Bicycle Trip from Montreal to Quebec, Summer: 1990 Preparations I am not sure how the idea of taking a bicycle trip had first come about. I suppose it had been something that I had been talking about, off and on, for years. In my youth I had made a couple of long distance trips. I made it all the way up to Rawdon, Quebec and most of the way back in one day (55 miles each way). On another occasion, I cycled with Donald Chambers from Montreal to Ottawa over two days. Once the idea began to firm up, I did not really "train" as I should have. Over the month of July I rode my bicycle to and from work most of the days (about 5 km each way). I took a couple of longer rides on weekends. One ride, soon after I bought my odometer, took me on a 30 mile circuit of the city's bicycle trails. On the Saturday before departure I got up early and took a ride out to St. Anne de Bellevue on the western tip of Montreal Island. The total circuit was about 65 miles, done before noon. I had really overdone it, and learned some valuable lessons about pacing. I did not have the money to buy light, but expensive cycling gear for camping. I had to make do mostly with what I had. My old, faithful clunker bicycle would have to do. I took my regular sleeping bag, warm and cozy but quite heavy. I bought a simple one man tent and a hiker's foam mattress from Canadian Tire. I found some saddle bags, but they were not as large as what I would have liked. My Saturday pre-trip had shown me that I would need a handy supply of liquids. Instead of buying one of those fancy holders, I bought a small handlebar pouch. The Sunday night, I prepared and provisionally packed up the bicycle. I put a carrier basket on it, then wired and tied a piece of plywood to make an extra platform - about 18 inches long. It was quite an art figuring out how to get it all onto the bike: tent, bedroll, and sleeping bag, plus room for clothing, tools, and other supplies. I wrapped it all up with an orange tarpaulin, tied up tight with a rope. I put saddle bags on the side of the carrier, for things I might have to get at during the day, and had a small bag on the front, for drinks and snacks. Everything was packed up except the clothes, which I gathered up on the morning of departure. It was hot and sunny all week long, but the weatherman predicted a day of rain for my departure. Unfortunately, my window for the trip was quite fixed. There was no chance of postponing departure. Thankfully, the weathermap showed sunshine following the rain on the next day. I really did not have any idea how far I was going to get on my trip. While I originally had five to seven days free, the window for my trip had shrunk to four days: Tuesday through Friday. My basic goal was to descend the St. Lawrence. Originally, I had visions of Rimouski and Gaspe'. A good look at real distances on the map toned this down to somewhere between Quebec City and Riviere du Loup. I wanted to get below Quebec City, as that is the furthest east I had ever been. I also wanted to reach the point, just below Quebec, where the ocean tides compete with the fresh water flow from the river. Tuesday, July 31, 1990: 08:00 Departure Odometer: Mile 277 It was an overcast morning, with a light rain. I had gotten up early, about 6:30 so as to get a good early start on my trip. While everyone was still asleep I gathered my clothes, and other last minute items, went to the garage, and re-packed the bicycle. I had a yogurt for breakfast, then Heidi and Tannissa came down to see me off. I pedalled away at exactly 8:00. The bicyle was really heavy and took some getting used to. I felt like I was driving a truck. Any movement to the side was really exaggerated, and the bike sure picked up speed fast on the downhill. I had a short climb up the city streets to the top of the hill, and then all downhill to the Lachine Canal Bike Path. I followed that east to Old Montreal, then got onto the bike path along Notre Dame, which I followed east all the way to the end of the island. The light rain persisted until I was past downtown, then it stopped until just before Repentigny. It was actually quite pleasant, 'till it started raining again. The poncho was working well, though, keeping me fairly dry. I kept a fairly easy pace, keeping the speedometer on 15 km/hr. I did not feel any real pressure on my legs. Tuesday, July 31, 1990: 10:30 Repentigny Odometer: Mile 300 23 miles travelled/2.5 cycling hours. I stopped at a Dunkin' Donuts in Repentigny, the first town off the eastern end of the island. It had started raining again, and I was beginning to get hungry. On my way over the bridge I had hit the railing with my bundle and it had come off centre, making control of the bike difficult. I had a soup and some coffee. I went back outside and re-packed the bike and tightened the nuts holding the carriar off of the rear brake cables. Then I went to a depanneur to buy some food supplies and liquids. I bought some Quaker granola bars and some bottles of orange juice and Gatorade. It was 11:30 before I finally got on my way out of Repentigny. Tuesday, July 31, 1990: 11:30-4:00 Repentigny - Sorel I headed east on highway 138, along the north shore of the river. Once I cleared the town, it was a little difficult getting used to riding on the highway. There was only a gravel shoulder, so I had to stake out my section of roadway - about 18 inches from the edge. It was a little disconcerting having cars and trucks whiz by at 100 km/hr, while I was only going 15. (I suppose I was used to this as a youth, but it had been many years since I had been out on the open road with a bicyle.) As we cleared town it got a little better. With fewer cars coming in the opposite direction, people had more room to pass me. Actually, the road turned out to be not that busy once outside town. The river vistas were beautiful. It was overcast, but the rain had stopped again. (I was beginning to hope that I had seen the worst of the rain - maybe it would be a fizzle.). I caught sight of a ship going downriver, and we matched speeds for the longest time. He finally moved ahead. I went through Saint-Sulpice, Lavaltrie and Lanoraie, finally stopping for a break at 2:00, not too far before Berthierville. I had come upon a nice stretch of rocky beach, just down an embankment from the highway. I propped my bike and load up against a sign (I could not lay it down) and climbed down to the river's edge, where I had a candy bar and an orange juice from my basket. I stood and watched the boats go by, and got into the river mood - quiet and peaceful - for about 20 minutes. The vision upriver seemed to vanish into a haze (the full signifcance of which had not yet dawned on me - but would quite soon.) As I got on the road again, heading for Berthierville and the Sorel ferry, it began to rain once more. I put my poncho back on. But the rain, this time, was not to be soft and gentle. It just kept getting worse and worse. I was out in the open and had not option but to continue. The poncho had been okay in the light rain, but now I was really getting soaked. My feet and shoes were awash, as were my jeans from the knees down. The poncho was doing an okay job keeping my shirt and the top of my jeans dry. I neglected to put the hood of the poncho up, however, as my helmet was keeping my head dry. The problem was that rainwater was dripping down from the neck - very cold water - and was wetting my t-shirt. The pleasant rain of earlier in the day had taken a decidedly nasty and cold turn. I ploughed on to Berthierville by 3:00. It had become a real downpour by then and I was seeking any shelter. I pulled into someone's driveway and took refuge under a tree, but that was no real help. A little bit further into town I came upon a depanneur with a dry patio protected by an overhang. I had been hoping to find a cafe, where I could get inside for some coffee and hot soup. The depanneur's patio was all that was going at the time, however. I stopped, took off my wet t-shirt and wrung it out. Then I put it away in a plastic bag for later - it was wet but not soaked and I did not know if I was going to need it. Thankfully, I had a dry shirt, which I put on. I took off my completely soaked shoes and socks, wrung out the socks and put them back on. Standing there in my stocking feet on the dry cement, I began to feel a bit better. I waited out the storm for about 5 minutes, and it abated somewhat - though there was still serious rain which looked like it was going to continue for quite a while. I found out that the depanneur had no coffee, so I set out again looking for a coffee shop. Instantly, of course, my shoes, socks, and knees were soaked again. Having learned to keep my poncho hood up this time, at least the top half of me was dry. It turned out there was no restuarant in town. I was wet and hungry and realised that my only hope was to get across the river to a town of decent size like Sorel. Foresaking the comfort of gf town, I head back out onto the open highway in the rain, bound for the Sorel ferry which is 5 km away. While it is still a downpour - it does not seem as bad. My wet feet feel okay, but I worry for my cold, wet knees. I fear they are really going to ache the next day. I get to the ferry, and have a stroke of luck. There is only about a 10 minute wait before departure. There is no shelter, however. I must stand in the rain at the head of the car line, until the boat ties up and unloads. It is a real thrill having shelter under the deck of the ferry. I do not have much time to admire the river as we cross. I am busy wringing out my wet socks again - and begin to feel better. The ferry leaves at 3:30 - it has only been a little over an hour since the deluge begins. Tuesday, July 31, 1990: 4:00 Sorel Odometer: Mile 330 53 miles travelled/6 cycling hours. By 4:00 I am in Sorel and settled in a Mike's restuarant. I must have been quite a sight walking in, drenched jeans and shoes, wet hair and helmet dropped on the table, wet poncho draped over the chair. The waitress seemed unsure as to whether to serve me or not. I order some coffee and hot soup, then I have a pizza. I have not done any research into how to eat during such a trip, but I understand that carbohydrates are needed. I change into my dry socks and put on a dry undershirt. My only worry is still my cold, wet knees. I have no dry pants to put on. Even my shorts are packed away in inside the bundle. I can only get at those things I have had the foresight to place in the side saddlebags. Undoing the bundle would be far too much work, and everything would get soaked in the rain. By 4:30 I am about done eating. I begin to realize that I am not going to get very far on my first day. (But I am not sorry about having left when I did. Getting soaked is part of the experience - and the solitude is nice.). It is still raining out and beginning to get darker. I see some lightening of the clouds to the west, but it may be illusory. I plan to set out again in the rain at about 5:00, heading east out of Sorel. I hope to find a campground sometime between 6:00 and 8:00. I will need one with a laundry. I only hope that my poor cold, wet knees won't give out on me in the morning. Tuesday, July 31, 1990: 5:00-8:00 Sorel - St. Francois du Lac I left Sorel at 5:00, heading east on highway 132, the south shore counterpart to the highway I had been on earlier. It had stopped raining, but the sky was still dark and cloudy, and the air cool; it seemed like much later, almost evening. I kept my poncho on for its warmth, but nothing could help my poor, cold and wet knees (though the jeans did begin to dry out towards the end.) It was rush hour in Sorel, with lots of traffic. I noticed this mostly once I had left town and the road narrowed to its country width. It was like re-playing the learning experience of the morning. At Sorel, route 132 turns away from the river to go around Lac St. Pierre, the shore of which is made up of vast marshlands. (The north shore route curves away from the river as well, at this point. It was a judgement call to select the South Shore.) I began to doubt my judgement as I cycled along towards Yamaska. This was real farming country, and I despaired of not finding a campground. I did not have a campground guide for that particular tourist region, and was depending on roadside campgrounds. The Yamaska river is known for its polution from pig offings, and for its accompanying odour. I knew that I would have to get on past Yamaska. I was beginning to be disturbed by this brown car that I kept passing. Some way outside of Sorel I passed a car stopped by the side of the road. The owner was looking under the hood. A while later I passed him again. (I never noticed his overtaking me.) Then again a few minutes later, he passed me, then stopped ahead and I passed him. I was really getting nervous and very conscious of my exposed situation. I was all alone on a country road which was now becoming quite quiet and it was getting darker. I reached Yamaska, 15 km down the road from Sorel, at 6:00. and crossed the bridge over the Yamaska river. It was, as advertised, a filthy, polluted waterway. There were no boats on either shore - who would want to boat in that cesspool. Heading around the bend out of the little town along a very deserted section of highway, I came to a gas station. It was the town of Yamaska East. From there the road headed out into open country again. And there, parked at the last gas station on the edge of town, was the car that had been playing leap-frog with me. I decided I did not want to go on down the dark deserted road with this car behind me. I stopped and used the phone booth to call my father and Heidi, to "check-in" as it were, so that they would know my location (in case something were to happen to me.) I did not mention my fears over the phone, however. I was unsure as to how to proceed. I had begun to look for stretches of deserted woodland where I might sneak in and set up my tent, and had passed a few promising locations. I was in a quandery as to whether to proceed to the next town of St. Francois du Lac, 10 km down the road, or whether to turn in the other direction. As I was on the phone (for some time), the car left. I decided to go forward, but was ready to do an about face the instant I saw that car As I plodded along the deserted road through the flat cornfields, I really began to feel the experience of "hitting the wall". I felt like I just could not go on any more. It seemed to take forever and I could not maintain speeds over 10 km/hr. The sky was clearing up behind me as the sun set, but a cold wind was blowing which chilled me to the bone. Finally, at about 7:30, I came into St. Francois. It turned out to be a fairly large town - but I saw no campground. I did pass a restuarant that had a grassy pic-nic area in the back, with table. I toyed with the idea of just going up and asking them if I could camp for the night, but I lost my nerve and cycled on. When I reached the bridge over the St. Francois river, a fairly high, long bridge, and saw the road stretching on past the other side of town, I realized I could go no further. Borrowing from my father's nerve, I screwed up my courage and went back to the restuarant. It was busy and it took my time to get the waitress' attention. Some of the patrons were looking at me strangely (and I must have been a strange sight, indeed). At first I found it difficult to phrase my request and the waitress was looking at me dumbely. Finally, when she understood, she said, "No problem!". I was delighted. I offered money, but she would not have it. It was a nice convenience to be right behind a restuarant. And there was a convenience store across the street for supplies the next morning. It took me a while to get the bike unpacked and my tent set up. The rain had stopped, but the ground was still wet. Everything in my saddle bags was soaked, despite the plastic bags. Luckily my bedding was still dry. Just a corner of the sleeping bag was a little damp. If it had been soaked, I do not know what I would have done. I could not have continued. Once everything was prepared, I went back to the restuarant for some coffee and iced cream. It was about 8:30 when I settled back into my sleeping bag. The night had taken on a real chill, and I was shivering, with my teeth chattering, before I got the bag zipped up. The odometer read 341. I had only done 11 miles since leaving Sorel at 5:00. It total I had done 64 miles on my first day, 100 km. This was over 9 hrs of actual cycling time: 2.5 to Repentigny; 2.5 to Berthierville; 1.5 to Sorel; and 2.5 after Supper. I felt sure that I would do much better the next day, but this was not to be. It took me a while to get to sleep. I tossed and turned until about 12:00. But the bedding and tent were fine. The little mattress pad was quite effective. Wednesday, August 1, 1990: 9:00-12:00 St. Francois du Lac - Becancour I got up at 6:30, feeling refreshed but pretty stiff. My back ached, both from the cycling and the mattress. But it was a beautiful, sunny day and I felt that now that I had done my penance, the real ride could begin. I learned that I would have to arrange my tent covering better, though. Wherever I touched the tent as I got up, I got a shower. I went to the restuarant and had a good breakfast of ham, eggs, toast, and coffee. I followed that with a big orange juice as I dismantled the tent and got the bike packed up. I went across the road and bought some more supplies for the day - lots of juice and some granola bars. It was about 9:00 when I finally got started. I cycled for three hours, pretty well non-stop. I encountered lots of gradual uphill and there was a strong headwind, which impeded progress. At least the scenery became more interesting, with hills and bluffs. I found a look-out place set up so that, in the Spring, one can view the feeding/resting sites of the "bernaches" (mallards?) in the marshes south of the lake, where they stop on their way north. In the Spring, I imagine, one could see the lake. Now, of course, it was all blocked by trees. I passed by a military testing ground, where they were shooting off cannons. At first I heard a distant sound, like thunder, every few minutes. But, there were no clouds. Each time the noise was a bit louder, and I was really puzzled. When I finally got to the gate, it went off again, and loud enough to really give me a start. The first landmark was the town of Nicolet, 26km from where I had spent the night. After crossing the Nicolet river, I was able to follow it for a ways. This was a very soothing, but short-lived experience. There is something about being close to water. Everything seems cooler and more pleasant. I saw soldiers training in canoes along the river. All to soon, however, the road turned away from the bank of the Nicolet river to follow the St. Lawrence. Unfortunately, it was about a quarter mile away and all but fleeting glances of the river were hidden by trees. Still, it was a fairly quiet, pleasant and tree-lined road (on one side, with open cornfields on the other). I had temporarily left highway 132 to try to be closer to the river. I was beginning to look for a place to stop for a while, and was hoping that I could get down to the river underneath the bridge at Three Rivers, whose massive steel form loomed ever closer as I pedalled. It was not to be, however. As the road went under the bridge, one could see only bushes and marshland in the direction of the shore, the last legacy of lac St. Pierre. I stopped about a kilometer further on down the road, at a public park and tourist information centre. There was no view of the river, but there was shade and pic-nic tables to sit on. In three hours, I had come 37km. It had turned out to be a hot day, and I was beginning to notice a trace of sunburn on my legs, a thin sliver of unprotected skin by the bottom of my shorts. Wednesday, August 1, 1990: 12:00-2:00 Becancour - Gentilly I spent about half an hour at the park, drinking a couple of juices and eating some granola bars. Studying the map, I knew that the next section would be pretty uninteresting, until the road finally regained the river at Gentilly (Exactly how uninteresting I did not yet realize, however.) I toyed with the idea of crossing the river and going along the North Shore, but decided that a lot of time would be lost crossing the bridge and going through Three Rivers, and that the grass was not, necessarily, any greener on the other side. I set off about 12:30. Right away I came to a bridge over a most interesting river. It was completely covered with plants. One could hardly see the water. Onwards, the road went along the St. Lawrence for a short stretch, just across from Three Rivers. I stopped several times and looked at the ships in the harbour with my field glasses. In the little town of Saint Angele de Laval I visited a depanneur and replenished my juice supply. All to soon, however, the road turned away from the river. Along the South Shore at Becancour is a vast heavy industry plant, with steel mills, founderies, and even a nuclear reactor. My quiet little road merged into a divided highway cutting a wide swath through a vast, open plain. There was no shade whatsoever. Cars were whizzing by at 100 km/hr. At least there was a wide, paved shoulder. But it had lots of broken glass on it. This 10 to 15 km strech has got to be the most boring of the whole trip. I become conscious too of a "clunk" every time I turn the pedals. I guess there is not enough grease left of the bearings, what with all the rain and such. I only hope that the bike will be okay and will get me the rest of the way. The clunk will be with me for the rest of the trip. This extra resistence, added to the still forceful headwind, makes progess difficult. When it seemed like it would never end, the straight-as-an-arrow freeway stretch turned a corner and became my little country road again. I pedalled on into Gentilly where, finally, I rejoined the St. Lawrence river and would stay along it for the rest of the way. It was 2:00 when I reached Gentilly. Mile 391 on the odometer. Since starting out in the morning, I had done 50 miles. And this in about 4.5 hours actual cycling time. I seem to be averaging 10 miles/hr (15 km/hr). Not too bad, given the headwind. Wednesday, August 1, 1990: 3:00-5:00 Gentilly - Deschaillons Not finding a proper restuarant in Gentilly, I stop at a grocery and by some rolls and cheese for lunch, then pedal to a park overlooking the river, where I sit in the shade of a tree. It is 3:00 before I am on my way again. In the morning I had crossed into the tourist region called "Coeur du Quebec", for which I had a campground map. At the far side, at Deschaillons, it showed a campground right by the river. I remember looking at it and saying to myself, "Too bad, I'll pass it much to early to stop". Now, moving on out of Gentilly, I realize that I will have to stop soon. I begin to get the "hit the wall" feeling, only much earlier on this second day. The road is, at last, beautiful again. Climbing up onto a high bluff, there is a beautiful view of the St. Lawrence river. I start to hit one or two really bad hills, though, and realize that I am poorly equipped for climbs. My bike is heavy and my unprofessional gear even heavier. I do not have the proper gear ratios on my bike to deal with steep climbs. What with all the weight, I only have three operable gears: I am running in the middle gear and have only two lower gears. The little town of St. Pierre les Becquets offers a spendid view. The shore curves around to a point where one can look back upriver all the way to Three Rivers and Lac St. Pierre. It I had had my proper camera with me, I would have taken a photo. I am getting pretty tired when I come to a tantalizing campground sign, with an arrow pointing down a sideroad. I am tempted, but there is no distance indicated. What may only be a short distance for an automobile could easily take me an hour or more out of my way. I decide pass it by and continue down the road to the one indicated in my booklet. The campground at Deschaillons only lists a few spaces, and I begin to worry that there might not be room. And I'm really getting tired. And when I get to Deschaillons, I have trouble finding the campground. It is on the far side of town, almost out on the open road. But, thankfully, I do find it and yes, they still have room. It is a really beautiful campground. Coming out of town down a hill, one side opens up into cornfields while the other side is wooded. The wooded strip hides the long, narrow campground behind a hedge. There is a little road that goes by the owner's house. Then there are some cabins perched on the high bluff overlooking the river. Past the cabins are about 6 camping spaces, about 12 feet wide, between driveway and cliffside. Most of these are taken by trailers, but I find an empty space at the very end. After setting up my tent and registering, I discover that they have a pool. It is getting to cool, however, for that. They also have a shower, which I am sure I will use the next morning. There is no laundry. I pedal back into town to get some food. With my campsight so beautiful, I really do not feel like eating in a restuarant. This is just as well, as there are not any to be found. I visit a couple of grocery stores and by some tins for supper and some supplies for the next day. One can never be fully prepared. I discover that I have to buy a package of plastic spoons and a can opener. I also find a payphone and call home. By 6:00 I am back at my campsite eating my cold supper, writing, and reading Sitting at the picnic table under the trees, I am almost 100 feet above the river and can seen miles downstream with my field glasses. There are several large ships that pass by and many smaller craft. After Supper, the family next to me invites me to join them for some tea and fruit salad. Boy, does the hot tea taste good. It's nice to have some conversation, too. It turns out they are from Sherbrooke and do not get to meet many anglophones. At one point they ask me if I have "twins" (Jumelles). I find this question really stupid since I have just told them the ages of my children. Then they say, "but I just saw you with them". At which point I learn that "jumelles" is the word for field glasses. Later I see a racoon up in a tree whose top just comes up above the cliff. It is only about 20 feet away. After thinking of the word for racoon (raton-laveur), I call the family's little girl over and let her watch through the binoculars. Pretty soon the whole family is there at my campsight. After the excitement, I decide to take a walk. There is a little road that drops down to the shoreline where the Deschaillons pier and marina are. I sit at the pier and watch the ships for a while before climbing back up and settling in the for the night. The odometer reads 405. I have done 55 miles that day in 7 hours of cycling. Thursday, August 2, 1990: 9:00-2:00 Deschaillons - Levis (Quebec) Up early. It's Bright and Sunny. There is some breeze, but none of the previous day's headwind. I have breakfast at camp: carrots, orange juice, rolls, cheese. I have a shower. I check out my sunburn. It's not too bad yet, but I should do something for it. Unfortunately, I do not have any cream. The sign right by the road says the Quebec is 90 km away. By 9:00 I am on my way. The family that invited me over the night before is still fast asleep. The road is beautiful. This is the kind of road that I was planning for. Quiet, peaceful farmland against the magnificent backdrop of the St. Lawrence down below. I find myself making really good time: 15-20 km/hr on the odometer At St. Croix by 11:00, 17 miles down the road (2 hrs), I stop in the shade of the church grounds for a liquid break. I had been looking at this church steeple like a beacon for the last half hour, as the river curved around in a big bend. I can already see the Quebec City bridges through the binoculars, but not yet with the naked eye. Many large ships are tied up in wide portion of the river by St. Croix. The joy of the morning began to fade around noon. The "wall" seems to be hitting me earlier each day. I have not studied this scientifically and there must be something I am not doing right, either in liquids or in foods. As the view got better and better because the bluffs got higher, so too did the hills. Wow! I really ran into the lack of equipment and training. In some places it was most exasperating. From high on the bluff, the road would descend in a posted 12% downgrade (truck warning). But as I enjoyed flying down the long hill at 60km/hr, I knew I would have to pay for it. And pay I did. Just past town would be the corresponding 12% upgrade leading back up onto the bluff. I saw some other cross-country cyclists, including a family with one child. The couple were waiting at the top of the downgrade, studying the map. Halfway down (or up, from his point of view), came struggling a boy of about 13 years. At some point between Saint-Croix and Levis I stopped in the shade of a roadside shrine and had my juice and granola bar seated under the awning at Jesus' feet. I relaxed for several minutes, enjoying the view. I was becoming ever more conscious of my sunburn. Thursday, August 2, 1990: 2:00-5:00 Levis (Quebec) By the time my body had given up all hope of ever reaching the last mile, by 2:00, I finally reached the outskirts of urbanisation. It was the town of Saint Nicholas. I stopped at a depanneur for some fresh supplies of liquid and rested for half and hour. Going on in, things happenned pretty fast. I came upon the Quebec City bridges, and route 132 climb up to the Old Bridge. I knew that there had to be a lower road which went along the river, but I could not find it and my map did not have enough detail to show it. Instead I found myself joining the traffic stream comming off the Old Bridge and route 132 headed inland. There was a long, comfortable downgrade, one which I knew I would have to pay for. Sure enough, after a long, open, hot and boring stretch of open four-lane highway, I began to climb. This was no ordinary climb. This was a long, steady, straight climb of the variety normally only found out West. I eventually reached the "gates" of Saint Romuald. After the welcome sign, the road stretched on in a typical suburban fashion, made up of gas stations, car lots, and fast food restuarants. I was exhausted from the climb with my unprepared legs and overweight bicycle and was still desperately searching for the road that led down to the lower town and river's edge. I spied a small road marked "Rue Commerciale" which went off to the left in the direction of the river and decided to try it. At least it was quieter. But it still climbed. Up through the narrow streetsI went. And just when I thought I had reached the top, I would have to climb some more. I crossed several town boundaries, all massed together in one urban lump, until finally I had reached Levis. I knew that I must, soon, be even with the ferry and would have to find a way down. I was still climbing, so high that I could see some of the surrounding countryside. Finally, I came to a major street with a small sign indicating ferry to the left. As soon as I turned onto this street, it was like being at the top of a long, steep slide. The street went almost straight down! It was like a scene from San Francisco. I got no joy from this downhill segment, as the street was packed with traffic and there were stop signs at every block. All the extra weight on my bike contributed to the downhill speed. Down, down, down I went, wasting all the potential energy I had stored up from the long climb. And then it got worse. Right at the edge of the bluff, at least a hundred feet yet above the river, the road dropped almost straight down in a 20 or 30% grade, making an enormous switchback. I hit it without warning and had no choice but to continue down, both brakes on full. But they did not stop the bike, with all its weight. They only slowed it to a manageable race. I am certainly glade there was nothing to hit at the bottom! As quickly as it had started, the street flattened out at the bottom and I coasted to the train/ferry station, which was my immediate destination. It was about 4:00 The train station at Levis was all closed up, opening now only just before the train arrived at 11:00 at night. As the next leg of my journey was to be by train, I needed to get to the main station across the river in Quebec before it closed at 5:45. Bicycles were pretty common on this ferry. The signs indicated that one road onto the ferry just like the cars, paying at the gate. On board were rows of bike racks. It was sure nice to park the bike and stand for a few minutes. Several city cyclists were interested in my gear and I struck up a conversation. One of them was kind enough to show me to the train station at the other side, though I had a really hard time keeping up with her light fancy racer on my old weighted-down clunker. I purchased my ticket for the following Friday evening. Then I studied my campground guide to find a campground in Levis. I had passed a major one on the way in, but it was inland. After the beautiful site the night before, I wanted another one with a river view. I called on that was past Levis, heading further east on 132, to verify that they had space. Then it was back across the ferry. I was glad to be off the busy streets of Quebec. What a shock after all my country cycling. There was no way I was going to go back up the hill I had come down. I followed the river road. It climbed, but at a more gradual, manageable pace. I figure this road had been constructed in the days of horse and carriage and the upward grade reflected that. It took me quite a while to get out of town, but finally the little road intersected highway 132, which had shrunk back to the status of country road. The problem was that I was not sure which way to go. I was already a fair bit east of Levis. Was the campground further east, or back west? When I found a payphone and called again, my heart sank. I was already past the point of exhaustion, looking east along the road at another long, steep climb, and the man told me the campground was "10 miles east of Levis, in Beaumont. Still, I had no choice but to stumble along. Agonizingly, I cycled up the hill. What a joy when I got to the top. There was the campground! I guess I was already 10 miles east of Levis. It was fairly wide open and sparse, but at least I had a nice river view. I set up my tent, stowed my gear, then cycled the three miles back into town for some Supper. I did not feel as tired, now that my lodging was taken care of. Besides, I was very hungry and I need to buy some Noxema for my sunburn. I found a nice little restuarant in a shopping centre, then I phoned home, bought my Noxema, and headed back. Embarrassingly, I had to walk the bike up the last hill. There was just no more energy left. I took a shower, spread the Noxema (which felt really soothing), and then crashed. It was 9:00 Friday, August 3, 1990: Quebec City I was up the next morning at 6:30. Bright and sunny as it was, I felt I had to wear my long jeans and a long sleeved shirt, to protect me from further sunburn. I bought some orange juice, milk, and ceral form the park's little food store and ate breakfast at my campsite. As I studied the map and the train schedule, I was in a real quandary. The next towm, which looked really interested, was Montmagny. I had wanted to get down the St. Lawrence to the point where it met the ocean tides. I felt that at Montmagny, 50 km down the road, this would be so. Should I try to go on to Montmagny and then come back? But I was having trouble doing 100 km in a day, and each day I was going less. What if I could not get back? Then I noticed that the train stopped at Montmagny. Should I just go, and catch the train there? But did the train officially stop there? It was not a major station like Levis. What if no one bought a ticket to or from Montmagny? Would it just drive right through at 11:30 at night, leaving me alone at the platform? I decided that I had gone far enough for this trip. My body was telling me this. On a future bicycle trip I would take the train to Levis and pick up where I had left off. At 9:00 I left the campground and went back to the train station, where I stowed all my stuff in a baggage locker. I crossed the river and headed for Montmorency Falls, which had looked enticing from across the river the evening before. There was a bicycle path, but it was out in the open and hot. I made it to the Falls by 11:00, bought some lunch, and hung around until about 2:00. I worked my way through the woods and joined those who were sitting on the rocks and swimming in the water. The 10 km ride back to town was torture. I really felt my body giving out. I realized that I had made the right choice in not going on to Montmagny. I would never have made it. I finally got back to the train station at 4:00, where I had made arrangements to store my bike at a gas station. I stopped and stripped all of the remaining gear off the bike. The odometer read 499 when I took it off. I had travelled 222 miles, or 355 km. Bike stowed, I went back across to Quebec City and walked around. I had Supper in the old, original crepe place that I had first visited on an earlier trip in my youth, in 1973. Then I walked around the streets and found the place where I had stayed on the 1973 trip. I bought some postcards at the Chateau Frontenac, wrote and mailed them. I called some people. Finally I caught the 8:30 ferry back to the Levis train station. The bicycle phase of my travels was complete Conclusion I was truly not properly prepared for this, my first major bicycle trip as an adult. Despite the hardships, however, I truly enjoyed the experience. The roads and countryside take on a completely different air when travelled at 15 km hour. Next time, I will need to get a proper bike, or at least modify mine and make sure it is in tip-top shape. I need to get better gear ratios, so that I can tackle the hills more easily. Instead of greasing the bearings on my return, I should do it before departure. I need to spend some more money on professional equipment. The tent was fine, but my old sleeping back was just too heavy. The entire baggage load would need to be halved. I need to get bigger, proper saddle bags, as well, so that there is no "bundle" to store on top of the carriar. I need to do some research on cross-country cycling. I realize that nutrition, liguids, and rest are an exact science. I did my best, but my body was giving out on me earlier each day. Most important, I will need more training. It will have to include some serious trips into the hills so that I can get practice climbing. Next time, who knows? Maybe Quebec City to Gaspe'. Or perhaps a more exotic destination. I saw a lot of inter-city cyclists in Scotland. But that is another story.