The Plan
Originally, when I ran over ideas for biking
the summer of 2012, I considered a Lloydminster-Winnipeg route that would take me
across Saskatchewan and much of Manitoba. Accordingly, I requested two June weeks of vacation from my employer, but all of it except two days were denied. That left me with two biking options: a four
day weekend from June 21-24 or two weeks in September.
I
did not want to let the four day weekend go to waste, but clearly it was not long
enough to bike from Lloydminster to Winnipeg. I pared down the route to Lloydminster-Saskatoon. This would require a Greyhound ride to
Lloydminster from Edmonton, then a flight back from Saskatoon--relatively expensive transit for just a
weekend of biking, but I rationalized it as worth it none the less.
Then,
in May, my girlfriend Andrea declared that she was interested in joining me. Unfortunately, however, her little sister, Caitlin, had her 18th birthday party scheduled the night of June 21. As a result, we revised the plan again: rather than bike west-east we
would bike east-west, from Saskatoon to Lloydminster. Andrea would fly to Saskatoon
early in the morning of the June 22, and I could bus to Saskatoon on
June 21.
Moreover, Caitlin would pick us up and drive us home, saving us the cost and time and complication of transit. Even better, the ride meant we did not need to end up in either Lloydminster or Saskatoon, and could avoid biking on the busy Yellowhead highway altogether. Instead, we planned our route on Highway 14, from Saskatoon west to the border, through Biggar and Unity.
Highway 14 has significantly less traffic, is more direct, and passes through more towns with campgrounds and restaurants. All in all, it was a much more desirable route.
Andrea would get to Saskatoon just before 9:00 on Friday, June 22. My bus trip would take all of the afternoon on Thursday June 21, and get me to Saskatoon around 20:00. Other preparations included purchasing new bikes for both of us, a light tent, and small sleeping bags. We ended up with similar, aluminum-framed urban bicycles purchased at different stores and outfitted them for our trip. I bought a small two-person tent that is an absolute pleasure to set up, repack, and carry, fitting nicely into a pannier.
I also needed to arrange accommodations in Saskatoon for the night of the June 21, something that proved far more challenging than I expected as the Truth and Reconciliation Commission was meeting that weekend. I contacted a total of eight bed and breakfasts; all were full but one, “Alpha Mercy Haven,” just off of Broadway on 5 Street, which I booked posthaste.
June 21, 2012
On the morning of June 21 Andrea gave me a ride to the Greyhound station downtown. There, I purchased a box to pack my bike in, took off my wheels, and proceeded to fill the box with my bike and most of my baggage. We then thoroughly taped the box, kissed goodbye, and parted ways.
The trip was uneventful enough for me, six hours via the Yellowhead to Saskatoon with brief stops in Lloydminster and North Battleford. In Saskatoon I reassembled my bike, packed everything into my panniers and road out of downtown, across the North Saskatchewan River, and down Broadway to my B&B.
June 22, 2012
The next morning, as Andrea took off from Edmonton, I sat down for a full breakfast of waffles and fresh backyard berries and talked with my fellow guest, an elderly gentleman with a long white beard who was attending the Truth and Reconciliation Commission for some undisclosed reason.
Her flight was landing as I rode back downtown, over the long, slopping bridge.
On the other side I circled underneath the bridge and rode beside the river for several kilometres along a deserted multi-use trail.
Saskatchewan, and Saskatoon in particular, is in the midst of economic boom, and the downtown side of the North Saskatchewan River is either gorgeous urban park or else under development to be a natural/cultural/recreational mecca.
In fact, in cycling around the city the previous evening I had been driven off of my bike due to the throngs enjoying an evening riverside stroll, ice cream cone or lover’s hand tightly clasped. Today, however, the trail was clear, and I was flying, stopping only once to watch two spectacular woodpeckers (Northern Flickers, I later discovered) dance and jump from tree trunk to tree trunk.
I had my phone tucked in the right back pocket of my yellow bike jersey, and checked it for progress updates as Andrea assembled her bike and worked her way towards our designated meeting point, an intersection between Highway 14 and a secondary road that happened to also be the location of a brand-new Wal-Mart. She had her share of challenges, including difficulty getting her tires fully inflated and inadequate directions; but I also got lost and found myself biking in sneezing circles, as I fought allergies and the chaos of suburban street layouts.
Once I arrived, I did some shopping while I waited: water bottles, fruit, granola bars. For the most part we would be eating in restaurants along the way, but we wanted to have at least small supply of snacks to rely on.
I was just loading up my bike and applying sunscreen when Andrea rode up. I cranked her pedals the half turn further that she couldn’t manage, maximized the tire pressure as much as my strength and small pump would allow, and then we headed back inside for a second breakfast/early lunch at McDonald’s.
We rolled out, fully loaded, onto the highway just after 11:00.
Instantly, somehow, my seat came loose, but I was determined to have a good start, so I ignored it as we sped westward, maintaining a pace of nearly 30 kmph for several kilometres before settling around 25. The weather was perfect, the road in good shape, with a wide shoulder smoothly paved, and best of all—flat.
Our new bikes performed beautifully, but we had two issues: my seat was getting looser and looser, and Andrea’s tire pressure was not as high as we wanted it to be. About 18 kilometres out of Saskatoon we stopped at a Co-op Gas Bar to fill tires and tighten my seat. To my immense annoyance I realized the only wrench I had packed—since “all of my screws are the same size”—was in fact in the wrong size for my seat screws. Of course every other screw I can find on the bike works with the size wrench I had brought, but I was left holding a tool useless for the fix I needed. I asked in the store if they had any Allen wrench sets, but the woman was unhelpful and uneager to help. So instead I went back outside, unpacked a couple of bananas, and pushed out across the gravel parking lot back towards the highway.
We stopped once or twice more before lunch, but we made great time as we sped across the prairie. The traffic decreased the further we got from Saskatoon, and we began to focus more on the birds and the cows and the horses than the cars and trucks. The birds probably surprised me the most of anything we saw the whole route. From the Northern Flickers in the Saskatoon river valley to the various raptors circling high above what seemed like lifeless fields, to the countless red-winged blackbirds with their distinctive song swarming around the irrigation ditches, the broad and plentiful avian life was not something I had expected to be able to appreciate. Of course, less surprisingly, we were also able to catch occasional glimpses of gophers, usually dashing rapidly into the grass off of the shoulder as we approached
The village of Perdue was where we planned to stop for lunch and we arrived there just after 15:00. In what we realized was familiar entrance-into-small-Saskatchewan-town pattern, the kilometre before the town was lined with small, often homemade billboards, advertising everything from gas stations to anti-abortion messages. One of the billboards promoted a gas station/restaurant stop, so a kilometre later we crossed the highway and parked our bikes underneath the sign reading “Restaurant.”
We shook out our legs, locked our bikes together and went inside, past the “open” sign, sitting down at a table. The restaurant was deserted, grungy, and unpromising. I walked to the washroom, came back and still no sign of life. I walked to the other half of the building, the gas station store, and said hi to the worker behind the counter—a young black guy with his hoodie’s hood up and a big smile on his face.
“Hey man, is the restaurant open?”
“No buddy, closed for renovations.”
“Oh really? Alright, is there anywhere around here to get food?”
“No, not really, maybe the golf course. You guys not from around here?” As if he had to ask.
“No, we’re biking through. Anywhere I can fill my water bottles?”
“Sure.” He led me behind the counter to the kitchen and pointed at the tap. It fed into a sink full of dirty dishes—left over from when the restaurant was open? Who knows. I filled the water bottles while my new friend continued asking questions.
“So you’re biking from Saskatoon?”
“Yeah, to Biggar for tonight.”
“Where are you from?”
“Edmonton.”
“Do you have family around here?”
“No, just here to bike.”
“Wow, you just came to bike to Perdue and Biggar, eh?”
“I guess so.”
“So is this your first stop? Did you stop in Asquith?” He referred to the only other village between Saskatoon and Perdue.
“No, some Co-op somewhere though.”
“Oh yeah.” My water bottles were full, I went back to find Andrea, and we went outside to get back on our bikes.
Buddy followed us out. “It’ll be a nice ride to Biggar, only two hills.”
“Great,” I said. I was hungry and tired and not especially talkative.
“Did you see the ball game last night?”
I knew Miami had had the chance to clinch the NBA championship, but I had no clue what the result was, nor was I all that interested. But I faked it well enough: “Oh no, did Miami win?”
“Oh yeah man, Miami won, Lebron got his ring!” He was awfully excited, and somehow just didn’t seem to fit in in this 400 person rural village.
“Might not be his last either,” I commented, offering what was more or less the zenith of my NBA knowledge.
Andrea and I laughed to ourselves as we said goodbye and pushed back onto the highway.
The other gas station in Perdue was a Co-op, much more up and coming, albeit without a restaurant, closed or otherwise. They did, however, sell prepared sandwiches, so we bought a couple, along with cinnamon buns, home made by an unidentified “Edith.” It was a good enough lunch, and we ate on a picnic table by the gas station.
The ride from Perdue to Biggar was uneventful and brisk through much of the same countryside. We got to Biggar just after 17:00, having ridden just over 100 kilometres for the day.
There are two campgrounds in Biggar, a private RV park and a municipal park across the highway from the town. The problem with the municipal park was that it had no facilities, and we both wanted a shower. So, we biked through the town trying to find the RV park without luck. We stopped in a gas station to ask for directions. The lady had no idea about the campground, but she did let me go behind the counter and look through her tool box to find an allen key. So I got my seat fixed but was no closer to the campground. Instead, we decided to go with the municipal park and then come back into town to the local pool for showers.
The park was across the highway and then into a valley—a pretty significant drop in elevation, actually, especially by Saskatchewan standards. We could camp for free, and there was no one else in the campground, so we chose our site, set up our tent, packed bags of clothing and towels and walked up the hill to the pool.
We walked into our respective change rooms and immediately I was questioning the wisdom of our choice. These were utterly primitive change rooms, clearly designed for a kid’s quick change and dash to the pool. Everything was concrete, wet, and dirty. Mine was empty except for two kids in the showers—the only two showers. Unlike most kids they did not seem the least bit eager to stop showering, either, as they had found a lady bug and were playing with it. Finally I asked if they were almost done, to which one of them, kind soul, said, “you can borrow mine,” as he stepped into his friend’s shower. Lovely. I stood naked under the “borrowed” shower, trying to wash off the sweat and sunscreen and bug spray and dirt, with two little strange kids standing beside me talking to me. I was terrified that an adult would walk in—dad or mom—and be horrified that a strange naked man was showering beside their innocent children. Thankfully, that did not happen, and I ended my shower sooner than I wanted to, dried and dressed.
We ate supper at a burger/pizza shack on Main Street, and then bought a four pack of beer at a liquor store at the highway motel on our way back to the campground. We sat at the picnic table drinking a beer each, but that’s as far as we got. We were too tired to finish the other two, so we crashed, probably sometime before 22:00.
June 23, 2012
It was a cold night, and we slept in snatches. We woke up sore and stiff and grumpy, but packed up and got on our bikes straight away, up the hill and across the highway. The little trip woke us up and prior to eating breakfast we elected to bike down Main St., taking pictures of the “New York is Big, but this is Biggar” signs (we counted at least seven).
Once our little tour was over we headed back to the motel restaurant for a pile of pancakes and bacon and epically terrible coffee.
Dissatisfied with sleep and breakfast, we hit the road around 10:00. Our pace was terrific and the traffic nearly nonexistent as we zoomed along, past field after field. The scenery was serene and peaceful and the highway straight and flat, with almost no turn offs or anything noteworthy. At Landis, about 30 kilometres out of Biggar the highway turned, but we sped by the village and headed slightly more northward towards Wilkie. Our good pace continued but by now the sun was high in the sky and relentless and I ended up wrapping my left forearm in a white t-shirt to protect it from the sun, while changing my left ankle sock for one that I could pull up my calf.
Wilkie came up just in time as we were getting hungry. Highway 14 takes a right angle turn at Wilkie, and we stopped at the corner, with little in terms of food in sight. There was an old gas station at the corner, but the pumps were long gone and the store was no longer a store. What it was was not clear, as it had no signage and was simply painted white. It seemed to be a commercial establishment of some kind, and we thought it might be a commercial establishment of the food-serving variety. So, while Andrea tried to figure that out, I biked further into the town, found Main St., and discovered one or two other options we had. When I returned to the corner Andrea informed me that our unnamed white building was indeed a restaurant, so we headed inside and took a table.
It turned out that this place was called “Cody’s” and that today was its first day of operation. The food was alright, and the service impeccable. A little kid—the restaurant’s namesake Cody, as we found out—ran around between the legs of his mother and grandmother, both of whom offered us coffee refills constantly. The other clientele consisted of a bleeding-nose old man, a dad and a couple of kids, and another old man with a gaudy motorcycle and side car get up that sat glistening in the parking lot. Later, down the road in Unity, we would see a homemade poster in a gas station advertising that same motorcycle for sale; strange coincidence. The restaurant had no air conditioning, and it was hotter inside than out, but at least we were sheltered from the sun. We ate chocolate cake for desert, dragging out our stay as long as possible. Finally we paid the bill and went outside.
The air was refreshing, but the sun as intense as before. It was 15:00 as we got back on the highway, now heading due west. We spotted the silos of Unity’s salt processing plant and grain elevators shortly after leaving Wilkie, giving us motivating targets that grew larger and larger the closer we got. Again the road was deserted and straight and flat, and we rode the 30 kilometres to Unity in little over an hour.
Unity was a much larger, more bustling town than any we had visited since Saskatoon. We rolled by the salt plant, and rows of grain silos, across railroad tracks, then another set of tracks, then past a bustling industrial construction site, before finally crossing tracks again and rolling onto Main St. I had seen online that Unity had painted a Main St. intersection in Roughrider green to celebrate the Rider’s 100th anniversary and I was excited to see it. Much to our disappointment, however, we discovered that it was long gone, with only the slightest traces of green remaining along the curbs.
Instead, we rode eastward towards the town’s outskirts and found our campground. The campground consisted of the mobile homes and RVs of retirees and traveling workers brought in to work Unity’s boom. We found the mobile home of the manager who was very nice and very new and made up a price and told us where to camp. Actually, he more or less said “camp wherever you want to in the back,” and so that’s what we did, in a spot beneath a cluster of small trees.
We had been warned to wait a bit before showering as the pipe fitters were getting off work and would be dominating the bathroom. So, we opened our leftover, now warm, beers and sat in the grass and waited. Around 19:00 we hit the shower, a much hotter, higher pressure, less public experience than the Biggar Aquatic Centre.
We remounted the bikes to go back “downtown.” We ate at Star Express, an Asian restaurant run by a very young, hard-working Chinese couple with a little baby who served us a big bowl of excellent won ton soup full of shrimp and pork and veggies and beef and broccoli on a pile of chow mien. After that we walked around a little and ended up getting ice cream and glass-bottled Coke which we ate outdoors at a picnic table.
The sun was setting as we went to bed.
June 24, 2012
I slept outstandingly better in Unity than I had in Biggar, but for it was the opposite for Andrea. I got up and packed some things and washed up and brushed my teeth and finally, with nothing else to do, removed the tent’s fly. Not only did that wake Andrea up, it also sprinkled her with dew that had been covering the fly. Luckily for me she was only minimally grumpy and eventually she was up and packed and we went for breakfast at the highway-side diner. On this morning we both had omelets and better-than-yesterday’s coffee. After breakfast Andrea tried calling Caitlin to confirm a pick up time, but she was unsuccessful. Hoping for the best, we got on our bikes and started the final stretch, sometime close to 10:00 or so.
The day was cooler and fresher than the day before, but still sunny and blue. This stretch of highway was absolutely deserted and the landscape was less populated and seemed less flat and more green. We passed one very memorable barn and set of farm buildings that were painted a strikingly deep red and the looked startlingly gorgeous against the green hills and blue sky. We were once again making great time and had been buoyed by a text message confirmong that everything was on schedule for a pickup at the Alberta border for 14:00.
Then, with 20 or 25 kilometres to go, after riding by a row of trucks setting up roadside electricity poles, I skidded to the side of the road and into the gravel, my back tire as flat as a tortilla. I was annoyed, but not overly concerned.
I pulled off my saddle bags, took off the wheel, and opened my seat post pouch, pulling out my set of tire irons and spare tube. I removed the tire, still full of rubber and smelling fresh, and took off the flat tube. I removed the new one from the box, pumped a few shots of air into it and went to stick the valve through the hole.
Horror of horrors—I realized the Schrader valve of the new tube would not fit the hole on my wheel. This bike was the first one I had ever owned that had Presta valves, and I had no idea that the wheels came valve specific. I cursed and slammed my palm to my forehead in utter disgust, embarrassment, and frustration.
I was left trying to improvise against the odds. Meanwhile, Andrea went on—there was no reason she should not finish even if I could not.
Eventually, I gave up trying to fit the new tube, gave up trying to pump up the old tube, but refused to give up entirely. I realized I would likely ruin my wheel, but I sure did not want to give up with the end so close.
I put everything back together and got back on my bike. I have never intentionally ridden on a flat tire before, and I had no idea how much drag it created, constantly pulling me rightward toward the ditch. Nonetheless, gripping the handlebars as tight as I could I rode as fast as I dared, braking on the downhill portions so as to keep control. The accuracy of my bike computer may have been severely compromised by the bum wheel, so I am not sure exactly how fast I was going, nor do I remember how long the ride took me. I do know my speedometer read well over 20 kmph for most of the stretch, and that the distance was over 20 kilometres. I also remember constantly looking over my shoulder every time I heard a car, panicked that it would be Caitlin coming down the highway sooner than I could finish.
As the border got closer cell phone reception improved, and I received a text from Andrea telling me she had reached Macklin, about 5 kilometres from the border. I told her I was riding on the flat and that I thought I was less than 10 kilometres out. I asked her if she would be willing to ride on to the border and then ride back, meeting me in Macklin. That way I could then ride her bike—assuming I still had not run out of time—and finish the ride.
So while she rode the last (what turned out to be more like 9 kilometre) stretch to the border I continued riding as furiously as I dared. Finally I could see Macklin, passed the “Macklin 1 [kilometre]” sign, and then pulled up sharply, a dead stop as my tube, torn and wrapping in the spokes, jammed my wheel completely. I dismounted took a quick look and realized trying to unjam it without a knife to cut it off was useless. Pushing the bike was not an option either, as the wheel was totally stuck, so I hoisted my now useless, so-recently-brand-new bike onto my shoulder, panniers and all, and staggered the final kilometre to the Petro Canada at the entrance to Macklin. I locked my bike to a pole and started jogging towards the border.
Andrea met me riding back. We talked briefly, long enough for her to tell me the ride was much more than 5 kilometres and that the wind was brutal coming eastward. So bad, in fact, that she was happy to be able to walk. I was surprised and skeptical that it could be that bad. After all, I did not feel more than a slight breeze. We each pulled granola bars from her panniers and parted ways, I crossing the highway with her bike and gobbling the food as I rode. I was shocked at how hungry I was and I reached back for more even as I rode as fast as I could. Most of the way felt like an upward incline, but I was riding 35 kmph most of the way, adrenaline pumping as I became more and more certain I would get there.
Sure enough: “Welcome to Alberta.”
The sign is actually three or four kilometers past the actual border, but we had no other way of knowing we had reached our goal other than by seeing the welcome sign. I snapped two or three quick pictures without dismounting and turned back.
Wow, was Andrea ever right. It goes without saying that if the westward portion between Macklin and the welcome sign was up hill, the eastward direction must be downhill. But I was biking flat out, gasping and panting and having trouble maintaining 20 kmph. No exaggeration: in terms of sheer physical effort, those last, frustratingly unnecessary kilometres biking “backwards” were by far the hardest of our trip.
Again, I have no recollection of what time it was or how long the ride back to Macklin took. The whole ride from the flat tire onward took such mental and physical focus that I did not have any to spare for keeping track of time. I do know that now, riding into the wind, I was extremely grateful that Andrea had biked the extra kilometres to let me finish (all of which were extra kilometres for her the only purpose of which was to allow me to finish on her bicycle), and that the sky was rapidly turning a dark grey—or had it been turning grey for hours and I had not noticed? I have no idea, but it looked awfully ominous and I was glad we were almost done.
I was only back in the Petro Canada parking lot a few minutes when Caitlin pulled in. We loaded up, panniers in the back, bikes on the rack behind. We filled the tank and cleaned the windshield. I changed in the Petro Canada washroom and bought water, an apple, and lemonade. We piled in and tore off down the highway towards Edmonton. The sky broke almost immediately, rain in torrents, lightening ahead and behind and above, and thunder roaring. But we missed most of the storm, fast asleep in the back.
On the morning of June 21 Andrea gave me a ride to the Greyhound station downtown. There, I purchased a box to pack my bike in, took off my wheels, and proceeded to fill the box with my bike and most of my baggage. We then thoroughly taped the box, kissed goodbye, and parted ways.
The trip was uneventful enough for me, six hours via the Yellowhead to Saskatoon with brief stops in Lloydminster and North Battleford. In Saskatoon I reassembled my bike, packed everything into my panniers and road out of downtown, across the North Saskatchewan River, and down Broadway to my B&B.
June 22, 2012
The next morning, as Andrea took off from Edmonton, I sat down for a full breakfast of waffles and fresh backyard berries and talked with my fellow guest, an elderly gentleman with a long white beard who was attending the Truth and Reconciliation Commission for some undisclosed reason.
Her flight was landing as I rode back downtown, over the long, slopping bridge.
On the other side I circled underneath the bridge and rode beside the river for several kilometres along a deserted multi-use trail.
Saskatchewan, and Saskatoon in particular, is in the midst of economic boom, and the downtown side of the North Saskatchewan River is either gorgeous urban park or else under development to be a natural/cultural/recreational mecca.
In fact, in cycling around the city the previous evening I had been driven off of my bike due to the throngs enjoying an evening riverside stroll, ice cream cone or lover’s hand tightly clasped. Today, however, the trail was clear, and I was flying, stopping only once to watch two spectacular woodpeckers (Northern Flickers, I later discovered) dance and jump from tree trunk to tree trunk.
I had my phone tucked in the right back pocket of my yellow bike jersey, and checked it for progress updates as Andrea assembled her bike and worked her way towards our designated meeting point, an intersection between Highway 14 and a secondary road that happened to also be the location of a brand-new Wal-Mart. She had her share of challenges, including difficulty getting her tires fully inflated and inadequate directions; but I also got lost and found myself biking in sneezing circles, as I fought allergies and the chaos of suburban street layouts.
Once I arrived, I did some shopping while I waited: water bottles, fruit, granola bars. For the most part we would be eating in restaurants along the way, but we wanted to have at least small supply of snacks to rely on.
I was just loading up my bike and applying sunscreen when Andrea rode up. I cranked her pedals the half turn further that she couldn’t manage, maximized the tire pressure as much as my strength and small pump would allow, and then we headed back inside for a second breakfast/early lunch at McDonald’s.
We rolled out, fully loaded, onto the highway just after 11:00.
Instantly, somehow, my seat came loose, but I was determined to have a good start, so I ignored it as we sped westward, maintaining a pace of nearly 30 kmph for several kilometres before settling around 25. The weather was perfect, the road in good shape, with a wide shoulder smoothly paved, and best of all—flat.
Our new bikes performed beautifully, but we had two issues: my seat was getting looser and looser, and Andrea’s tire pressure was not as high as we wanted it to be. About 18 kilometres out of Saskatoon we stopped at a Co-op Gas Bar to fill tires and tighten my seat. To my immense annoyance I realized the only wrench I had packed—since “all of my screws are the same size”—was in fact in the wrong size for my seat screws. Of course every other screw I can find on the bike works with the size wrench I had brought, but I was left holding a tool useless for the fix I needed. I asked in the store if they had any Allen wrench sets, but the woman was unhelpful and uneager to help. So instead I went back outside, unpacked a couple of bananas, and pushed out across the gravel parking lot back towards the highway.
We stopped once or twice more before lunch, but we made great time as we sped across the prairie. The traffic decreased the further we got from Saskatoon, and we began to focus more on the birds and the cows and the horses than the cars and trucks. The birds probably surprised me the most of anything we saw the whole route. From the Northern Flickers in the Saskatoon river valley to the various raptors circling high above what seemed like lifeless fields, to the countless red-winged blackbirds with their distinctive song swarming around the irrigation ditches, the broad and plentiful avian life was not something I had expected to be able to appreciate. Of course, less surprisingly, we were also able to catch occasional glimpses of gophers, usually dashing rapidly into the grass off of the shoulder as we approached
The village of Perdue was where we planned to stop for lunch and we arrived there just after 15:00. In what we realized was familiar entrance-into-small-Saskatchewan-town pattern, the kilometre before the town was lined with small, often homemade billboards, advertising everything from gas stations to anti-abortion messages. One of the billboards promoted a gas station/restaurant stop, so a kilometre later we crossed the highway and parked our bikes underneath the sign reading “Restaurant.”
We shook out our legs, locked our bikes together and went inside, past the “open” sign, sitting down at a table. The restaurant was deserted, grungy, and unpromising. I walked to the washroom, came back and still no sign of life. I walked to the other half of the building, the gas station store, and said hi to the worker behind the counter—a young black guy with his hoodie’s hood up and a big smile on his face.
“Hey man, is the restaurant open?”
“No buddy, closed for renovations.”
“Oh really? Alright, is there anywhere around here to get food?”
“No, not really, maybe the golf course. You guys not from around here?” As if he had to ask.
“No, we’re biking through. Anywhere I can fill my water bottles?”
“Sure.” He led me behind the counter to the kitchen and pointed at the tap. It fed into a sink full of dirty dishes—left over from when the restaurant was open? Who knows. I filled the water bottles while my new friend continued asking questions.
“So you’re biking from Saskatoon?”
“Yeah, to Biggar for tonight.”
“Where are you from?”
“Edmonton.”
“Do you have family around here?”
“No, just here to bike.”
“Wow, you just came to bike to Perdue and Biggar, eh?”
“I guess so.”
“So is this your first stop? Did you stop in Asquith?” He referred to the only other village between Saskatoon and Perdue.
“No, some Co-op somewhere though.”
“Oh yeah.” My water bottles were full, I went back to find Andrea, and we went outside to get back on our bikes.
Buddy followed us out. “It’ll be a nice ride to Biggar, only two hills.”
“Great,” I said. I was hungry and tired and not especially talkative.
“Did you see the ball game last night?”
I knew Miami had had the chance to clinch the NBA championship, but I had no clue what the result was, nor was I all that interested. But I faked it well enough: “Oh no, did Miami win?”
“Oh yeah man, Miami won, Lebron got his ring!” He was awfully excited, and somehow just didn’t seem to fit in in this 400 person rural village.
“Might not be his last either,” I commented, offering what was more or less the zenith of my NBA knowledge.
Andrea and I laughed to ourselves as we said goodbye and pushed back onto the highway.
The other gas station in Perdue was a Co-op, much more up and coming, albeit without a restaurant, closed or otherwise. They did, however, sell prepared sandwiches, so we bought a couple, along with cinnamon buns, home made by an unidentified “Edith.” It was a good enough lunch, and we ate on a picnic table by the gas station.
The ride from Perdue to Biggar was uneventful and brisk through much of the same countryside. We got to Biggar just after 17:00, having ridden just over 100 kilometres for the day.
There are two campgrounds in Biggar, a private RV park and a municipal park across the highway from the town. The problem with the municipal park was that it had no facilities, and we both wanted a shower. So, we biked through the town trying to find the RV park without luck. We stopped in a gas station to ask for directions. The lady had no idea about the campground, but she did let me go behind the counter and look through her tool box to find an allen key. So I got my seat fixed but was no closer to the campground. Instead, we decided to go with the municipal park and then come back into town to the local pool for showers.
The park was across the highway and then into a valley—a pretty significant drop in elevation, actually, especially by Saskatchewan standards. We could camp for free, and there was no one else in the campground, so we chose our site, set up our tent, packed bags of clothing and towels and walked up the hill to the pool.
We walked into our respective change rooms and immediately I was questioning the wisdom of our choice. These were utterly primitive change rooms, clearly designed for a kid’s quick change and dash to the pool. Everything was concrete, wet, and dirty. Mine was empty except for two kids in the showers—the only two showers. Unlike most kids they did not seem the least bit eager to stop showering, either, as they had found a lady bug and were playing with it. Finally I asked if they were almost done, to which one of them, kind soul, said, “you can borrow mine,” as he stepped into his friend’s shower. Lovely. I stood naked under the “borrowed” shower, trying to wash off the sweat and sunscreen and bug spray and dirt, with two little strange kids standing beside me talking to me. I was terrified that an adult would walk in—dad or mom—and be horrified that a strange naked man was showering beside their innocent children. Thankfully, that did not happen, and I ended my shower sooner than I wanted to, dried and dressed.
We ate supper at a burger/pizza shack on Main Street, and then bought a four pack of beer at a liquor store at the highway motel on our way back to the campground. We sat at the picnic table drinking a beer each, but that’s as far as we got. We were too tired to finish the other two, so we crashed, probably sometime before 22:00.
June 23, 2012
It was a cold night, and we slept in snatches. We woke up sore and stiff and grumpy, but packed up and got on our bikes straight away, up the hill and across the highway. The little trip woke us up and prior to eating breakfast we elected to bike down Main St., taking pictures of the “New York is Big, but this is Biggar” signs (we counted at least seven).
Once our little tour was over we headed back to the motel restaurant for a pile of pancakes and bacon and epically terrible coffee.
Dissatisfied with sleep and breakfast, we hit the road around 10:00. Our pace was terrific and the traffic nearly nonexistent as we zoomed along, past field after field. The scenery was serene and peaceful and the highway straight and flat, with almost no turn offs or anything noteworthy. At Landis, about 30 kilometres out of Biggar the highway turned, but we sped by the village and headed slightly more northward towards Wilkie. Our good pace continued but by now the sun was high in the sky and relentless and I ended up wrapping my left forearm in a white t-shirt to protect it from the sun, while changing my left ankle sock for one that I could pull up my calf.
Wilkie came up just in time as we were getting hungry. Highway 14 takes a right angle turn at Wilkie, and we stopped at the corner, with little in terms of food in sight. There was an old gas station at the corner, but the pumps were long gone and the store was no longer a store. What it was was not clear, as it had no signage and was simply painted white. It seemed to be a commercial establishment of some kind, and we thought it might be a commercial establishment of the food-serving variety. So, while Andrea tried to figure that out, I biked further into the town, found Main St., and discovered one or two other options we had. When I returned to the corner Andrea informed me that our unnamed white building was indeed a restaurant, so we headed inside and took a table.
It turned out that this place was called “Cody’s” and that today was its first day of operation. The food was alright, and the service impeccable. A little kid—the restaurant’s namesake Cody, as we found out—ran around between the legs of his mother and grandmother, both of whom offered us coffee refills constantly. The other clientele consisted of a bleeding-nose old man, a dad and a couple of kids, and another old man with a gaudy motorcycle and side car get up that sat glistening in the parking lot. Later, down the road in Unity, we would see a homemade poster in a gas station advertising that same motorcycle for sale; strange coincidence. The restaurant had no air conditioning, and it was hotter inside than out, but at least we were sheltered from the sun. We ate chocolate cake for desert, dragging out our stay as long as possible. Finally we paid the bill and went outside.
The air was refreshing, but the sun as intense as before. It was 15:00 as we got back on the highway, now heading due west. We spotted the silos of Unity’s salt processing plant and grain elevators shortly after leaving Wilkie, giving us motivating targets that grew larger and larger the closer we got. Again the road was deserted and straight and flat, and we rode the 30 kilometres to Unity in little over an hour.
Unity was a much larger, more bustling town than any we had visited since Saskatoon. We rolled by the salt plant, and rows of grain silos, across railroad tracks, then another set of tracks, then past a bustling industrial construction site, before finally crossing tracks again and rolling onto Main St. I had seen online that Unity had painted a Main St. intersection in Roughrider green to celebrate the Rider’s 100th anniversary and I was excited to see it. Much to our disappointment, however, we discovered that it was long gone, with only the slightest traces of green remaining along the curbs.
Instead, we rode eastward towards the town’s outskirts and found our campground. The campground consisted of the mobile homes and RVs of retirees and traveling workers brought in to work Unity’s boom. We found the mobile home of the manager who was very nice and very new and made up a price and told us where to camp. Actually, he more or less said “camp wherever you want to in the back,” and so that’s what we did, in a spot beneath a cluster of small trees.
We had been warned to wait a bit before showering as the pipe fitters were getting off work and would be dominating the bathroom. So, we opened our leftover, now warm, beers and sat in the grass and waited. Around 19:00 we hit the shower, a much hotter, higher pressure, less public experience than the Biggar Aquatic Centre.
We remounted the bikes to go back “downtown.” We ate at Star Express, an Asian restaurant run by a very young, hard-working Chinese couple with a little baby who served us a big bowl of excellent won ton soup full of shrimp and pork and veggies and beef and broccoli on a pile of chow mien. After that we walked around a little and ended up getting ice cream and glass-bottled Coke which we ate outdoors at a picnic table.
The sun was setting as we went to bed.
June 24, 2012
I slept outstandingly better in Unity than I had in Biggar, but for it was the opposite for Andrea. I got up and packed some things and washed up and brushed my teeth and finally, with nothing else to do, removed the tent’s fly. Not only did that wake Andrea up, it also sprinkled her with dew that had been covering the fly. Luckily for me she was only minimally grumpy and eventually she was up and packed and we went for breakfast at the highway-side diner. On this morning we both had omelets and better-than-yesterday’s coffee. After breakfast Andrea tried calling Caitlin to confirm a pick up time, but she was unsuccessful. Hoping for the best, we got on our bikes and started the final stretch, sometime close to 10:00 or so.
The day was cooler and fresher than the day before, but still sunny and blue. This stretch of highway was absolutely deserted and the landscape was less populated and seemed less flat and more green. We passed one very memorable barn and set of farm buildings that were painted a strikingly deep red and the looked startlingly gorgeous against the green hills and blue sky. We were once again making great time and had been buoyed by a text message confirmong that everything was on schedule for a pickup at the Alberta border for 14:00.
Then, with 20 or 25 kilometres to go, after riding by a row of trucks setting up roadside electricity poles, I skidded to the side of the road and into the gravel, my back tire as flat as a tortilla. I was annoyed, but not overly concerned.
I pulled off my saddle bags, took off the wheel, and opened my seat post pouch, pulling out my set of tire irons and spare tube. I removed the tire, still full of rubber and smelling fresh, and took off the flat tube. I removed the new one from the box, pumped a few shots of air into it and went to stick the valve through the hole.
Horror of horrors—I realized the Schrader valve of the new tube would not fit the hole on my wheel. This bike was the first one I had ever owned that had Presta valves, and I had no idea that the wheels came valve specific. I cursed and slammed my palm to my forehead in utter disgust, embarrassment, and frustration.
I was left trying to improvise against the odds. Meanwhile, Andrea went on—there was no reason she should not finish even if I could not.
Eventually, I gave up trying to fit the new tube, gave up trying to pump up the old tube, but refused to give up entirely. I realized I would likely ruin my wheel, but I sure did not want to give up with the end so close.
I put everything back together and got back on my bike. I have never intentionally ridden on a flat tire before, and I had no idea how much drag it created, constantly pulling me rightward toward the ditch. Nonetheless, gripping the handlebars as tight as I could I rode as fast as I dared, braking on the downhill portions so as to keep control. The accuracy of my bike computer may have been severely compromised by the bum wheel, so I am not sure exactly how fast I was going, nor do I remember how long the ride took me. I do know my speedometer read well over 20 kmph for most of the stretch, and that the distance was over 20 kilometres. I also remember constantly looking over my shoulder every time I heard a car, panicked that it would be Caitlin coming down the highway sooner than I could finish.
As the border got closer cell phone reception improved, and I received a text from Andrea telling me she had reached Macklin, about 5 kilometres from the border. I told her I was riding on the flat and that I thought I was less than 10 kilometres out. I asked her if she would be willing to ride on to the border and then ride back, meeting me in Macklin. That way I could then ride her bike—assuming I still had not run out of time—and finish the ride.
So while she rode the last (what turned out to be more like 9 kilometre) stretch to the border I continued riding as furiously as I dared. Finally I could see Macklin, passed the “Macklin 1 [kilometre]” sign, and then pulled up sharply, a dead stop as my tube, torn and wrapping in the spokes, jammed my wheel completely. I dismounted took a quick look and realized trying to unjam it without a knife to cut it off was useless. Pushing the bike was not an option either, as the wheel was totally stuck, so I hoisted my now useless, so-recently-brand-new bike onto my shoulder, panniers and all, and staggered the final kilometre to the Petro Canada at the entrance to Macklin. I locked my bike to a pole and started jogging towards the border.
Andrea met me riding back. We talked briefly, long enough for her to tell me the ride was much more than 5 kilometres and that the wind was brutal coming eastward. So bad, in fact, that she was happy to be able to walk. I was surprised and skeptical that it could be that bad. After all, I did not feel more than a slight breeze. We each pulled granola bars from her panniers and parted ways, I crossing the highway with her bike and gobbling the food as I rode. I was shocked at how hungry I was and I reached back for more even as I rode as fast as I could. Most of the way felt like an upward incline, but I was riding 35 kmph most of the way, adrenaline pumping as I became more and more certain I would get there.
Sure enough: “Welcome to Alberta.”
The sign is actually three or four kilometers past the actual border, but we had no other way of knowing we had reached our goal other than by seeing the welcome sign. I snapped two or three quick pictures without dismounting and turned back.
Wow, was Andrea ever right. It goes without saying that if the westward portion between Macklin and the welcome sign was up hill, the eastward direction must be downhill. But I was biking flat out, gasping and panting and having trouble maintaining 20 kmph. No exaggeration: in terms of sheer physical effort, those last, frustratingly unnecessary kilometres biking “backwards” were by far the hardest of our trip.
Again, I have no recollection of what time it was or how long the ride back to Macklin took. The whole ride from the flat tire onward took such mental and physical focus that I did not have any to spare for keeping track of time. I do know that now, riding into the wind, I was extremely grateful that Andrea had biked the extra kilometres to let me finish (all of which were extra kilometres for her the only purpose of which was to allow me to finish on her bicycle), and that the sky was rapidly turning a dark grey—or had it been turning grey for hours and I had not noticed? I have no idea, but it looked awfully ominous and I was glad we were almost done.
I was only back in the Petro Canada parking lot a few minutes when Caitlin pulled in. We loaded up, panniers in the back, bikes on the rack behind. We filled the tank and cleaned the windshield. I changed in the Petro Canada washroom and bought water, an apple, and lemonade. We piled in and tore off down the highway towards Edmonton. The sky broke almost immediately, rain in torrents, lightening ahead and behind and above, and thunder roaring. But we missed most of the storm, fast asleep in the back.
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