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Camrose or Bust The only limit to our realization of tomorrow
will be our doubts of today." After polishing off the leg warmer contents, we returned to our campsite. Sharon handed Sue a pair of ear plugs. We shoved ours in too, entered the tent, and fainted into an unconsciousness so profound that apart from lazy heartbeats and languid circulation we could have been certifiably dead.
The first rays of new freedom shone into the darkest recesses of our tent around 5 am. I groaned and pulled my sleeping bag over my head before slipping back into a coma. At 9 am Sharon and I crawled forth like a pair of common garden slugs. Sue was up, hunched on a nearby picnic table. We popped out our ear plugs to bid her good morning. What a shock we received! Our perfect campsite sounded as though a hive of bees had invaded it. Five energetic park employees surrounded us, engaged in a buzzing arrhythmic symphony of clearing brush and small saplings. Armed with metal-bladed gas-powered weed eaters, and wearing black-rimmed safety goggles, they looked - and sounded - like a swarm of deranged bald-faced hornets. From her tabletop nest, Sue beelined us a look of dejection. "They arrived shortly after 7 o'clock," she moaned. "Didn't you use the ear plugs?" Sharon asked. Sue shook her head. "I didn't even make it into the tent before I dropped them on the ground." She was more than ready to be underway. We dismantled our tent and set off, putting distance between us and the noisy contraptions. "It'll be even sweeter to get to your parents' place in Camrose this afternoon," I said. "Yeah," Sue sighed. "Showers ... soft bed ... quiet." I smiled. A successful tour was sometimes determined by how many friends and relatives were situated along one's route. In a short distance, my posterior felt as if astraddle a hot iron. Gruesomely hot. We bypassed Looma, then dribbled into New Sarepta for brunch and yogourt cones. The cold yogourt soothed my lips; I wished there was something it could do for my burning cheeks. Back on the baking black asphalt, the sun reached its zenith. In a cloudless azure sky, the mercury rocketed skyward like a space shuttle intent on probing old Sol. Churning past wheat fields glinting like sheaves of gold, we slabbered hot and frothy with a don't-bother-us attitude etched on our brows, into Miquelon Lake to order ice-cold drinks. After a couple of rounds of juice, curious onlookers - seeing us refreshed - tentatively approached. "Where are you folks headed?" they asked. Sharon and I glanced at each other. Our departure's initial euphoria had evaporated like fair-weather clouds over the Sahara. Unlike my giddy response on Day One, I lacked the courage to say we planned on cycling around the world. We shifted our feet. There we were, two pathetically out-of-shape clods, sweat pouring off our faces like our own private rainstorm, nursing sore rears and cramped legs, on bikes that belted out Skip To My Lou on anything over a 1 percent grade. Hell, I seriously wondered if I was going to make it to Sue's parents' place, a few kilometres down the road, let alone ride around the world. The whole idea seemed too preposterous to say aloud. "Medicine Hat," I finally answered (anything farther sounded absurd - even to me). From there, in two weeks' time, Sue would board an aircraft and be whisked back to her comfortable, air-conditioned job in Victoria. As our questioners strayed away, Sharon whispered hoarsely, "The only thing keeping me going is the promise of a shower tonight." Barely out of the starting gate and already we doubted our lofty goal. Considering our lame departure and dismal performance on our home turf - flat prairie - I seriously wondered how we were going to manage in lands with real mountains. We eased back onto our saddles and out onto the scorching tarmac. "Rollin', rollin', rollin', boy my butt is swollen," I whimpered. For several kilometres I tried to determine if it was possible to pedal without putting pressure on nether regions. Sun. Pounded. Down. Sweat streamed off my forehead into burning bleary eyes. With each painful revolution, I questioned my sanity and good sense.
Seventy-five agonizing kilometres later we arrived in Camrose, our heads swimming in green fuzz and our ears ringing as though we'd been napping next to a gong. We had just enough time for a cool shower before tackling the evening meal. Heaven! Sue's mother, bless her little domestic heart, had cooked up a festive meal: roast beef with all the trimmings. The coup de grâce was her delightful Yorkshire pudding with plenty of real gravy. None of that canned stuff for us! Following bounteous scoops of chocolate-cherry ice cream, we phoned our longtime cycling buddy, Vicky, and invited her to join us for a weekend ride ... so long as she agreed to bring new gears for our ailing bikes. She consented. And, like a true friend, she even refrained from laughing.
At the crack of noon, not altogether ready to abandon feather pillows and multi-coil padded mattress, Sharon and I dozily shuffled forth from the cozy guest room. Evidenced by our belated rising, we had yet to recover from those late nights of work and frantic packing. Not only physically tired, we felt emotionally drained, too. We had yet to come to grips with the idea we would be absent from friends and family for two years. Sue, ready and raring since daybreak, had spent her time in the back alley, practicing fly casting. Her father, an avid fisherman, patiently administered pointers. He never missed a chance to engage in his favourite hobby (and with Canada's over two million lakes and rivers, there is plenty of opportunity). By 2 pm, we were ready to leave for another glorified bed and breakfast: Sue's brother and family in Daysland. (Have I already mentioned strategic alliances?) Who said cycle touring had to be tough? Sue's mom and dad, kind souls they are, offered to drive us to our planned overnight stop. Maybe my newly acquired limp affected them? Or perhaps the anguished look that creased my face the previous evening as I set myself gingerly onto a dining-room chair? Inanely, I declined. What was I thinking? I even went so far as to assure them we liked bicycle touring. (Who was I trying to convince? Myself?) As a strict matter of conscience, Sharon and I never accepted rides - we felt it akin to cheating. If we hadn't earned it, we didn't enjoy the accomplishment ... at least that was the theory. Besides, we never wanted to hear some friendly trucker (ensuring his place in heaven by giving cyclists a lift to a summit) as we pushed off for a free downhill glide, yelling at our backsides: "You're not real bikers! You didn't earn it, ya know!" Sue rolled out of the driveway weighted down by extra goodies - not leftover roast beef and Yorkshire pudding as I had hoped - but rather, stocked with a snazzy new fly fishing rod, abundant tackle, and an eye-catching rainbow spectrum of wet and dry flies, preserved frogs, and tiny iridescent minnows. She was ready for anything. I looked forward to her successes. "You catch 'em; I'll clean 'em; Sharon'll cook 'em," was the deal I suggested. Knowing that showers awaited us in Daysland, we pedalled hard. The time flew by and we arrived with plenty of light left to enjoy the hospitality of Sue's brother, Brian, his wife, Bev, and their three kids, David, Kenny, and Barbra. We took full advantage of it. Brian barbecued thick steaks to perfection. While we were savouring them, and cobs of buttery corn, who should arrive in shining Lycra from Edmonton but our heroic friend Vicky. She flourished a George's bike bag, holding aloft two sets of gleaming new rear clusters. "You're the best!" Sharon exclaimed. "Wait till you see the delivery charge," Vicky teased. |
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