even had showers! Under the workers' scrutiny, we exited the park and rode away. A hiking trail intersected the road. We scouted a ways up it. Finding a flattish spot, we dragged our bikes 30 feet up a steep incline and into concealing bush. "This is great," Sharon marveled, gazing at the commanding view of distant mountains. An eye-arresting sunset caused us to forget the lost showers - at least momentarily. Three cars swooped around the corner, spied the intoxicating sunset, and stopped. Thankfully, no one ventured up the trail. Maybe our luck hadn't completely run out, after all? |
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