2009: Montreal to Quebec City

The Plan

On August 31, 2009, I moved to Montreal from Edmonton to begin my Master of Arts in religious studies at McGill University.  I had not yet completed a bike trip that summer, and my rather daring plan was to bike to Quebec City—a distance of 269 kilometres—and return to Montreal by bus in a single day.  That would be, by far, the longest I had ever ridden in one day.  I estimated, optimistically, that it would take me 13 hours.  The final bus from Quebec left at 22:30, however, so as long as I made it by then I could get back to Montreal the same day.  

  

I had come to Montreal with two suitcases and nothing else, and moved into a second-floor furnished apartment just east of downtown—the “French” side of the Island of Montreal.  Just over two weeks later my bike arrived, shipped by my dad via Greyhound. 

I picked it up at Gare Centrale, the main bus terminal, in Montreal’s sketchiest neighbourhood.  It was in a long and narrow cardboard box, with lots of holes where the pointy parts of the bike had pushed through.  Outside, against a chain link fence surrounding an empty, weedy, grassless lot, I assembled my bike.  Dad had included a large wrench in the box and I was able to attach the pedals, straighten out the handlebars, and tighten all the places that needed tightening.  Then I biked the few kilometres down Rue Ontario to my apartment.

Over the next few days, between classes and generally settling in to my life in Montreal, I put the finishing touches on my plan.  I was extremely, extremely poor, having just paid tuition and moving costs, so I tried to keep my expenses to a minimum.  I visited three Canadian Tire locations to find the best deals on a helmet, air pump, and speedometer.  I bought a one-piece saddle bag to go on my rear rack, and packed it with granola bars, fruit snacks, bananas, juice, and water bottles.  I included a map and a little tool kit and left just enough room for my sweater for when I got too hot wearing it. 

September 24, 2009

I woke up at 6:00.  I had spent a nervous, restless night, and I was extremely tired, but my heart was already racing with adrenaline.  I ate a mostly-liquid breakfast quickly, put the last necessary items in my bag, and went out the back door onto the porch, where my bike was locked to the railing.  It was still completely dark.

As I wheeled my bike towards the stairs I realized somebody was on the stairs, climbing upwards.  My recollection of this is minimal: I was too tired to be worried or scared or even surprised.  The backyard was fenced, and only my landlord lived downstairs.  Clearly, whoever this was, they should not have been there.  He was probably drunk, or stoned, and he seemed about as out of it as I was.  He asked me something about marijuana.  I do not remember if this question was in English or French.  Since I also do not remember if he wanted to buy weed or sell it, I assume he asked in French and I did not quite understand.  Regardless, I answered in English, something to the effect of “get lost.”  He did.

At 6:24 I was on my bike in the back alley.  It was cold, about 7 degrees Celsius, and I did not have gloves.  Within minutes my hands were numb and my legs stiffening.  Luckily I was wearing a relatively heavy sweater, so my core remained quite warm.  It took me an hour just to get off of the island—a frustratingly winding route over poorly paved roads (a Quebec hallmark) in the semi-darkness. 

By the time I was biking across the bridge to the north side of the St. Lawrence River the sun was above the horizon, and I was beginning, for the first time, to enjoy myself.  The morning sun above the water was quite beautiful, and finally I was on a smooth stretch of road.

The route I had planned was based on Google maps, and for the most part it took me along Route 138.  I deviated from the Google-recommend route on several occasions, usually opting to stay on Route 138.  That was smart for the most part, I think, but it caused me problems towards the end of the trip.

Route 138 was at one time the main route between Montreal and Quebec.  It has long since been surpassed, by a faster, more direct route south of the river, meaning traffic is now relatively light on 138.  It also runs more-or-less along the river, instead of further inland, which often made for some refreshingly scenic views.  Occasionally, however, when traffic was heavy or there was construction, the highway was quite stressful and miserable, and I felt crowded to the very edge of the shoulder with little room for error.  Luckily, such instances were rare.   

In any case, after about 70 kilometers or around 11:00 I was seriously questioning whether I would make it.  My legs were already in significant pain, probably largely to the cold early on.  So far, however, saddle sore was not a problem, and my wrists and back were fine.

 

I was stopping every hour or hour and a half to eat and drink, which was adequate for the most part, but I should have been drinking even more often as it later turned out.  Although the day did warm up, to at least the mid-teens, I ended up keeping my sweater on the whole time.  Once or twice I felt hot and considered taking it off, but it seemed too much trouble, and temperature was mostly comfortable through the late morning and afternoon.

I got to Trois Rivieres, nearly exactly halfway to Quebec, around 13:00 and eventually stopped at an IGA grocery store there to get some lunch.  I ended up with a couple of cold, hard-boiled eggs and some strawberries and apples and cheese and what I thought was tuna but maybe was some other kind of fish.  I did not eat it just then, determined to cover more ground.  For its size Trois Rivieres took an exceptionally long time to bike through. 

Half an hour later, still in Trois Rivieres but on the eastern side, I stopped at a park by a fountain and ate. I took fifteen or twenty minutes to sit in the grass and relax.  I had little desire to get back up and on the bike. 

I expected Trois Rivieres to remind me of Red Deer, Alberta—mostly because it marked the halfway point between Quebec and Montreal, I think, just like Red Deer is halfway between Calgary and Edmonton.  It actually did remind me of Red Deer in ways, but I was surprised how old it was in parts. I biked through what I guess would be “old” Trois Rivieres, and some of its buildings are 375 years old.

Eventually I climbed back on my bike and soon I was outside of Trois Rivieres.  After the break in the park I did not really have problems in terms of pain, but I was definitely not as strong as I had been earlier in the day.  Soon too I ran out of water and became desperately thirsty.  I continued to be worried about making it.  Had I bitten off more than I could chew?

I passed through little town after little town, all ancient by colonized North American standards and all with attractive, centuries-old bed and breakfasts.  More than once the idea of calling it quits and stopping for the night crossed my mind.  A combination of lack of clothing to change into and low financial resources dissuaded me, pushing me onwards.

As the sun lowered my motivation to travel as far as possible before dark increased.  In fact, I covered more distance in the two hours between 16:00 and 18:00 than I had in any other two hour period of the day.  My energy level surprised me, even as I ran out of food and became noticeably dehydrated. 

I could not, however, beat the sun and sooner than I had expected it grew dark and cold.  I was still far outside of Quebec, although by now I was more confident that I would make it. 

Unfortunately, in the thirty or so kilometers outside of Quebec the shoreline becomes hilly, climbing and falling, rolling along. The little valleys this created were noticeably colder than the tops of the hills, and once again I began to stiffen.  On the way up several hills I ended up walking, not because I could not bike up them, but because it gave me a chance to stretch and warm up my legs without sacrificing my pace considerably.  I was becoming progressively more miserable as the day got later and later.  When another cycler zipped past me, riding far stronger and faster than I was, I suffered another blow to my pride.  The worst was yet to come.

On Google I had planned to skirt the cliffs of Quebec and avoid climbing more than was necessary.  To do this, I had to turn off of Route 138, and pass between the river and the cliffs, around the bend to the bus station.  Somehow in the dark, however, I completely missed where I was supposed to turn off. 

Even worse, I thought I had lost 138 entirely and had no idea where I was, only twenty or so kilometres outside of Quebec.  Cold and lost in the dark, tired and sore, I panicked.  I briefly started crying uncontrollably.  Then, it began to rain.  I turned around, confused, until I realized that I was indeed still on 138. 

I knew that Route 138 ended up in downtown Quebec, so I stayed on it.  Once I arrived at the airport I began texting my dad for directions to the bus station.  Over the next hour, as he tracked the route on Google maps, he guided me via text message through Quebec to the bus stop.   As things I turned out I still managed to avoid the cliffs, although I got to the bus station from the north side of Quebec instead of the south side.  

I arrived at the bus station at 21:36, rain-soaked, and completely worn out emotionally and physically.  I had just missed the 21:30 bus to Montreal.   The last bus of the night was at 22:30 though, so at least I would make it home.

I filled my water bottles at the water fountain and washed up as best I could in a bathroom sink.  Then I went to buy my ticket.

It was not a problem to get a student-priced ticket to Montreal, but they told me that the parcel service was closed, so I would be unable to take my bike.  Distinctly unimpressed, I pressed the agent.  He told me that they had no way to give me a box or bag for my bike and so it was up to me and the bus driver to decide if my bike could go.   

I fretted for 45 minutes until the bus got there.  When it did, it turned out that the bus driver did not mind at all letting me put my bike underneath.

Exhausted, I slept for an hour or so on the bus and got back to Montreal around 1:30.  The metro had stopped running, so I climbed back on my bike and made the cold, stiff ride down Rue Ontario.  I got home just before 2:00.  I showered and ate whatever food I could find, before finally falling asleep.