Needless to say, after failing to complete
a ride in 2010, I was disappointed, and my confidence had taken a hit. I knew, however, that I would be returning to
Fredericton in May 2011 to present my by-then newly-finished thesis at the
Conference of the Humanities and Social Sciences, which was being held at the
University of New Brunswick. That would
offer me a chance to redeem myself and finish what I had begun.
Things, however, turned out slightly
different than I imagined in the fall.
Years ago, when discussing my bicycle ambitions, my girlfriend Andrea had mentioned wanting
to bike across Prince Edward Island.
We had not given thought to the logistics, but the idea of doing that
together continued to come up from time to time. When I received a subsidy from McGill for the
academic portion of the trip, it made the idea all the more viable financially,
and we began thinking about how it might work.
I finished at McGill in March and
returned to Edmonton. Andrea finished
school at the end of April and came back to Edmonton for the summer. Getting to PEI would, then, require
airline tickets.
We bought those, round trip to
Charlottetown, for May 22-31, 2011. Our plan
was to fly to Charlottetown, take a shuttle to the west end of the island the
next day, and begin biking. Four days
later we would reach the eastern tip and meet our shuttle back to
Charlottetown. Along the way we would
take advantage of the many beds and breakfasts across the “Gentle Island.” After another night in Charlottetown, we
would rent a car to get to Fredericton for the conference.
Flying with our bikes was complicated and
prohibitively expensive. So, initially,
we intended to rent bikes from the same bike shop that was organizing our
shuttle, until we realized we could save even more money by renting just one
bike: a tandem.
May 22, 2011
After, among other things, hours of studying
maps and booking accommodations; a practice ride on a tandem bike borrowed from
an acquaintance of my mother; several trips to Mountain Equipment Co-op for
gear; and a visit to Wal-Mart for granola bars and fruits snacks, we were ready
to go.
Unfortunately, our trip began in chaos. We went through security and boarded the
plane without incident; pushed back from the gate on schedule, sitting
side-by-side. After the regular lengthy
pause on the tarmac, we were informed that we had a problem with our aircraft. Phone calls to Edmonton, Montreal, Toronto
were all, apparently, unable to fix the unexplained problem. After some deliberation, we were told that we
would be returning to the gate—once a free one became available.
Needless to say, it was the first time either
of us had ever arrived at an airport gate without having ever taken off. The captain came back on to explain that we
could, if we chose, leave the aircraft; the wait, he said, “should be no more
than an hour.” That would make our new
departure time 10:00.
After some quick
calculations, I determined that would be missing our connection to
Charlottetown that evening and so we deplaned to speak with an Air Canada agent
about a new arrangement.
We formed a line in front of the Air Canada desk—we
stood third or fourth in line. Those in
front of us were more upset than we were, and we quickly learned that another
Air Canada flight was experiencing the same complications. It too had taxied backwards only to return to
a gate.
Furthermore, we learned, through
some strategic eavesdropping, that all the passengers on our flight had now been
asked to deplane and that the airline was no longer confident that this
particular plane would fly at all.
Once I finally got to the counter, I found the
agent to be extremely unhelpful, even annoying, and became quickly frustrated
with the situation. She had calmly tried
to explain to us that since our flight would only be an hour late we would
still be able to make our connection. “Bullshit!” I thought; out loud, I said
“Don’t tell us we’re going to make it, because you’re telling people that the
flight will only be an hour late when we’ve already waited an hour and will now
be delayed two hours. You might not want
to tell people it’ll only be an hour. That’s just a mockery . . .”
Her fingers tapped on the keyboard and she finally
admitted her mistake. Before she could
try to rectify the situation however, another Air Canada agent came over, a
middle-aged woman who immediately took over. She instructed the younger agent to search for
all alternative flight opportunities and then presented us with our options.
It was decided: we would be staying overnight in
Halifax, the only option allowing us to have our luggage with us that night. We
were booked onto the first flight to Charlottetown in the morning, which meant
that we needed to cancel our first bed and breakfast reservation. I got on my little cellphone and sent an
email to Joan, the proprietor of Heart’s Content Bed and Breakfast. I just managed to get it sent before we were
instructed to re-board the plane.
We flew to Ottawa, and laid over there briefly. Then, as we descended towards Halifax, an
announcement was made that the connection to Charlottetown was being held and
that we would make it, after all. Once
we landed we were asked to run to our plane, along with the
sixteen members of the Alberta gymnastics team that was about to compete in
Charlottetown.
Sure enough, the plane had been held. As we boarded the tiny dash-9 there
were a handful of other passengers sitting there waiting for us. Of course, once we were aboard we, in turn,
were forced to wait for a pair of mechanics who had to
get to Charlottetown to fix a plane there.
Eventually, finally, we took off, and the flight lasted just over half
an hour—far shorter than the time we had been sitting on the tarmac in
Halifax. As we descended through the
clouds, the red dirt beaches, the deep green fields, and the small white
lighthouses dotting the coast came into view—my first sights of Prince Edward
Island.
The Charlottetown airport is small, and
only one other plane, a slightly bigger Air Canada jet, sat on the tarmac as we
pulled up to the gate. It was only there
because it needed mechanical attention, so, as the rest of us made our way into
the airport, the mechanics made their way to the paralyzed plane.
The cab ride to “Heart’s Content Bed and
Breakfast” was short and uneventful.
Charlottetown was dark, and cold, and there was little to see. Our host, Joan, pulled up just after we had
been dropped off, and she was quite surprised to see us, since I had cancelled
our reservations only eight hours earlier.
She was excited and happy to see us nonetheless, and hustled us into the
house.
If God designed people for roles in life,
Joan was made to own a bed and breakfast.
Her hybrid accent betrays both her Scottish heritage and the many places
in Canada she’s lived—from B.C. to Halifax and as far north as
Yellowknife. She must be well over
sixty, but her hair holds no gray, and her vocabulary is sprinkled with words
like “cool” that usually aren’t associated with the elderly.
She’s also full of energy—apparently too much
energy. At one time she worked with her
husband running a motel they own, but she liked running her own business
better, so here she was, a one woman show.
She set us up, told us the “rules,” and then sent us down the street to
a local pub, the Galahan, for dinner and “the absolutely best beer.”
May 23, 2011
The next morning, after muffins and yogurt
and fruit and coffee, Joan drove us to MacQueen’s bike shop. With a wave and a “call me if you get into
trouble!” she left us there to pick up our bike and find our shuttle. MacQueen’s was not exactly ready for us, but
they got us set up fast enough nonetheless, and our ride to Tignish on the west
end of the island showed up in just a few minutes.
George, our driver, is a Charlottetown
cabbie, but he wears several hats, apparently.
He uses a cab to shuttle bike riders around the island, and seems to
fancy himself something of a tour guide, too.
We were provided with plenty of islander facts: from the economy to
demographics to climate to historical, religious, agricultural, geographic,
topographic . . . He also knows a thing or two about bike riding, despite his
very large 265 pound frame. Not only had
he biked across the island before, but he was excited to tell us about his
recent trip down a Hawaiian volcanic mountain and around the British Columbia
lower mainland.
We arrived at North Point, just north of
Tignish and the Confederation Trail head around noon. We were at the very tip of the island, the
Gulf of St. Lawrence extending towards the Atlantic to the east, and the
Northumberland Straight and the St. Lawrence River to the west. We were also heavily exposed to the wind—a
fact that has been turned into an energy resource by towering wind turbines
dotting North Point.
We stalled; there’s no other way to put it.
We used the bathrooms in the visitor centre, got ribbons that stated we were
starting our bike trip from North Point, took pictures, ate granola bars, drank
water, and, finally, mounted the bike. I
started in front, Andrea in the back, and we were off, sort of. We zig-zagged around the parking lot, fighting
the wind, learning to balance, and shocked by how cold our exposed fingers
were.
The first two hours was a tough fight. The scenery was beautiful, open water and
beaches to our left, farmland and wind turbines, and country homes, with
national and provincial flags flapping, on our right.
The wind, our worst enemy, also smelt
invigoratingly salty. But the wind,
gusting more often than calm, was tremendous and the two of us, heavy and still
getting used to biking together, struggled.
On the flat stretches, or slight downhill inclines, if the trees broke
the wind, we could reach close to 30 kmph. But our average speed was well below twenty,
and sometimes our speedometer read as low as 12 kmph. Other than lulls in the wind, our best bursts
of speed came when one of us spotted a dog.
There were many dogs, often two to a house, and they were rarely
leashed, and frequently . . . “excited” to see us. It was hard to tell if this was friendly or
hostile excitement, but we assumed the worst, and the rush of adrenaline gave
us energy and speed.
Alberton was our first stop, just after 14:00, where we planned to eat lunch.
Our options were limited to a Loblaws grocery store—the handful of other
potential eating places were closed for Victoria Day. Feeling distinctly out of place in this small
store in which everyone knew everybody else, we purchased a barbequed chicken
and some buns and juice. We ate on the
floor of a gazebo across the parking lot, trying to escape the wind as much as
possible. Twenty minutes later there was
no chicken left, and most of the buns were gone. We wiped our greasy fingers wherever we could
and got back on the bike, our stomachs more full than was ideal. As parents say to little children, my eyes
were probably bigger than my stomach.
Turned out the wind had only gotten
stronger, and we were still worn out from the first 30 kilometers. The next stretch was far harder. It may have been just as pretty, but it’s
hard to remember, because my focus was solely on pedaling. We switched positions—her in front and me
behind—and then switched back. Finally,
somehow, we reached Highway 2 and then, a few kilometers further, got on the
Confederation Trail for the first time.
The Confederation Trail runs along the
route of the old trans-provincial railroad.
The railroad’s builders were paid by the kilometre—meaning they had no
incentive to make it a direct route.
Furthermore, each little community wanted the railroad “in their
backyard.” This means the route winds
its way when it could have gotten across the island much more quickly. Highway 2, the main road across the island
that also does its share of winding and zig-zagging, covers 240 kilometers and
the train route takes 275 kilometres.
But the
railroad also required a much flatter route, and that’s now a boon for
cyclists. In the 1990s PEI was the
first to finish its “rails to trails” program, and the Confederation Trail is
well cared for, with mileage markers and picnic tables and effective
drainage. It was certainly a much
different experience than biking on the highway from North Point—and much
different than anything I had ever biked on before.
Now we were inland, and sheltered by trees
on both sides, and things got much easier.
Where the trees broke for whatever reason we still experienced gusts of
wind—but gusting was now the rare exception.
The trail is packed dirt with a light covering of gravel.
This means more friction than we would
experience biking on the road, but for the most part the advantages of the trail
outweigh its downsides. The lack of
traffic, the quiet, the shelter, the low grade all made for a much more
pleasant ride. We would opt to use the
highway for a shortcut the next day, but mostly for the rest of the trip we
stuck to the trail.
The first marker we saw said something like
61 kilometers. That measured from
Tignish, but because we’d cut off kilometers by taking the road it was also
roughly the same distance we had biked so far.
That meant we had 40 kilometres left, and it was now almost 17:00. Normally that would not have been a problem,
but we were already completely exhausted.
From here, every kilometre was an achievement, and a grind. As time flew by, the kilometre counters
seemed to move slower and slower, and the saddle sore and stiffness grew. We ran out of water, but luckily a
convenience store popped up at a road crossing, and the owner enthusiastically
took me into the back to a sink to fill our bottles.
Just after this quick stop, back on the
trail, I was hit by an overwhelming sense that I could not go farther. It was not an intellectual thought, but a
physical, gut intuition, screaming “stop!”
I had never experienced that, but I sucked it in, prevented myself from
saying anything out loud, and kept on.
Eventually, as the sun was setting, just
after 20:00, we finally reached the Miscouche road. At the same time, our speedometer ticked past
100 kilometres. It was the hardest metric century I had ever cycled. That wind off of the gulf had
really made an impact.
We headed about half a kilometre north to
the highway and there, just on the other side, was the Prince County Bed and
Breakfast.
The inn was across from an
enormous Catholic Church, the largest wooden church I have ever seen in my life. It was a creamy, sparklingly white, with two
towering steeples and beautifully cared for grounds, and a stone archway over
the path to the entrance.
The bed and
breakfast itself was nearly as impressive—a Victorian, twenty-something room
mansion, with manicured gardens, and a transplanted Albertan for a host, Roger.
Roger seemed to know much more about
gardening, cooking, and decorating than about biking, or even about PEI. He did, however, know where we could get
food, which was excellent because we were starving. Miscouche’s only restaurant was a
side-of-the-highway dairy bar (apparently islanders loves these places), about
a kilometre down the road, and it closed at 21:00. Since we did not have much time we headed off
more or less immediately. We walked,
because the prospect of remounting the bike was repulsive. We made it in time, and walked back in the
dark laden with burgers and fries and milkshakes. We ate in our room out of the Styrofoam containers. The burgers were ok, but the fries were
terrible. They were surely the same
McCain crinkle cut fries for sale in any grocery store’s frozen aisle—only the
slightest bit more desirable because many of them originate in PEI—only a
few kilometres away from Miscouche, as a matter of fact. Anyway, we were starving, so we ate
hungrily.
May 24, 2011
Our sleep was luxurious in the king-sized
bed—long and warm, with lots of pillows and room to move our sore bodies. We both felt well-rested when we woke
up. We were not, however, enthusiastic
to get back on our bikes.
Thankfully, we didn’t have to just
yet.
Words cannot adequately convey the
breakfast Roger prepared for us. Its
presentation was perfect. The plates
were round and white ceramic—nothing special; it was the food that caught the
eye. In one quarter of the plate was a
slice of orange, curled around a bunch of three purple grapes. Half of the plate was taken up by a thick
half-circle of a hot, melt-in-your-mouth Belgian waffle, covered with juicy
blueberries and strawberries, and a dollop of whipped cream. The final quarter held a small white bowl
full of eggs whites, spinach, cheese, and whatever else Roger had added and
fluffed together.
For me, it was one of
the most delicious and dazzling breakfasts I had ever eaten.
We lingered at the breakfast table, sipping
coffee, chatting with Roger about Anne of Green Gables, tourism, differences
between Alberta and PEI, the weather, the island’s wildlife, his business,
bilingualism, and who knows what else.
Finally, we got ready to go.
It was cool and rainy as we got on the
trail. Our bums were shockingly sore as
they hit the seats for the first time, and we biked in silence, wet and cold. We did, however, make good time, and we were
in Summerside, PEI's second biggest city, in no time.
Here we stopped at a bank to get some cash. We stayed inside longer
than was necessary, enjoying the warmth and dryness. By the time we got back on the bike, the rain
had nearly stopped. In fact, despite
almost constant cloudiness, we did not have to bike in the rain again for the
rest of our trip.
We continued to make excellent time, and we
even began walking a kilometre or two at a time every hour or so. This gave us a chance to stretch our legs,
eat the granola bars and fruit snacks we had in our saddle bags, and enjoy the
scenery at a slower pace. In the flat
areas we were largely biking between fields of potatoes, which meant a rich
earthy smell and bright red dirt, furrowed deeply. If the terrain was hillier, we often saw
cattle or horses, grazing and lolling, and sometimes watching us. In one herd of cows there was a bull and half
a dozen calves, lying on the grass quietly, or stumbling on fresh legs. We also saw a gorgeous fox, ahead of us on
the trail and dashing into the bush at the last minute. It was invariably peaceful, almost idyllic.
We ate lunch at another dairy bar, just
outside of the town of Kensington, and just past the large McCain French fry
factory. There was a fireplace in the
corner, and we sat as close to it as possible, enjoying the heat as much as the
food.
After lunch the trail was predominantly
downhill on the way into Hunter River, a small town at the bottom of a
valley. Unfortunately our speedometer’s
wires had disconnected and we could not get it hooked back up, so we have no
idea how fast we were going. But we
biked in the highest gear, often coasting, flying past gorgeous forests, herds
of cattle grazing on the meadowy slopes, and little farms houses here and
there.
Once we reached the bottom of the valley we
only had just over 20 kilometres left to go if we stayed on the trail. But we had a chance to trim 10 kilometres
from that distance if we took Highway 2—an easy choice for our
still-sore-from-yesterday bodies.
Unfortunately, the grade of the highway was much steeper than the trail,
and we ended up walking up many of the hills.
Conversely, the downhill portions of the highway were just as steep, and
the crosswind was viciously strong, which meant we were often riding the brakes
as we coasted down—a frustratingly inefficient and stressful experience as
vehicles whipped by us in the highway’s single lane.
As soon as we got the chance, we re-joined
the trail. The last few kilometre went
quickly, despite numerous road crossings, and by 17:00 we were outside
of Trailside Inn Bed and Breakfast—literally just beside the trail.
Technically this bed and breakfast is in a
place called Winsloe, but it is just outside of Charlottetown—close enough that
we were tempted to go into the city for supper.
Instead, we hit up the Tim Hortons in the gas station neighbouring the
inn. We ate chilli and sandwiches, as
slowly as we could, despite our rumbling stomachs.
The bed and breakfast is in a large house,
but it isn’t nearly as old as Joan’s or Roger’s. There is a barn in the back, which is where
we stored our bike. The rooms aren’t
quaint or cosy, just simple, and we were comfortable enough. Our hosts were odd, and a bit
confusing. There were three adults when
we came in, a man, who answered the door, and two women, whom he introduced as
his wife and girlfriend; the women then protested that it was, in fact, the
other way round. We weren’t
sure what to make of that, since we never quite figured out what the relationships
actually were.
In any case, the shower was wonderful, and
we were asleep by 22:00.
May 25, 2011
Lest it seem like food was my sole
obsession on this trip, I will forgo describing Wednesday’s breakfast. In any case, I can’t remember it.
We had gone 65 kilometres the day before,
leaving 110 km to go, about 55 each day.
It was very, very cool when we started out, probably not even 10 degrees Celsius. The first few kilometres
had lots of road crossings, since we were in one of the more densely populated
parts of the island. Soon, however, we
were east of Charlottetown, without frequent signs of civilization. The people at Trailside had provided us with
brown bag lunches, and after only an hour of riding, around 10:00, we
stopped to eat. The paper bags held
sandwiches and fruit and juice and such and the mid-morning meal really hit the
spot.
For the next while our ride was along the
Hillsborough River. I would have
described it as an estuary rather than a river—it was wide, marshy, slow
moving, and had few characteristics in common with, say, the North Saskatchewan
River that I am used to. In any case it
was quite beautiful, with plenty of birds, and the sun, when it came out from
hiding, reflecting nicely off of the water.
Our morning ended in Mount Stewart, a
little place where the trail branches off towards the Northumberland Strait and
places called Montague and Georgetown.
There was a tiny public library/visitor centre right on the trail, and
then, down the street, across from another big wooden church, was a little
restaurant. We ate our third meal of the
day here—coffee, chicken sandwiches, potatoes (it seems every meal in PEI is
accompanied with potatoes in some version or another), and a rhubarb crumble
for desert. We had no trouble eating it
all.
After Mount Stewart we only had 25 kilometres left
for our day, so we took it easy, walking lots again and really enjoying
ourselves. We had more sun this day than
on any other—I actually got sunburnt, and it was a warm afternoon. Also, the further east we went the less
populated things became, meaning we would go for kilometres and kilometres without
seeing people or cars, or even houses.
We enjoyed the birds and the little wildflowers—blues, yellows, pinks,
whites—that dotted the fields and the edge of the trail.
Soon we came to Morell, where we took a
break at the old train station, kept up as a visitor centre.
It was closed, but the porch had a nice bench
and we sat for a while before the final stretch along St. Peter’s Bay. These last kilometres were among the very few
on the Confederation Trail that runs along the shore. Being close to open water may have made
little sense for a railroad, but it sure makes for a gorgeous bike ride. Without a doubt this was the most beautiful
section of the trail, with long stretches of the bay directly to our left.
The salty air is invigorating and motivating,
especially for us inland-dwellers. There
were also a couple of significant bridges to cross on this stretch, including
one that used to be able to swivel, allowing boats to go through. The bridge is now firmly in place, but by
looking over the edge you can still see the old cog wheel on which it used to
pivot.
Tir na nOg was the name of our bed and
breakfast in the little village of St. Peter’s.
We took long showers and then took
advantage of the early evening and walked down the trail and across a
pedestrian bridge to a little hotel that had a seafood restaurant.
Clearly, late May is too early in St.
Peter’s—out of a dozen or so commercial establishments, only three or four were
even open.
Ironically, St. Peter’s Bay
was the island’s first capital, and by far its biggest town until the British
deported the French settlers in the mid-18th century. Now, it seems the population of St. Peter’s
Bay cannot be any higher than when it was first settled by Europeans. At the restaurant, we were not only the only
guests, but the couple that seemed to run the place had to explain that they
were not able to serve much of what was on the menu. We enjoyed our supper anyway, but we
certainly had some good laughs at the little place’s expense.
May 26, 2011
We had briefly met Brendan’s Dad, Will, the
night before, but we had much more interaction with him over breakfast. We ate at a table in a sun room at the side
of the house, and the food seemed never ending.
As usual, we were both hungry, and not eager to get back on the
bike.
Will was also an outsider, an American,
actually, and his family had moved to the island in 2007 to run the bed and
breakfast. But unlike Roger he knew a
lot more about PEI, and he seemed determined to make his mark in the
community. Besides the inn, he and his
wife had just started a restaurant in Morell, and they are working hard to
promote year-round tourism in St. Peter’s Bay.
I can imagine an American with such ambition and drive might being
stepping on toes in a centuries-old, sleepy village, but at the same time maybe
that’s what is needed to revive such an economically depressed part of
Canada.
Eventually, after our conversation had run
its course, we mounted the bike for the final stretch. We had to reach East Point by 15:00, the
time we were scheduled to meet George.
Sadly, the first ten kilometers or so was a real drag: it was remarkably
hot, and it seemed like we were perpetually riding uphill.
Compounding the problem was worry about where we would be
able to eat. We knew that there was one
restaurant on our route—but based on the map and everything we heard from Will
and George and anyone else, only one.
What was more, Will had somewhat absentmindedly mentioned that he
doubted it was open in May. I was not optimistic.
In any case, it was not long before uphill
grinding turned into a much easier pace and we began gaining time. This part of the island is exceptionally
remote and more often than not we were surrounded by undomesticated forests
instead of farmland. In fact, whenever
we stopped riding, we were forced to walk at a brisk pace to avoid bugs from
surrounding us.
At some point we came across a work team
making some improvements to the trail, but other than that we saw nobody,
either on the trail or the roads that we crossed occasionally. The trail also became much softer for a long
stretch, and we struggled to stay upright at some points. Luckily, we were largely rolling downhill at
that point and we could focus more on staying in the trail’s ruts rather than
pedaling hard.
By noon we had reached Munn’s Road at
kilometre 270 or so. The Confederation
Trail continues for a few more kilometers to a little place called Elmira, but
we left it here and headed north towards the shore and North Lake. We
absolutely flew along. The road offered
so much less resistance than the trail had, especially in the softest parts,
and at some points I got nervous at how fast we were moving.
We had to bike around the little North Lake
to get to the restaurant’s location—at least a couple kilometers of potentially
unworthwhile riding. The lake is
merely separated from the gulf by a thin strip of land—in some places barely
even wide enough for the road we were on.
As at North Point on the other end of the island, there were a lot of
wind turbines as well, although, thankfully, not nearly as much wind. The sky had turned light grey by now, and
even somewhat ominous, but there was a beauty to the place nonetheless. A little fishing village—really just a
collection of tiny shacks all huddled together—clung to the edge of the lake,
with a handful of much large fishing boats moored close by. Still, even with all of these signs of
civilization, we saw very few people.
Lo and behold, however, my pessimism was
unjustified. The Sandstone Restaurant
was open.
In fact, even more surprisingly, we were not its only guests. We ate a delicious and satisfying meal, and
watched the tiniest hummingbirds zip to and fro outside of the window, sucking
nectar from feeders hanging off of the roof.
It was shortly after 13:00 when we
got back on the bike and headed down the road, past a few cottages and more
wind turbines, and then, about 10 kilometres later or so, we reached our final
turn.
The road rolled downhill, then
uphill, then down again and then we could see the lighthouse and before we knew
it there we were: East Point, the island’s easternmost tip.
Somehow, for me, it was simultaneously
anticlimactic and immensely satisfying.
The ride this day had been so incredibly easy compared to that first
day’s ride, and yet here we were, at the finish.
The lighthouse is perched on a cliff above
the gulf, several metres at least from the water. The cliffs are a deep red clay, and the water
lapped against them fairly gently.
We soaked it all in for a while, snapping pictures and enjoying the moment.
Before long George arrived in his bright
red taxi minivan, and less than two hours later we were in Charlottetown. By 18:00 we had showered, changed, settled
into our bed and breakfast, and were celebrating in a nearby restaurant,
drinking enormous mugs of light, cold beer and eating juicy steak and succulent
lobster.
We soaked it all in for a while, snapping pictures and enjoying the moment.
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