Cycle touring may tire the body, but gosh, oh does it ever refresh the mind.
Caramel Pig
Peddling the Dirt across North America
Stunningly Violent and Gorgeous
Stage 10
London, Ontario, Canada – Rochester, New York, USA 275.87 Miles – 441.39 Kilometres Total distance ridden 3789.95 Miles – 6063.92 Kilometres
On our first rest day we slept until 7 a.m. and then ate a good, solid, cooked breakfast. No sooner had we finished, than we were herded into the car. Our friend Tammie had planned a road trip. First stop was the all Canadian experience of bagels and refreshingly good non-American coffee at Tim Hortons. |
After getting lost, we found our way to St. Catharines Museum & Welland Canals Centre. What an amazing place. The Welland Canal carries ships between Lake Erie and Lake Ontario along 43 kilometres of water through eight 24 metre wide locks. It was a fascinatingly interesting place. Once again I was quite surprised how clean the water was.
From here we sped on to Niagara Falls. I am not one for tourist stuff, but the falls are something special. It seemed to me quite unbelievable that we could get to within a metre of them. They were both stunningly violent and gorgeous. I took way too many photos and probably forced John and Tammie to stay longer than they had planned. It was just such a magnificent place. I was also very excited to know that in a couple of days' time we would be cycling past. |
Over the past few weeks of peddling, a high school injury in my right leg had been giving me bother. Because of this I found it a little too painful sitting cramped up in the back seat, so was promoted to navigator and the more spacious front seat.
On the way home we stopped for a delightful fish and chip tea from a Lebanese restaurant. The night finished rather late with me wrestling with John's internet while trying to upload my vlog to YouTube.
The next day was basically a mixture of hanging out, bike maintenance and mapping. This was our last visit with friends, so I was keen to get as much done as possible.
The next morning, we were up at 5 a.m., fed and out the door by 6 a.m., and in Tim Hortons by 6:05 a.m. John and Tammie dropped us back at Port Stanley before 7 a.m. and we were on the road minutes after.
It was a slightly hilly day, but oh so good to stretch those cycling muscles again.
On the saddle of a bike, venturing into places we have never been, really is our happy place and for me those first few moments of hearing our tyres roll along the bitumen are my favourite. Cycle touring may tire the body, but gosh, oh does it ever refresh the mind.
On the way home we stopped for a delightful fish and chip tea from a Lebanese restaurant. The night finished rather late with me wrestling with John's internet while trying to upload my vlog to YouTube.
The next day was basically a mixture of hanging out, bike maintenance and mapping. This was our last visit with friends, so I was keen to get as much done as possible.
The next morning, we were up at 5 a.m., fed and out the door by 6 a.m., and in Tim Hortons by 6:05 a.m. John and Tammie dropped us back at Port Stanley before 7 a.m. and we were on the road minutes after.
It was a slightly hilly day, but oh so good to stretch those cycling muscles again.
On the saddle of a bike, venturing into places we have never been, really is our happy place and for me those first few moments of hearing our tyres roll along the bitumen are my favourite. Cycle touring may tire the body, but gosh, oh does it ever refresh the mind.
Sadly this day our steeds were sounding a bit rough. They still needed a good, clean and service, but that would now have to wait until we happened upon a quiet, friendly, cycle shop. We stopped for panihapon in front of the lighthouse at Port Burwell. The place and our second breakfast weren't anything special, however what was super nice was that this was the place where we chose to hide in plain sight the painted stones we'd been given back in Shepherd. Not only was it a fun way to bless the kids, it was also great to get rid of the weight. |
The noontime tailwind quickly blew us past fields of tobacco and dill. We landed at our destination of Booth's Harbour way too early, so decided that as long as we were being pushed, we might as well be on our wheels. Forced by hunger, we stopped at a quaint wee park in Normandale, overlooking the vast lake. Though it was still early, it had been a 100km day, so we began the difficult search for a place to sleep. We decided to pray for another lovely Jack, except this time one who didn't let down our tyres. No sooner had we prayed, than an older man called Joe cycled down the road and asked if we needed help. I said, 'yeah, we are looking for a place to camp'. Joe enquired if we were part of Warm Showers and before we knew it, the three of us, at very different speeds, were rushing down the road to his Port Ryerse home.
We arrived as the rain started and were quickly led to the family's pop top caravan. Joe then asked how our bikes were running. I kind of forlornly told him the story of our attempt to get them serviced and my usual problem with my chain struggling between the second and first ring on my front cassette. It turned out that Joe was a bike mechanic and ran a shop out of his garage. He replaced my tube and gave both bikes a full service including thoroughly cleaning our chains. All of this was free of charge. |
Just when we were thinking we couldn't have prayed for anything better, his wife Janice invited us in for our evening meal. We had a delightful time with the family, followed by a lovely snuggley sleep in the camper and a cooked breakfast in the morning, before being sent out on the road again. This pit stop was so, so timely and such a welcome blessing.
Back on the road, we cruised through sleepy Port Dover and stopped for second breakfast at Selkirk. From here through Featherstone Point, all the way to Dunnville, was absolutely beautiful. Lake Erie glistened in the morning sunshine and its overawing presence left us feeling quite dwarfed.
Things were so perfect that we wanted to stop and enjoy it. We asked a local washing his car if we could sit on their lakeside chairs, take some time out, read our books and make a cup of coffee. He was very obliging and even took our Thermos with him. My nose quickly nudged into Prince Edward Island and the antics of Anne Shirley.
A few minutes later, our host turned up with two mugs, a pot of coffee and his wife. They both sat down for a chat. I was momentarily confused. How the hang could they possibly understand that 'us' taking time out to read and drink coffee would include chatting with them? It took a few minutes for me to buck out of my inhibited selfishness and put my book down and start listening to the standard questions. I was also guilty of thinking that Canadians were the same as Americans. Not only did this polite, generous couple want to ask questions, they also wanted to answer them and tell us about their motorcycling adventures.
It was a rather quick coffee, we thanked them sincerely and rode round the corner, sat on the bank beside the water and got back to our books.
Eventually we ended up in Port Colborne. We kept forgetting that Canadian towns aren't set up for camping. We found an okay place near a park, but it didn't have a dunny, so wasn't really suitable. Ironically, whilst Sharon was away using a public loo, I bumped into a very no-can-do kinda gal who droned on, sucking my life blood, as she explained all the things that she thought would be unwelcome: camping was right at the top of her list. Just as Sharon returned, this wet blanket of a woman decided to call a bike shop and tell them what we shouldn't do.
Worried about my tired shoes and wet feet, we used this mention of a cycle store to exit the situation and find the place. The shop employees were lovely people who didn't have suitable shoes but did call a B&B for us.
Back on the road, we cruised through sleepy Port Dover and stopped for second breakfast at Selkirk. From here through Featherstone Point, all the way to Dunnville, was absolutely beautiful. Lake Erie glistened in the morning sunshine and its overawing presence left us feeling quite dwarfed.
Things were so perfect that we wanted to stop and enjoy it. We asked a local washing his car if we could sit on their lakeside chairs, take some time out, read our books and make a cup of coffee. He was very obliging and even took our Thermos with him. My nose quickly nudged into Prince Edward Island and the antics of Anne Shirley.
A few minutes later, our host turned up with two mugs, a pot of coffee and his wife. They both sat down for a chat. I was momentarily confused. How the hang could they possibly understand that 'us' taking time out to read and drink coffee would include chatting with them? It took a few minutes for me to buck out of my inhibited selfishness and put my book down and start listening to the standard questions. I was also guilty of thinking that Canadians were the same as Americans. Not only did this polite, generous couple want to ask questions, they also wanted to answer them and tell us about their motorcycling adventures.
It was a rather quick coffee, we thanked them sincerely and rode round the corner, sat on the bank beside the water and got back to our books.
Eventually we ended up in Port Colborne. We kept forgetting that Canadian towns aren't set up for camping. We found an okay place near a park, but it didn't have a dunny, so wasn't really suitable. Ironically, whilst Sharon was away using a public loo, I bumped into a very no-can-do kinda gal who droned on, sucking my life blood, as she explained all the things that she thought would be unwelcome: camping was right at the top of her list. Just as Sharon returned, this wet blanket of a woman decided to call a bike shop and tell them what we shouldn't do.
Worried about my tired shoes and wet feet, we used this mention of a cycle store to exit the situation and find the place. The shop employees were lovely people who didn't have suitable shoes but did call a B&B for us.
Finding the situation rather frustrating, we followed Google Maps all the way to Talwood Manor. It was officially off-season and closed, but our host decided to open it up for the evening and was able to lock our bicycles with gear in her garage. It cost us a whopping big Canadian $100. A tour cyclist would call $25 expensive, but because we were sick of farting around, and this lovely lady was being so welcoming, we bit our lips and handed over the dosh. |
My goodness, were we ever in for a surprise - this humble looking, so-called manor turned out to be one of the poshest places I have ever stayed. The building seemed to have a small collection of themed suites and we were put in the Highlander Room. The bathroom was so beautiful that it was a shame to dirty it. We both had good long showers and before I knew it, I was wrapped up in a soft dressing gown, wearing fluffy slippers with a hot chocie and eyeballing my book again. Oh, and I forgot to mention that I was feet up on a beautiful leather armchair.
That evening, though it was a somewhat short sleep, I slept like a Royal Stewart. By 6 a.m. we were sitting in quiet dawn light devouring porridge, eggs, toast and good coffee before reluctantly scurrying our way along magical misty cycle paths. It was a quick, peaceful and luxurious stay.
We battled wind all the way to Niagara Falls. It was a little difficult going on a slalom through the many tourists, but well worth the effort. The falls were even more beautiful when viewed from my organic cotton and vulcanised rubber saddle. |
Cannondale Pro Cycling had kindly donated us kit which this day we were both wearing. To our delight, we stumbled across another couple cycling in the opposite direction wearing the same kit. We all laughed, hooted and hollered and kept riding.
Our next task was finding our way on to Interstate 190, along the Lewiston–Queenston Bridge and back into easy camping USA. The freeway across the bridge was five lanes wide in each direction. It was not pleasant riding.
Our next task was finding our way on to Interstate 190, along the Lewiston–Queenston Bridge and back into easy camping USA. The freeway across the bridge was five lanes wide in each direction. It was not pleasant riding.
We cued with the cars and pushed our bikes up to the control gate. The guard asked how long we were going to be in America. Without thinking, I ignorantly answered six months in North America. Her reply was, “you can't stay that long and North America is two countries, you know”. Technically she was wrong on both accounts. We were allowed in Canada for three months and had a multiple entry visa for the USA, allowing us to be there for six months a year for the next ten. And technically speaking, there are at least 23 countries and territories on the North American continent. She was a little stroppy and clearly held the power, so I held my tongue and though our tomatoes got rejected, we got accepted and were welcomed back into the USA. And very, very secretly, she had mercy on us and graciously allowed the aforementioned tomatoes into Lewiston.
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By this time we were very hungry and stopped at the first possible place for lunch. We found a table beside a hospital car park and hurriedly took our stove out and cooked. We could see dark clouds rolling in and knew we were going to get caught. The wind started howling while we were doing the dishes. We chucked our stuff into our panniers, strapped everything tightly on to our bikes and started riding.
The rain hit us quite suddenly and we couldn't find any shopping malls or petrol stations to shelter in. I rode up alongside Sharon and said, “we'll have to do what we did in Slovakia, just ride into the first open garage that you find and we'll knock on the homeowner's door and explain”.
We saw a open garage door, rolled straight in and parked our bikes alongside a late model Mustang. I ran around the outside of the house and rang the front doorbell. After I explained to the homeowner, he graciously invited us in, seated us at his kitchen table and gave us a glass of cold water.
Shortly afterwards the doorbell rang. The homeowner's guest went straight into a room we couldn't see, suddenly the house was full of violent shoot-em-up video game noises, then the guest came into the kitchen, was given cold pizza from the microwave and left. This whole scenario was played out at least three times, with three different men all playing the loud video games, collecting their pizza and leaving again.
It turned out our host was a licensed firearms manufacturer and dealer. I have no idea what the loud shot-em game or pizza was about, but what he was actually doing was selling his guns.
The storm from the sky passed and a fresh storm raged in our heads as we rode out. How could it possibly be that the only home we randomly stopped at sold guns right from the kitchen table? Is this a reflection of the USA?
The rain hit us quite suddenly and we couldn't find any shopping malls or petrol stations to shelter in. I rode up alongside Sharon and said, “we'll have to do what we did in Slovakia, just ride into the first open garage that you find and we'll knock on the homeowner's door and explain”.
We saw a open garage door, rolled straight in and parked our bikes alongside a late model Mustang. I ran around the outside of the house and rang the front doorbell. After I explained to the homeowner, he graciously invited us in, seated us at his kitchen table and gave us a glass of cold water.
Shortly afterwards the doorbell rang. The homeowner's guest went straight into a room we couldn't see, suddenly the house was full of violent shoot-em-up video game noises, then the guest came into the kitchen, was given cold pizza from the microwave and left. This whole scenario was played out at least three times, with three different men all playing the loud video games, collecting their pizza and leaving again.
It turned out our host was a licensed firearms manufacturer and dealer. I have no idea what the loud shot-em game or pizza was about, but what he was actually doing was selling his guns.
The storm from the sky passed and a fresh storm raged in our heads as we rode out. How could it possibly be that the only home we randomly stopped at sold guns right from the kitchen table? Is this a reflection of the USA?
From here, we cycled through a dodgy looking Indian Reservation on our way to our planned evening stop of Pekin. We couldn't find a place without a 'no camping' sign, so rode on to the pretty canal town of Lockport. We learned in Denmark that where there is water, there are boats. And where there are boats, there are marinas. And where there are marinas, there are toilets and showers. |
We set off along a towpath passing old buildings and locks. Eventually, and with a little help from Mr Google, we found Wide Waters Marina and the adjacent Nelson C. Goehle Municipal Park. The people at the marina were a little surprised at our request to camp in the park's pavilion and use their toilet in the morning, but kindly gave us access to both. Because the picnic shelter was quite public, we decided to read awhile and pitch our tent on dusk. It is very hard to read in public in the United States and before I knew it, a gentleman named Ed and his tiny dog Oliver had sidled up to us. He started asking the standard questions of where are you from, where are you going, how many miles do you ride a day and where do you sleep? I had previously learned that this type of questioning was an interview, a sussing out. So I dutifully played my part, answering his questions whilst fussing over his dog. Next thing I knew, our bags were in his spare room and we were sitting at his kitchen table drinking beer and eating steak.
He was a lovely older, and perhaps lonely, single man who enjoyed our company. I didn't always know what he was chatting away about, but I could see he was enjoying himself.
Because the weather was now much much cooler, we were sleeping longer. Ed left for work at 6 a.m. and we rose moments before to say thanks and goodbye. We cooked ourselves breakfast and were on the road by 7:30. The sky was shedding gentle tears upon us, not enough to dampen our cheeks, but enough to turn the crushed limestone trail into a gooey fish batter, clogging up my already broken mudguards. This didn't dampen our spirits, they were buoyed by a vast array of birds and deer.
Our first stop was the very quaint town of Middleport. Here we sheltered in the Alternative Grounds Caffe. The strange thing about this lock-side village was that everyone was desperately good looking and healthy. It was like cycling through a Gilmore Girls set. The cafe was full of cakes, yet everybody was thin; rain fell on the pavement, yet it seemed to be dry; we even saw black people talking to white people. This place was simply too good not to be a lie. We returned to the towpath and crunched our way to Medina.
This place was larger and weirder. The town pumped classical music through speakers on to the streets. We were searching for milk and found Boccherini. It was just so calm and relaxing that even when Ed at the wheel of a big truck lumbered towards us, honking his horn, we looked up and smiled.
Things were so good, it felt like a bad trip.
We fled back to the limestone and rolled past numerous gorgeous bridges until we arrived hungry in Albion. This place was normal, it had fat people and didn't quite feel safe. We found a pizza takeaway joint. The menu didn't have prices and the server didn't know the prices either. We told her what we wanted, she entered the pizza name into her till, it spat out a price and shortly after, the oven spat out pretty average pizza.
With full tummies, we rode back out along the Erie Canal. This ninety mile section was turning out to be a highlight, it really was beautiful and relatively easy riding. Every bridge was pretty, most towns were sweet, the marinas provided infrastructure and the trail catered for tourists without being touristy.
Back in North Dakota, Bill and Julie had written on a piece of paper that we should camp at the Brockport Welcome Center. It was early afternoon when we arrived and we paid a small fee and were given a key for their shower and toilet. After cleaning ourselves, we made our way to a bike shop and replaced my damaged fenders. They couldn't replace them straight away. This meant we were about to have a few hours without our bikes. Sharon posted a few souvenirs and summer clothing home and then we went to a dodgy pub called Mitch's C&S Saloon and celebrated having survived 100 days on our Hungarian Gepida Albion bicycles. Afterwards we wandered the streets before finding an art gallery that was holding its opening. I rushed in looking for free food, didn't find any, but found some really cool Polaroid transfers.
He was a lovely older, and perhaps lonely, single man who enjoyed our company. I didn't always know what he was chatting away about, but I could see he was enjoying himself.
Because the weather was now much much cooler, we were sleeping longer. Ed left for work at 6 a.m. and we rose moments before to say thanks and goodbye. We cooked ourselves breakfast and were on the road by 7:30. The sky was shedding gentle tears upon us, not enough to dampen our cheeks, but enough to turn the crushed limestone trail into a gooey fish batter, clogging up my already broken mudguards. This didn't dampen our spirits, they were buoyed by a vast array of birds and deer.
Our first stop was the very quaint town of Middleport. Here we sheltered in the Alternative Grounds Caffe. The strange thing about this lock-side village was that everyone was desperately good looking and healthy. It was like cycling through a Gilmore Girls set. The cafe was full of cakes, yet everybody was thin; rain fell on the pavement, yet it seemed to be dry; we even saw black people talking to white people. This place was simply too good not to be a lie. We returned to the towpath and crunched our way to Medina.
This place was larger and weirder. The town pumped classical music through speakers on to the streets. We were searching for milk and found Boccherini. It was just so calm and relaxing that even when Ed at the wheel of a big truck lumbered towards us, honking his horn, we looked up and smiled.
Things were so good, it felt like a bad trip.
We fled back to the limestone and rolled past numerous gorgeous bridges until we arrived hungry in Albion. This place was normal, it had fat people and didn't quite feel safe. We found a pizza takeaway joint. The menu didn't have prices and the server didn't know the prices either. We told her what we wanted, she entered the pizza name into her till, it spat out a price and shortly after, the oven spat out pretty average pizza.
With full tummies, we rode back out along the Erie Canal. This ninety mile section was turning out to be a highlight, it really was beautiful and relatively easy riding. Every bridge was pretty, most towns were sweet, the marinas provided infrastructure and the trail catered for tourists without being touristy.
Back in North Dakota, Bill and Julie had written on a piece of paper that we should camp at the Brockport Welcome Center. It was early afternoon when we arrived and we paid a small fee and were given a key for their shower and toilet. After cleaning ourselves, we made our way to a bike shop and replaced my damaged fenders. They couldn't replace them straight away. This meant we were about to have a few hours without our bikes. Sharon posted a few souvenirs and summer clothing home and then we went to a dodgy pub called Mitch's C&S Saloon and celebrated having survived 100 days on our Hungarian Gepida Albion bicycles. Afterwards we wandered the streets before finding an art gallery that was holding its opening. I rushed in looking for free food, didn't find any, but found some really cool Polaroid transfers.
Just on dusk, we pitched our tent. It seemed an ideal spot on green grass right beside the canal and between two picturesque bridges. In reality, we were also between two pubs on the second week of university. We spent most of the night listening to students in various stages of inebriation. We rose earlier than we had wanted and after a quick brekkie, returned the toilet key and hit the trail. Autumnal apples flanked our left and reflected gentle light on our right. It was pleasant, dry riding. |
We were heading to the home of a colleague of mine who lived in Rochester. As we got close to town, the path became sealed and navigating became harder. It is seldom fun cycling into big towns. We stopped at a gas station to get milk. I was stunned when entering the place, it was full of huge people. The shop sold about 15 different kinds of filter coffee and oddly enough, after searching for quite some time, the only milk I could find was weight-watchers' two per cent reduced fat.
It took a while to find a spot for panihapon, but eventually we did, right between kickboxing and a cyclo-cross race. We could see a Cannondale truck, but had no time to get to it.
It took a while to find a spot for panihapon, but eventually we did, right between kickboxing and a cyclo-cross race. We could see a Cannondale truck, but had no time to get to it.
From here, we cycled north along city cycle paths. They ran out around East St. This was a beautiful, leafy thoroughfare with old multistoried mansions on either side of the road. It felt like a scene from Gone with the Wind. Eventually the roads got narrower and the houses smaller and we found ourselves at Millie's apartment building.
It was lovely to catch up with Millie again. She was very warm and welcoming and led us into a room that had books on the bedhead and a 'Welcome Kelvin & Sharon' sign on the bed. I spent the afternoon doing admin and in the evening, the three of us went out for coffee. It was a lovely way to finish the 11th leg of our journey. |
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