The original idea for The 7Cs blog was for Grant and Brody to share the posts. But logistically that hasn’t been possible since Brody’s been battling injuries and has been basically on his own since my third day out, with the exception of the first day leaving Winnipeg. Well, he’s back with us having used the train to catch up. And his knee is doing much better. So he’s kept up with us the last couple of days of riding using his own strategy of early morning and late afternoon/evening rides. So now that we’re in Ottawa he’s finally able to contribute and this his debut blog:

Hello Followers of Blog. Until now, you have been getting second-hand reports of Brody, supposedly one of the the central characters of Blog. That’s all fine and well, as it builds a tantalizing mystique around me, but now you’re about to get something a bit different. Broda Fide Blog. This is a first-hand account, probably largely true, of just some of what’s happened. Canada’s been so good to this dirtbag cyclist, it’s hard to decide where to start, so I’ll flip open a page in my journal at random and start there.

Sunday, June 12, 2016

I’m at a highway rest stop off the Trans-Canada in Ontario at a place called Dixie Lake, part way between Kenora and Dryden. I’ve been dodging rain all morning, watching the first downpour come and go while eating an omelette and listening to depressing news out of Florida, and now hearing the first few drops pelting the metal roof of the two-table picnic shelter just a stone’s throw from the shore of the small lake. In a haze of optimism a couple of days ago I’d decided to try to make Dryden by tonight. That way, I’d have a comfortable two days’ ride to Sioux Lookout where I’m to catch a 6 a.m. train to Sudbury on Wednesday morning.

I have a rain jacket but no rain pants, and I usually don’t ride in the rain anyway because it makes a mess of my sweet lowrider’s shiny chain and cogs. With still about a hundred clicks of road left, and the sky beginning to crank up the metal roof volume to 11, the odds of my making it to Dryden are looking about as probable as a hitchhiker getting a ride on a day when a mass murder is in the news.
The rain stops for a bit and I decide to try to thumb a ride anyway. Hitchhiking with a loaded recumbent is a tall order on the best of days, and humanity’s faith in humanity is understandably shaken this morning. I spend the better part of an hour on the side of the road, but as predicted, nobody travelling this highway is inclined to stop for a tall beardy dude with cumbersome luggage. It starts to rain again. I go back to the picnic shelter.

Way back before the start of this trip, I’d decided that I’d stay off the road and out of the sun during the middle of the day. I’ve been told that the Ultra Violent Rays from our sun cause skin cancer and aging, so from about 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. I try to be in the shade. This means that I spend a fair bit of time in highway rest stop picnic shelters like the one I’m in now, and as a result I’ve become extraordinarily good at killing time until the late afternoon comes.

I travel with a foam roller for massaging, a stove for cooking and tea brewing, and a concertina (that’s the little accordion) for music making. Add to that a journal to write in, a machine to shine, and an unfailing ability to attract conversation from strangers (largely due to a shiny, funny-looking bike, and in spite of the beard and dirtbag smell), and the hours pass by without boredom rearing its ugly head. Boredom is the true enemy.
When in these picnic shelters, I make an effort to be tidy and compact so the rest of the space is free for others. These are public spaces, and I’d hate for people who want to use them to think that I’m occupying the whole shelter. And so it was on this rainy day that a silver minivan rolled up to the shelter and saw a free table waiting for them. I greeted the driver as he stepped out of the van and offered him a cup of tea, which he politely declined as he and his wife were also travelling with a stove for tea brewing and were about to do just that.

They were originally from England, had raised their children mostly in Canada, and were on their way across the country from Vancouver Island to see their grandchildren in Ontario. We chatted about the the upcoming baby in my family, the trip I was on, and where I was headed next. People that I meet at highway rest stops often offer me food, which most of the time I gladly and graciously accept.
“Would you like a ham sandwich?”
“No, thank you. I would but I just finished a big lunch. What I could really use though, and only if it’s not too much of an inconvenience, and only if you have space in your vehicle, is a ride to Dryden.”
A somewhat reluctant look came over their faces. It took a bit of nerve to ask, but I still wanted to make my train and had a lot of ground to cover before Wednesday morning. Lucky for me, it’s a handy bit of human nature that it’s easier to say yes than it is to say no.
“Sure, if there’s room for the bike. We’re quite full already, and you’ll have to ride with the dog on your lap.”
Fortunately, I like dogs. I had a look in the minivan, and there was no denying that there was space for a bike and a dirtbag. I took off the bags and spun the front wheel around to make the bike as short as possible. Minivans are cavernous things, and the bike went in without a hitch. We loaded up the bags, the dirtbag, the pooch, and hit the road.

The trip was pleasant conversation and dog petting at 100 km/h, which feels very warp-speedish after so many days of cycling, and the couple kindly dropped me off on the far side of Dryden. I found a camp spot behind the Walmart and spent the night being woken up by transport trucks passing within a few feet of the tent as they made deliveries to the store.
Poor choice of camp spot aside, it was an amazingly fortunate day for me. I had no trouble making Sioux Lookout in plenty of time to catch the train. While picnicking outside the municipal offices in Sioux Lookout I was approached by a man who asked me about the bike and the ride before introducing himself as the mayor. He asked me when my train was scheduled to leave, and offered his guest room to me for the night. As it happened, the family had a full-sized piano accordion in the basement, so I played for the mayor, his wife, and their grandchildren while they did laundry for me and fed me dinner.
I hope you’ve enjoyed my first contribution to Blog. More to come from me, but for now my daily quota of staring at a glowing screen has been exceeded. It’s a beautiful day in Ottawa, and I’ve got a hankering for a sauna. If you’d like to share your thoughts, please comment below. Thanks for reading!

 

We’d just reunited with one member of the family when another was added to the family as once again testosterone prevails in Clive’s clan.

Clive and I caught up to Brody, who had leapfrogged us by taking a train to Sudbury from Northwest Ontario, about 90 kilometres east of North Bay on Monday. Shortly after our arrival at our campground – Morning Mist Resort – Brody announced he’d gotten a text from his brother saying the baby had been born in Halifax that afternoon. It’s a boy. Again.

Henry Clive Granger is the ninth consecutive boy born into Ross and Hildegard Granger’s family. They had four boys, Ian and Clive have had two sons each, and now Bryce is a proud papa for the first time, Clive is now ‘Granddad’ and Brody is an uncle. (The Clive middle name, of course, not only honours our Clive, but is also Breanna’s family surname. That’s neat.)

I volunteered to make a beer run to a general store a couple of kilometres back that was also a liquor outlet so we could have something to celebrate with. Clive, of course, wanted some good craft brew, preferably a pilsner or a pale ale. Don’t blame him. Wanted something special for a special occasion. The store had something intriguing called Lakeport Pilsner. But it only came in cases of 24. I had to settle for a tall can of Molson Canadian and another of Labatt Blue. Had to be the worst beer run ever! Sorry about that guys! Too bad Henry didn’t hold off until we got to Ottawa.

Clive finally hooked up with Bryce on FaceTime at a Tim Hortons in Deep River on Tuesday morning, and all appears well with mom, baby and Bryce.

Congratulations to Breanna and Bryce, Clive and Cheryl, Brian and Kathy Clive and Brody!

• Brody pulled off a smooth move on Sunday. The day before he bought a small rhubarb pie at a farmers market in North Bay. He took it to the Franklin Motel and Campground, where we were expected to set up our tents on Sunday night, and left it in the owners’ fridge with a special Father’s Day note for Clive. It caught Clive by surprise, but it was a pleasant surprise, especially at the end of a day where we rode 146 kilometres.

Kilometre count

(Campground to campground)

Day 51: Sudbury to North Bay 146 km; Total: 4,626 k

Day 52: North Bay to Morning Mist Resort 136 km; Total: 4,763

Day 53: Morning Mist Resort to Cobden 116 km; Total: 4,879

It was the long and short of it.

Going from Sault Ste. Marie to Sudbury involved the longest leg of our trip and the shortest. First of all, though, let’s go back to where we last left off.

Clive was looking for a chain ring and found a store in Sault Ste. Marie called Vélorution. Since the city is in the epicentre of cross-country riding – not only east west but a north-south connection into Michigan across the Sault Ste. Marie International Bridge – there’s lots of riders coming through looking for work to be done.

They’ve actually got a little wooded area behind their store – and in back of the Walmart – carved out for cyclists to camp. They also provide a shower for them to use and access to their WiFi. It’s all free, so Clive took advantage of it for two nights. I, however, wanted some creature comforts like electricity and a television so I wussed out and opted for a motel.

While I did my laundry there, Clive sought out a laundromat. He ended up at one in downtown Soo where to his surprise the attendant was a Williams Lake native who was taking native dance courses at Sault College.

On the advice of Vélorution, we took a different route out of town than the normal busy Highway 17, the so-called Ontario portion of the Trans-Canada. They told us to take the old 17B which, to our surprise, had a nice wide shoulder and ran through the flat land of the Garden River Indian Reserve. They then had us go a bucolic back road through dairy and pastoral Amish farmland. It made for a pleasant break of 60 kilometres where we didn’t have to battle big trucks as we rode a narrow shoulder. We even met up with some American riders going the other way who had scoped out the route. But all good things must come to an end, and it was back to the two-lane Highway 17 and its itsy-bitsy shoulders.

Before we even pitched our tents at Clear Lake Campground, a third-generation operation, that afternoon we were offered a beer by an 85-year-old man from south of Toledo, Ohio, who had been coming to the camp with his family since the 1950s. Our tents were tucked in amongst the many long-term trailers, RVs and campers that line the meticulously kept grounds overlooking a beautiful lake.

The next morning, a Friday, one of the owners said it was too bad we weren’t staying for the weekend because a family was holding a big reunion and the whole park was being treated to a fish fry that night, a pig roast Saturday night and a big breakfast Sunday morning.

As much as that tickled our tastebuds we hopped on our bikes anyway. As we rolled out of Iron Bridge, an Amish man pulled up in his buggy to the corner and set up a stand to sell homemade bread and other goodies while his horse grazed nearby.

Our goal that day was to reach The Chute provincial campground just outside of Massey, Ont. (You may have never heard of Massey but it does have both a Home Hardware and a Rona so it can’t be too small). That would leave us more than two-thirds of the way to Sudbury and give us time for Clive to search for the chain ring he couldn’t find in The Soo on Saturday.

Well, we got to Massey in good time (despite the horse droppings and narrow shoulders), except we were exceptionally thirsty. It was the first hot day we’d had in a while. I found a store and bought a cold ice tea. Clive had been content downing the water from the bottles we filled every morning. But on Friday that was way too tepid. When he arrived I was curious to see what he’d buy. But he emerged empty-handed. That threw me for a second. He then reached into the huge Ice For Sale machine out front of the corner store, pulled out a big bag of ice cubes, opened it up and began pouring ice into his water bottles. It was a brilliant idea! Simply brilliant!

For the price ($2.25) of less than a bottle of pop he created several bottles of ice water. We were like little boys gleefully putting the ice in our water bottles, swirling it around and then slurping back really cold water. Finally! We used up about three-quarters of the bag – some of it went to cooling off my back and his bald head – giving us quite a few bottles of ice water.

Since we’d arrived so early, having gone more than 100 kilometres, we decided to press on another 25 to the fairly large town of Espanola. We figured for sure there would be a campground there since the Highway 6 junction connected travellers to a ferry down to Southern Ontario.

When we arrived we headed to the Timmies/Wendy’s to connect to their free WiFi to find out where the campgrounds were. There were none in town. Turned out there was one 25 kilometres to the south, which was not an option, and another 21 kilometre to the east. So we headed toward that one. Well, if it exists there’s no signs to tell anyone about it.

Befor the day was done we racked up 169 kilometres – granted over mostly flat terrain with only a few small hills – before we finally found a campground near the community of Whitefish run by the City of Sudbury. It was packed with Sudbury-ites enjoying swimming on the Vermilion River at the foot of some rapids and a stone bridge.

That meant we’d only have to go about 25 kilometres further to enjoy a Sudbury Saturday night. (I know, a bad reference to a Stompin’ Tom Conners classic.) First stop was Pinnacle Sports in Lively (must be a cousin to Likely, B.C.). While they didn’t have the chain ring Clive wanted he found a shop in Sudbury proper that did. The Outside Store was very helpful in getting Clive set up for the rest of the trip. They were so nice they gave us some slices of the pizza they order for lunch every Saturday. It put a nice touch to the shortest leg of our journey which ended up being 40 km by the time we reached Carol’s Campground a few kilometre south of the city.

Now it’s time to go chasing Brody. Earlier in the week, he took a train from Sioux Lookout to Sudbury, arriving on Thursday. He’s now pushed ahead to North Bay, about 125 kilometres from Sudbury, so we should catch up to him before Ottawa. Hopefully riding with him this time will be all about the long, and no short.

• For the record, Sudbury Saturday Night was spent grocery shopping, dinner at an Ontario franchise favourite East Side Mario’s, and blog writing.

Kilometre count

Day 48: Sault Ste. Marie to Iron Bridge 113 km. Total: 4,269 km.

Day 49: Clear Lake Campground (5 km. west of Iron Bridge) to Centennial campground in Whitefish, 25 km east of Sudbury) 169 km; Total: 4,440

Day 50: Centennial to Sudbury 40 km; Total 4,480 km.

The Twilight Zone that is Northwestern Ontario is a place I’d been through before and survived. But this time I had my doubts.

My first venture into the unknown was in Bryce’s under-powered little pickup towing a tiny, crammed U-Haul trailer when I helped him move to Halifax in September 2013. The Twilight Zone scared me then. It scared me more this time knowing Clive and I would be venturing into The Twilight Zone on bicycles.

The freakishly long stretches where nary a soul resides spooked Bryce when it took us only the better part of two days to make it from the Manitoba border to Sault Ste. Marie. “One town at a time, Bryce, one town at a time,” I told him.

They seem to be between 80 and 120 kilometres apart. I had to say those words to myself as we trundled along for 13 days, with only one of them for rest, to get to the Soo.

Sure there’s the big city, Thunder Bay, and decent-sized towns like Dryden, Marathon and Wawa. But that’s not much on such a long piece of highway. Boredom is inevitable. It will set in at some point, likely multiple times.

One thing we’ve seen a lot of in The Twilight Zone are aliens. Americans love to come up here to fish at this time of the year. During one short pit stop in Vermiion Bay we saw trucks towing boats from Nebraska, Iowa and North Carolina filling up their gas tanks.

On top of that, it seems most of the vehicles that aren’t commercial or an RV of some variety, have Alberta plates. And they’re not on vacation. Odds are they’ve hired a moving van, filled up a suitcase and hopped in their cars to head home to mommy and daddy at least for a while.

The trip into TBay was a wet one. We got soaked the final two days, although we made exceptionally good time on those days because either there was no wind or it favoured us.

The terrain east of Thunder Bay is a challenge, especially on the second and third days. After a tough stretch from Nipigon to a campground near the tiny town of Rossport, the next day was even tougher. We must have climbed between 30 or 40 hills getting to Marathon. Our friend Blaine, who started that day 20 kilometres farther along in Schreiber, reported his gauge showed elevation climbs for him totalled around 1,300 metres and we did about nine kilometres of climbing before even reaching Schreiber.

When we were trying to figure out our plan for getting from Thunder Bay to Sault Ste. Marie, we were hoping to find a way to do it in six days like we had going from Winnipeg to TBay, both journeys of about 690 km. But the math and the map didn’t add up this time. There were large gaps where campgrounds couldn’t be found. So we did it in seven, and here we are in The Soo after making the long journey around the top of Lake Superior. (“It’s like an ocean without the smell,” declared Clive at one campground.)

The hills we can deal with as long as our legs hold out. What’s harder to handle is Ontario’s shoulders. There are some pockets where there’s a wide enough paved shoulder but for the most part there isn’t much at all. Generally, they’re only about eight inches wide, and when two trucks whiz by in opposite directions as they pass it can be scary for a cyclist.

It’s just mind boggling. If B.C., Alberta, Saskatchewan and Manitoba can do it for their major highways like the Trans-Canada and the Yellowhead, why can’t Ontario do its part on the cross-country path? Guess only Southern Ontario counts.

The skinny, bumpy paved shoulders put cyclists like ourselves in jeopardy. Although shoulders are actually wide it’s almost all gravel or sand. They are unrideable for cyclists. The soft shoulders not only slows them down, it’s dangerous because the sand and gravel is so deep it’s hard to stay balanced.

The Twilight Zone struck again when we went from Marathon to White River, about 95 kilometres. We wanted to go farther but there were no campgrounds listed until Wawa, another 90-plus kilometres. There weren’t any in White River either, so we figured at least we could get a motel instead.

When we rolled into town, I said to Clive, “Well we’ve got a choice between a motel across the highway from Robin’s Donuts, or one next to Robin’s Donuts.” It turned out we had no choice between those two. We went into the Continental and the woman asked if we had a reservation. When we shook our heads she said, ‘Well, then I don’t have a room for you. You might want to try across the street.” Well, you could have pushed me over with a pencil. A No Vacancy sign in The Twilight Zone? What?

It was the same story on the other side of the highway at the White River Inn. They kindly pointed us to a place just up the road and around the corner, Paws Cabins. The co-owner there, Peggy, said everything was reserved. But she offered hope. A group of Michigander fishermen were due in any minute and she wasn’t sure if they needed the whole cabin they’d booked or just the bigger part.

Other than that she was going to offer us an old trailer for $30, which was a better price than most campgrounds in Ontario. Turns out the guys from south of the border didn’t need all that room, so we got lucky and got a room with four beds, a bathroom and a television.

Turns out the skinny on why all the No Vacancy signs in that corridor is they’re filled up with not only those looking to hook a fish or two, but industrial or highway contractors too. Many are also either connected to a local gold mine or looking for new deposits. That’s created a bit of a boom for those in the hospitality industry in the vortex of The Twilight Zone.

We’ve stayed at a couple of provincial campsites during our journey through The Twilight Zone. Although both were extremely pretty spots – Rossport and Agawa Bay – they are, in my opinion, overrated and overpriced.

They have had the highest campground fees we’ve experienced the entire trip. They also provide less services than private campgrounds or those run by municipalities. There’s no WiFi, the bathrooms are outhouses and you get eaten alive by the bugs. A couple of the Ontario Parks campgrounds we’d planned on using were closed a few years ago because of a lack of use. It’s not hard to figure out why.

The nasty black flies have forced us to utilize an item from the Christmas package Clive’s wife Cheryl gave us that we never really wanted to have to pull out. It’s a mesh insect hat that covers our heads and faces. It’s fitting because as we wander around the campsite preparing dinner or setting up our tents we look like aliens from a bad 1950s space movie. Do-do-do-do.

We’re more than 1,200 kilometres into Ontario (about two-thirds of the way to Halifax in half the time we allotted) and we’ve still got about that much to get across to Quebec. Time to tackle The Twilight Zone The Sequel: Northeastern Ontario.

Kilometre count

Day 43: White River to Wawa 92 km; Total: 3,928

Day 44: Wawa to Agawa Bay campground 91 km; Total: 4,019

Day 45: Agawa Bay campground to Sault Ste. Marie 137 km; Total: 4,156

It was 1984 and Blaine and Dave were working summer jobs at Waterton Lakes National Park in Alberta. They had a couple of days off and decided to hop on their bicycles. They headed across the border into Glacier National Park in Montana to tackle Logan Pass which runs along the Continental Divide. It was a fun trip which Dave says was great because it was doorstep to doorstep in three days.

Ever since then, the two bicycle buddies have been having fun making long-distance cycling trips together that have taken them in many different directions even though their jobs took them in different directions.

We met Blaine and Dave on our way out of Winnipeg on a rainy June 1. Brody had just joined Clive and I. Since Brody had arrived by train late the previous night, we got a late start while he slept in. But I held things up further by stopping at a Subway to pick up a sandwich for lunch later on. As we circled the store we saw a couple of cyclists loaded up with gear just like us, the first we’d come across in our marathon journey.

They were Blaine and Dave.

They’re both recently retired. Blaine remained a Parks Canada employee for 31 years working for its highways department and lives in Invermere, B.C. “Big Dave,” as Blaine likes to call his bearded buddy, became a mechanic working in tungsten mines in the Northwest Territories. He’s now living in his hometown, and my former stomping grounds, of Medicine Hat, Alta.

They’ve taken long trips without each other. (Blaine talks about the loneliness of biking Wyoming and the time he was spared hypothermia during a Montana snowstorm by finding a concrete outhouse where he bunkered down with his sleeping bag to avoid hypothermia.) But every year they always manage to get together for some sort of prolonged pedal. Usually it’s in western Canada or the United States, although they’ve taken trips in other parts of North America. They’ve even crossed Kyrgystan on bikes.

When we met them, they told us their plan this time was to ride to Sault Ste. Marie, Ont., cross into Michigan and make their way to Chicago to catch an Amtrak train back to Whitefish, Mont. They figure it just might be the longest bike trip they’ve taken together.

That parking-lot meeting in the rain started a stretch of 10 days in which we played asphalt leapfrog. They arrived in Falcon Lake the next day just as we were pulling out. Later that day, they pulled up to the same craft brewery eatery in Kenora we were having dinner at and took a seat on the patio. After dinner they pitched their tent on the shore of Lake of the Woods just a few metres from us.

Later we ran into each other at a couple of rest stops, rode in the rain together (again) between Ignace and Upsala, and warmed our bodies over soup at a roadside store in Shabaqua. At the store, gear geeks Clive and Blaine bonded over all things mechanical before we braved the wet and Ontario’s notoriously narrow shoulders again.

Since we started our trip so early in the season, we really hadn’t run into any other riders so it was nice to connect with Blaine and Dave. After Thunder Bay, we waved and shouted to them as we saw them ride by in Nipigon while we were setting up our tent. Then on Friday we ran into them in Marathon, Ont. They had already checked into a site at the city’s Penn Lake Campground. They said they’d been told three tents and six people were allowed to occupy one site, so they invited us to join them. Nice guys.

Even before we finished putting up our tents, a predicted thunderstorm started to bring us rain, so they set up a tarp overhang over the picnic table so we could all enjoy dinner. Like I said, nice guys.

They’re a font of knowledge when it comes to long-distance cycling so we picked their brains about stuff. They also picked Clive’s too because he has some experience with it too. My brain’s not worth picking. Not about bikes. I just like to ride. Don’t really want to talk cranks and derailleurs.

Although we were off to White River on Saturday, Blaine and Dave decided to make a side trip to Pukaskwa National Park, just south of Marathon, before resuming their journey. That means no more leapfrog for us. Too bad. But for the pedalling partners it’s just another adventure that’s likely to last at least another couple of decades.

Ride on guys!

Brody update

After a few days spent in Falcon Lake and Kenora, Brody plans to hop another train and catch up to us in Sudbury. That’s about a week away for us, and he has to actually go off the grid to Sioux Lookout, which is north of Dryden, to catch the Transcontinental.

Kilometre count

Day 41: Nipigon to Rossport Campground  85 km; Total: 3,626 km

Day 42: Rossporm to Marathon 111 km; Total: 3,737 km

Day 43: Marathon to White River 99 km; Total: 3,836 km

I’m sending out a second edition of the Halfway Highlights because after I sent the first, I realized I’d forgotten to include some I’d thought up on the road heading into Thunder Bay. I also came up with some more on our trip to Nipigon on Wednesday. So here is Halfway Highlight Awards Part Deux:

The Campground-Not-A-Campground Award: To the City of Lloydminster’s Weaver Park campground. We’d slogged through more than 150 km to get to Lloyd and found the site fairly easy, which was a relief after the longest leg of the journey coming from Vegreville, only to be told, “Sorry, we don’t allow tents,” by the young attendant that day. “What! You’re kidding right?” we said to him. “No, we don’t allow tents.” We were too tired to find another spot so we splurged on a hotel instead.

If It’s Free It’s Probably Too Good To Be True: We rolled into Russell glad to finally put Saskatchewan behind us and take on Manitoba. The girls behind the desk at the city’s visitors centre told us the municipal campground was free. Great. Not so great. We took a look and realized the camp was wide open, right in the middle of town and vulnerable, especially if we set up our tents and then headed to dinner. We had good reason to worry about that (see next item). Once again, we opted for a hotel, The Jolly Lodger.

Not Egg-xactly a Nice Place: The campground in Vegreville, Alta., is situated in a beautiful little park with the WOW! feature being the city’s huge Ukrainian Easter Egg weathervane. When we arrived it was bustling with families taking advantage of the nice Saturday afternoon. Quite pleasant. But there were two downers. For one, train tracks split the campground in two, and couple of big trains rolled through not only with whistles blaring but causing the ground to shake as if we were in an earthquake. As we went to dinner we noticed that end of downtown Vegreville wasn’t egg-xactly brimming with the town’s blue bloods. We were camped right beside a picnic cooking enclosure and Clive hung his snazzy Mountain Equipment Co-op travel towel in there to dry overnight. About 5 a.m. we heard some guy singing as he wound his way through the bushes. I noticed he went into the enclosure but didn’t realize Clive had left his towel there. Sure enough, when he went to get it it was gone, and the prime suspect was The Singing Vagrant.

Not Rookie of the Year Candidates: There are two that seemed to eliminate themselves from the early going. We were checked in at Vegreville by a cute blonde high schooler who was likely in just her first weekend on her own. Checking in a couple of cycling tenters through her for a loop, and she had to call her boss at home about three times to help get us loaded up on the computer program. She was quite polite about it though apologizing like crazy. But the one that took the cake might be the high school genius who checked us in at North Battleford’s city campground. She asked Clive for a phone number to input into the computer. “I don’t have one,” he said. “But I have to have one to register you,” she said. “How can I if I don’t have one?” Finally I piped up from a chair behind Clive, where I was in the process of slaking a thirst gathered from battling wind and riding about 135 km by downing three cans of Diet Coke, and gave her mine. Great, problem solved. But then she wanted a licence plate number. “We’re on bicycles, we don’t have licence plates,” said Clive. She couldn’t comprehend that logic. Believe it or not, she actually called her supervisor to make sure it was all right to check us in without a licence plate number. Hopefully, both girls have got the hang of it by now.

Bad/Good Timing For A Breakdown: My back wheel basically collapsed on me as we reached Yorkton. We made our way to that city’s campground, at least feeling fortunate that it happened right at the end of that day’s journey. But this misfortune happened on the Sunday of the May long weekend and no bike shop in that town was open. Oh, oh. But our good fortune continued when it turned out the camp’s operator had a huge truck container he’d converted into a workshop with all the tools anyone could want. With the help from the operator, Clive was finally able to tweak the ball bearings in the wheel so I could at least limp my way through two days of riding into Manitoba and make a trip into Brandon to pick up a new wheel.

Most Annoying, Ungrateful, Grumpy Cashier: It was a nice warm day as we climbed up and down the hills of Highway 5 in British Columbia on our way between Clearwater and Blue River. We were thirsty, and I stopped at the only gas station/food store the tiny town of Avola had. It looked nice, but when I went in the guy behind the counter was on the phone ranting about many things to the person on the other end, including a lot about Vancouver real estate. He kept talking on the phone while he rung me up, and then once he was off he ranted something about people not cleaning up as he came outside to put some stuff in the garbage. Clive and I looked at each other wondering what got up his butt to make him that ornery. Hope for Brody’s sake he didn’t run into that ornery cuss while he stopped there, although knowing Brody he’d turn the guy into the most generous guy around.

Best Restaurant Lead: The aforementioned Mike Stackhouse recommended we check out Willy’s Tavern in Foam Lake. It was at the end of the worst day of our trip, as noted several times in this blog. So a good meal was welcome. “He smokes everything,” Mike texted to us. The pulled pork sandwich was pretty good, but the perogy appetizer and the side of baked beans were outstanding! Thanks Stack.

Best Escort: The one given by four of Andrew Gossen’s children down their driveway outside of Clavet, Sask., as we left following a nice visit over delicious watermelon and iced tea. Madeline, Hailey and Samuel rode aside Clive down the long driveway while I was late to the parade behind four-year-old Ellie who pedalled her training bike like crazy trying to keep up. The cute factor was over the top. And to top it off, they asked to do it. It was an honour kids!

Best Bicycle Mechanic: Clive. Although I had work done on my Kona Sutra in Winnipeg, it was Clive who has diagnosed the problems, solved many of them, and kept me on the road. Can’t thank him enough.

The Oh, Yeah Forgot About That Award: This goes to me. In the first Halfway Highlights, I mentioned all the family and friends that have invited us into their homes on this trip. I neglected to mention brother Ian and his wife Rosamond invited us to their home-away-from-Fort McMurray-home for a beef and bison burger barbecue. That was a bonus get-together for us during our stay in St. Albert. The reason for it, the wildfire evacuation, wasn’t so wonderful but nonetheless we had a great visit with them and their son Matthew both at the temporary accommodations they’d rented and at the Mennegozzos. Ian also came through with helping us get to a bicycle shop in Edmonton that could provide us the right spokes for my bike.

Big thanks to the Fraser River Fuggitivi cycling group in New Westminster that I have ridden with the past two summers on Sunday mornings for shipping me their new kit which I rolled out for the first day of the second half of the 7Cs. We stopped at beautiful Hillcrest Park overlooking Thunder Bay and Lake Superior to show it off (at top of blog), and also to have a look at what we were leaving behind (below).

Kilometre count

Day 40: Thunder Bay to Nipigon 110 km; Total: 3,541 km

The two waterlogged brothers wandered into Thunder Bay on Monday, the same day their other two brothers turned 59. (A belated Happy Birthday to Owen and Ian).

It rained all day. It let up but never stopped. This after we spent Sunday night in our tents at a little fishing campground, Savanne River Resort, while a thunderstorm poured down upon us. It also rained for a majority of Sunday’s trip, and for the final half of Saturday’s leg between Dryden and Ignace.

By my Sigma’s count I’m over 3,400 kilometres making us more than halfway to Halifax. (Brody, by the way, is back to nursing his knee again. This time he’s in the picturesque cottage town of Falcon Lake which is just west of the Ontario-Manitoba border.) So in no particular order in honour of the midpoint milestone here is a little best of, worst of and whatever of on the first half of the trip from a half-wit.

Hardest Hill: No doubt, the 19-kilometre climb up to the Coqhuihalla Summit which took about three hours going at a speed of about 6.6 km/h during much of that stretch.

Scariest Hill: That would be Clive’s 10-kilometre-or-so slick descent down into Little Fort, B.C. during a rainstorm to meet up with Grant.

Worst wind: I’ve moaned and groaned about the wind in Saskatchewan ad nauseam. Sorry about that. The worst leg, as I’ve already written about, was between Lanigan and Foam Lake. We averaged about 12 km/h tor the 115-km trip. We rode southeast into gusty winds coming out of the south east. The worst of that worst was about eight kilometres where the Yellowhead Highway joins Highway 6, a north-south route between Melfort and Regina, where the winds were right in our face. They had to be a minimum of 50 km/h and more likely much more than that. Second place goes to the stretch between North Battleford and Radisson where it felt like the southward would blown us off the shoulder into the traffic.

Best impromptu lunch stop: We ate our sandwiches on the rocks – and on top of the Kinder Morgan pipeline – beside the raging Dominion Creek along B.C.’s Highway 5. It was beautiful to see and listen to the water racing around the rocks.

Worst impromptu lunch stop: There were a few stops in Saskatchewan where we were forced to basically eat on the side of the road because of the lack of rest areas along the highway – unlike B.C., Alberta and Ontario. Not much fun when it’s windy and especially with Clive picking up a tick or two walking around in the grass.

Most jealous moment: We stopped for an early break about 45 kilometres east of Dryden the other day when a cyclist breezed into the rest stop atop a beautiful, super-light, carbon-fibre Ridley. The rider was a water bomber pilot in his 50s based in Dryden but who lives outside Thunder Bay. He was taking a break from his duties since there were no fires to put out. The only baggage he had on his sleek bike was a little pouch below his saddle for his spare tire tube. As he whisked his way back to Dryden it wasn’t hard to develop a pang of envy because Clive and I both pack at least 50 pounds on our heavier, but sturdier, machines. It made myself wistfully long for a ride on my BMC back in Burnaby.

Nicest campground host couple: Marg and Hugh Kirk at the Painted Rock Campground in Colonsay, Sask. They were extremely accommodating in helping us set up, and when the weak WiFi was hard to connect to they allowed me to come into their home/office to finish off a blog.

Worst shoulder: Much of the trip between Kenora and Thunder Bay has a paved shoulder of about eight inches on a two-lane highway teeming with transport trucks. Considering it’s part of the Trans-Canada Highway it just doesn’t seem right.

Scariest highway: While the above stretches were bad, it was unnerving riding toward Edmonton on the Yellowhead. Empty gravel trucks rolled by us going at least the 110-km/h speed limit or faster. We were glad to get off of the highway even though we were headed straight into a north wind to get to St. Albert.

Worst urban roads: Has to go to Winnipeg, although Thunder Bay is right there, too. Way too many potholes. Way too many. Hard on the bum.

Nicest river path: The one that follows the Sturgeon River in St. Albert, Alta., is quite pleasant. It takes cyclists and pedestrians away from the big box stores to some nice neighbourhoods. It just beats out the longer Meewasin Trail alongside the South Saskatchewan River in Saskatoon only because it’s smoother. Both are beautiful to ride, though.

Nicest dinner spot: No contest. It’s the patio back in B.C. on the banks of the Fraser River at the restaurant connected to the Tete Jaune Cache Lodge where highways 5 and 16 meet.

Nicest dinner: Same place. I had a delicious fettuccine jambalaya at that restaurant served up by the chef, maitre d’ and waiter. He looked like an overwhelmed Chef Boyardee as he bustled around doing all of those jobs. But boy he was a good cook.

Nicest showers: Same place. The washrooms/showers were spacious, the water hot and the building’s woodwork beautiful. They even provided individual towel bath mats so no worry about picking up some sort of foot fungus.

Nicest town: Has to be Jasper … wait a second maybe it was Kenora. It was a gorgeous sunny day in early May when we arrived in Jasper and it was bustling with all sorts of Albertans flocking there for the weekend. Not hard to see why. But then Kenora on the shores of beautiful Lake of the Woods was spectacular too. It’s no wonder so many of Winnipeg’s hoi-polloi consider it their summer playground.

Biggest beer: Also Jasper. After a hot trip from Tete Jaune Cache, Clive ordered a 32-ounce stein of a craft pilsner at the Jasper Brewing Company.

Coldest night: The minus-3 C we experienced in Edson, Alta.

Bad timing award: On three occasions on this trip I rolled into a town hoping to at connect with someone I knew there but the timing wasn’t right. I had wanted to connect with one of my fantasy baseball competitors, Mike Stackhouse, in Yorkton but since it was the middle of the May long weekend like any other Saskatchewanian he was at the lake. We made a side trip into Brandon by car where I did catch up with two other guys in that league, Cam Moir and Earl Chesley, but wouldn’t you know it missed out on meeting up with Bruce Luebke (who basically runs our league) and Rick Dillabough. They were out of town because the Wheat Kings had reached the Memorial Cup, a rare occurrence. But the most disappointing was not hooking up with cousin Anne-Marie in Saskatoon.

We were worried about not seeing her, Linda and Aunt Ruth because they were scheduled to spend the first weekend in June in Victoria. No problem, we arrived there two weeks before that. But it turns out when we were there, she was off touring Ireland and Scotland, and hadn’t told us about that trip until she left. Sorry we missed you Anne. Hopefully we’ll see her soon.

Spookiest campground: We rolled into a provincial campground near Entwistle, Alta., only to find out it was closed. But the caretaker turned a blind eye as we went around the gate. He even told us the best sites. But it was weird having no one around with some of the campgrounds lights still operating. It was just weird.

Best weight loser: By far, it’s Clive. He’s looking downright svelte these days. He even had to buy new bike clothing in Brandon and Winnipeg because he’s dropping kilos to go along with the poundage he lost training for the trip. Me being a food addict, I am taking advantage to feed the addiction. I’m not gaining weight but I’m sure enjoying the calories I’m consuming. Not good. Have to make better choices like Clive.

Brody being Brody award: When we left Brody behind in B.C. he managed just fine on his own. The best might be when he reached Hinton. While shopping someone left a card for a hair studio on his recumbent bicycle. So he went in and got a beard cleanup and ended up staying three nights during some wicked weather with the stylist, her nine-year-old and her boyfriend. Amazing. He’s hoping to rejoin us again, and if he does I’ll get him to write a blog or two about his experiences. At last report he was going to pull out his concertina and busk in Falcon Lake.

Of course a big highlight has been our ability to visit and connect with family and friends across the Prairies. That won’t be an option the rest of the way. Many thanks to Brian and Ruth Mennegozzo, Linda and Gerald Goosen, Auntie Ruth, Marg Rycroft and Bob Robinson, Barb and Tom Riddell, Alex and Lisa Hofstede, and David and Kathy Northcott for opening their homes, fridges and washer and dryers for us.

Kilometre count

Day 37: Ignace to Savanne River Resort 128 km; Total (30 riding days): 3,304 km

Day 38: Savanne River Resort to Thunder Bay 127 km; Total (31 riding days): 3,431 km

Day 39: Rest day in Thunder Bay

David Northcott is showing his two visitors how to work the television in his home office. The screen sits above his computer terminal. The technology dominates the wall. Tucked away in the shadows of a corner wall though is something much more impressive. You have to look close to realize what it is. It isn’t an ordinary certificate, although he does have plenty of meaningful ones in his office at work. It’s not even a university degree.

“Is that your Order of Canada?” I ask him after spying it in the dark corner.

“Yes,” he replies almost bashfully.

He’s modestly reminded me before his recognition is the most common of the Orders of Canada given out, as if it’s no big deal. Well, it is a big deal. After all, 99.99999 per cent of the country’s population will never get near being one of those honourees who gets to go to Rideau Hall to receive the Order from the Governor General.

David certainly deserves it. He has played a huge role in the Winnipeg and Manitoba community. I’ll elaborate, but first some background.

David Northcott is our second cousin. His father, Stanley, and our father Ross Granger, were cousins. Father’s mother Dorothy was a Northcott and Stan’s aunt.

Stan was a super guy and an RCMP officer that was involved in mostly an international role. In fact, David was born in Rome 65 years ago. He mostly grew up in Ottawa but like the rest of his siblings – Bob, Erica and Andrea – he graduated from Point Grey Senior Secondary in the Kerrisdale neighbourhood of Vancouver where the family eventually settled.

Our family didn’t see David much back then. We got to know Stan, his wife Virginia, who was a real character, Erica and Andrea much more. While attending UBC, David met a Kamloops woman, Kathy Chisholm, married her and settled into Kamloops working in the financial industry.

He later got transferred to Winnipeg, eventually working in setting up community programs. That’s what he was up to when Leigh Newton came calling in the 1980s. The graphic artist had witnessed what the Harvest food gleaning organization had accomplished in New York and wanted to set up something similar in her hometown. That’s how Winnipeg Harvest was born.

As they worked together to start it up it soon became obvious David was the one who should be running it.

They worked on gathering excess food that would be thrown out for one reason or another and then redistributing it through regular neighbourhood and regional food banks. The wanted to help those that used their services to get back on their feet. David would say the intent was to make Harvest obsolete. But in some ways it worked too well. Instead Harvest continues to grow and grow and grow.

It was first run out of a cold, old warehouse on St. Joseph Street in St. Boniface. That’s where it was when I arrived to reside in Winnipeg in 1989. At first, I didn’t contact David because he didn’t really know me. But his face kept popping up everywhere, in newspapers and on television. His ability to be concise, make good points and do it in an entertaining fashion were gold to reporters.

Since I was working an evening shift at the Winnipeg Sun, I figured I could at least afford a couple of hours on Wednesdays, especially since it was one of my days off and I could play tennis later in the day. After a few times volunteering in the office I finally introduced myself to the Big Cheese of Harvest saying, “Hi, I’m your cousin. Second cousin actually.” He responded with a great big grin, the one that sometimes seems like its permanently implanted on his face.

David is an unbelievable person. Not only is he a media gem, he has the uncanny ability to equally go into boardrooms and talk their talk, lobby and debate politicians without rancour, and interact with volunteers and clients. (Many of Harvest’s volunteers are people that use the food bank but also want to find a way to get back on their own feet.) That’s a skill set that’s hard to come by.

One morning, I was in my usual slumber after working a late shift at the Sun. I was listening to the inimitable Peter Gzowski on his national CBC Radio show. He recalled a visit he’d made to Winnipeg Harvest and called David “one of the country’s great Canadians.” That got me awake. Having a broadcasting icon say that about my second cousin brought a lump to my throat. Wow!

Gzowski was right, as he often was.

It wasn’t long after I started volunteering at Harvest that they made plans to move to a property near the junction of Notre Dame and McPhillips on Winnipeg Street. It was larger and warmer.

They didn’t stop there. They’ve expanded the footprint and the services. It provides programs that teach clients about taxes, health, cooking, job searches and much, much more. Harvest employs more than 30 and has volunteers all over the place on any given day. They’re working in the bread room, the warehouse, the loading dock, administration, driving trucks. You name the task, there’s somebody willing to do it.

They also work on developing innovative food sources so society isn’t reliant on the typical commercial ones.

One morning while Clive and I stayed at David and Kathy’s new home on the banks of the Seine River (the one in St. Vital, not Paris), David gave us a tour. It’s almost overwhelming seeing all the hustle and bustle and the scope of the important work that’s being done there. Most of it is accomplished through various types of donations without government money.

David, with the exception of a couple of years absence (he resigned to run for the Liberals in a federal election, and after working for other organizations the Harvest board of directors begged him, errr make  that, brought him back in the fold), has been the organization’s executive director.

Despite the position’s heavy demands, he and Kathy raised three amazing daughters. The oldest is Siri, who I first met as a teenager infatuated with budding Winnipeg Jets superstar Teemu Selanne. The sniper was a supporter of Harvest and there’s a neat photo of a teenage Siri wearing a cool hat and a friend on each side of Selanne at a Harvest fundraiser held at the Mona Lisa restaurant on Corydon Avenue. One of her uncles, Rick Chisholm, was a big cheese at TSN and when he’d come to Winnipeg to do a Blue Bombers broadcast he’d recruit Siri to work sound on the sidelines.

Siri moved out to my neck of the woods to work for Intrawest, the company that ran Whistler/Blackcomb among many operations. When she got married to a local, Chris, I was honoured to be invited to the wedding. They lived in Port Coquitlam but became another victim of Greater Vancouver’s unaffordable housing. The family, including daughter Zoe and son Griffin, are now living in the old homestead in Winnipeg’s Wolseley district.

Second oldest, Allison, has worked her way up the CBC ladder to become The National’s Montreal reporter. Her husband is also a CBC Montreal employee. The youngest, Kaley, is a teacher in Edinburgh after marrying a Brit she met at university.

So, you see, David Northcott, is both an ordinary Canadian and an extraordinary one.

Thanks a bunch

Clive and I can’t thank David and Kathy enough for putting us up for three nights. It was a fun time, especially the beautiful evening when Siri’s family came over and we feasted on the patio overlooking the Seine. They also were kind enough to allow Brody to stay the night even though he arrived after they went to bed, and they left before he awoke and we resumed our trip east.

Falconing

At last report, Brody was enjoying himself in Falcon Lake, a resort town just west of the Manitoba-Ontario border. Don’t blame him. It’s a nice spot, especially at this time of the year.

Back in Fort Mac

Ian’s family is back in business in Fort McMurray. Ian returned to the home last week and despite a little smoke smell and eight-inch grass, the house was in good shape. Rosamond and Matthew were to return on the weekend.

Kilometre count

Day 35: Kenora to Dryden 139 km; Total: 2,965 km

Day 36: Dryden to Ignace 110 km; Total: 3,125 km

There’s no mistaking Alex Hofstede. Especially on a tennis court.

I first met my best buddy in the early 1980s when I was attending SFU. I would frequently wander down from Burnaby on my Raleigh Special Course 10-speed to the Queen’s Park courts in New Westminster. There were a group of guys there of similar calibre and it was easy to pick up a game without having to arrange ahead of time. On occasion, Alex would venture from his home in Surrey over the Pattullo Bridge to play there too. But he was good. Much better than me.

Eventually I headed off to other places like London, Ont., and Medicine Hat before setting up shop in Winnipeg in 1989. I went looking for a place to play and joined the Winnipeg Lawn Tennis Club. I’d seen a guy that looked like Alex and thought, “Nah, that can’t be him. He lives back home.” Well shortly after I joined I noticed a big left-hander on the next court with the wing span of a condor when he hit ground strokes and instantly I realized there was no mistaking it was him.

Turns out he’d been transferred by Reliable Parts to their Winnipeg operation and he and his wife Lisa have been there ever since. We bonded over tennis, NFL football and Lisa’s lasagna. I spent many a Sunday in their basement watching NFL games. Now when he comes to visit his mom every January I get to return the favour always getting together to watch the NFL playoffs on the 60-inch screen in my condo.

Alex and Lisa are high school sweethearts. Lisa describes herself as a young (she’s 50ish), vivacious redhead.

Every April when I make my annual baseball fantasy auction sojourn to Manitoba – sometimes I’ll bring along a kilo of moons, Alex’s favourite candy, from the Holland Shopping Centre since his family moved to Surrey from The Netherlands when he was 10 – I stay with them while I’m in Winnipeg, which I’m grateful for, especially Lisa’s cooking.

Clive and I rode into the big city last Sunday and dropped around at their place in the early afternoon for heaping helpings of lasagna. I introduced Clive to the family, but it was their mixed breed dog that looks part black lab that introduced herself to him. Abby is extremely friendly (she takes the licence plate slogan Friendly Manitoba to the max), likes to lick everyone and has no clue about how strong she is. Clive has always been a doggy’s best friend so they got along just fine.

Since Alex has been my best friend I can’t wait until the time they abandoned Winnipeg’s wicked winters and move back to the Lower Mainland so we can watch all the NFL together we want, and maybe even play some tennis although it’s hard to compete with that distinctive condor wing span.

Brody update

Brody blew into Winnipeg via VIA late Tuesday night to rejoin us. Although it was raining Wednesday morning when the three of us set out, the wind was with us blowing from the north west. The riding seemed to be smooth and first indications were Brody’s knee was going good. We had originally targeted a campground about 65 kilometres from Winnipeg, even though Clive and I generally go 100 or more everyday. It was closed, though. Brody felt so good he was sure he could go the 100 to a motel that was just off the highway halfway to Kenora in Hadashville.

With a new crank, chain and sprocket, I took off ahead of everybody with the intention of waiting for them at the motel. Well, I got going great guns and finally stopped at the entrance to a campground that I thought maybe was in consideration for the night. I waited about 45 minutes and saw no sign of them, so I kept on going looking for the motel because I really didn’t think I’d gone far enough.

I got waived over by a passing motorist who let me know Brody had stopped about 20 kilometres back and was looking for a ride. So I backtracked about 10 to 15 kilometres but didn’t see either him or Clive. I was drenched by this time and stopped for a bite to eat at a town called Prawda which I’d already been through twice. I decided to keep going to find that motel, but when I saw a sign that said Falcon Lake (which is 136 km from Winnipeg) was just 21 km away I realized I’d gone too far and might as well head there before nightfall to find a motel for myself.

My malfunction at the junction was a bad one. We’d been told the motel was near the Whiteshell River. I didn’t see a sign for that river at all. That’s because there was construction on that bridge and we crossed on the opposite side where I went past the back of the sign for westbound traffic. I looked at Google street view the next day and it turns out while the motel is very visible from the highway it is setback quite a bit while I had my head down trying to get through the rain. But I also missed the motel sign at the side of the road. Although those are the reasons for the confusion, there is no mistaking the fact I blew it.

I met back up with Clive on Thursday morning, but Brody, who managed to get a ride to meet Clive, wasn’t with him. He’s decided to go back to his 60-km-a-day pace while we continue on ahead. Too bad, we’re going to miss him.

Small world

When having breakfast in Prawda on Thursday, Clive and Brody helped a woman change a flat tire. She’d moved to Kenora about a year ago from, believe it or not, Williams Lake. They exchanged names of people they knew in Willie’s Puddle before carrying on, Clive to Kendra and she to a medical appointment in Winnipeg.

Taking the bait

During Wednesday’s wet trip we stopped for lunch at Walker’s Bait Shop, about 50 kilometres east of Winnipeg. The place looked like it was right out of Grumpy Old Men and Grumpier Old Men.

Outside was a vending machine that looked like it was a Pepsi machine but actually dispensed live bait. For $4 you got a varied selection of minnows and night crawlers.

Inside the paraphernalia being sold included typical fishing and hunting signs like:

• Single Female Wanted. Must clean, cook, clean fish and own a boat. Please send picture of the boat; and

• Running out of ammo. Don’t expect a warning shot!

The owner was a big guy who also served up Ukrainian fare from an adjoining drive-in. I ordered a farmer sausage burger and perogies. Pretty darn good stuff. Fortunately, the perogies came with sour cream and not bait.

First for Clive

When we reached the Ontario border Thursday it was the first time Clive had set foot on that province’s soil. Prior to that he’d only been to the Ottawa airport to change planes so he never actually touched the ground.

Company on the road

Just as we were leaving Winnipeg on Wednesday we encountered for the first time other cyclists going our way. Likely like us, they’re a couple of retirees. Blaine is from Invermere, B.C., and Big Dave is from my late 1980s stomping grounds in Medicine Hat., Alta. They’re headed to Sault Ste. Marie, Ont., where they plan to cross the border and travel through Michigan ending up in Chicago where they’ll hop the Amtrak back to Whitefish, Mont.

We leaped frogged them a few times during Wednesday’s rain, and then ended up meeting them again Thursday evening when they stopped at the same eating spot Clive and I were at in Kenora, The Lake of the Woods Brewing Company where Clive, of course, had the sampler of five craft beers.

Great views, pesky caterpillars

Kenora is a picturesque city. That’s an understatement. Although I’ve come into the town twice before I almost fell over a bridge railing gawking at the 360-degree spectacular views. The cottages are just as spectacular, many of them located on the myriad of islands in Lake of the Woods. The boats are pretty sweet too. Our campsite is right across from some beautiful residences, islands and watercraft.

The only downside is Kenora must translate in local First Nations language as City of Caterpillars because they are everywhere. I have probably knocked about 200 off me during the writing of this blog. Wish they’d all turn into butterflies right now!

KILOMETRE COUNT

Day 33: St. Vital to Falcon Lake 153 km; Total: 2,755

Day 34: Falcon Lake to Kenora 69 km; Total: 2,926

Clive

Wednesday: St. VItal to Hadashville 98 km

Thursday: Hadashville to Kenora 114 km

While our nuclear clan has pumped out two generations of nothing but boys, the Riddell/Granger family is like Noah, rolling kids out two-by-two in equal-opportunity fashion.

After a long, wet journey Saturday, Clive and I landed in Warren, Man., on the doorstep of one of our many second cousins, Barb Riddell and her husband Tom. Barb grew up a Granger with her brother Stu, who I miss greatly having gotten to know him in the last few years before he passed away.

(As an aside, I’ve been to one Brandon Wheat Kings game since Stu’s death and struggled to watch because I couldn’t keep my mind off him working the Wheaties games as a minor official. I haven’t been back since even though I’ve been around every April and the team is frequently playing host to a WHL playoff game.)

Barb says their mother Mamie, another Granger I miss dearly, also grew up in a one-boy, one-girl family. Barb married Tom, a local lad. Guess what? You’re right. He had one sister, who has a son and a daughter.

So Barb and Tom weren’t about to break the tradition with their offspring Craig and Kyla. They’ve done their part, too, Kyla and her husband Scott have a son Ethan, 9, and daughter Madison, 6, while Craig and Colleen are proud parents of daughter, Maria, 7, and son Hayden, 4.

But despite this odd anomaly, Barb was caught off guard when a friend said to her four years ago, “So I take it you knew Hayden was going to be a boy.”

“Huh?” she replied. “Well yes, but what do you mean?”

The friend then pointed out the equal-opportunity reproduction pattern.

“I guess I just presumed [Hayden] would be a boy,” says Barb. “I had not thought of it until Hayden was born that that was the pattern.’

There are couples all over the world who try to manipulate the chromosome gender lottery, or at least cross their fingers, hoping to have one child of each gender. For this family, it just comes naturally.

What also comes naturally is Barb’s friendly and jovial attitude, and Tom’s genial manner. While I lived in Winnipeg (1989-2001), they kindly invited me to many Christmas dinners (almost always in frighteningly, frigid conditions).

Barb and Tom’s wedding in 1968 was probably the first nuptials the four Granger brothers ever attended. It was the highlight of our quadrennial prairie family vacation. We scampered back and forth between the church, the home of Charlie and Mamie, and the grain elevator Charlie ran in Warren.

Cousin Marg manned the guest book which myself, Owen and Ian signed. But Clive balked. He was nine and the pen intimidated him. Turns out he’d only been allowed to use a pencil in school. Despite Marg’s urging he wouldn’t do it. Bizarrely enough, Clive remembered the incident. Barb laughed when she heard the story. Sure enough, Barb looked in the book and his signature was nowhere to be seen, although expecting a nine-year-old to have a signature might be a bit of a stretch. He corrected his transgression before we left Sunday morning by signing nearly 48 years after the fact!

While raising Craig and Kyla, Barb taught at Bobby Bend elementary in Stonewall while Tom made the daily, long journey into southwest Winnipeg to his job running a package printing press.

For both, though, Warren was home. The peace and quiet and familial connections were just too strong. They still are.

Craig lives and works just a couple of blocks down a pock-marked, gravel road. Kyla has just joined forces with two other colleagues to open Quarry Ridge Pharmacy in Stonewall, although she’s still working at a Shoppers Drug Mart in northwest Winnipeg.

Craig runs a 3,000-acre seed farm that is quite the growing business (pun, of course, intended). He took Clive and I on a tour after dinner Saturday. It’s just a 50-metre walk down a path through the trees from his home to the Riddell Farm Enterprises Ltd.

There are bins, farming equipment and cleaning equipment, and more cleaning equipment, everywhere. The operation is extremely impressive in its scope and its success. However, there’s no truth to the rumour the seeds are loaded two-by-two before shipment.

What shocks me about Barb and Tom is she will turn the big 7-0 in 2016 while Tom already reached that mark two years ago. They’re both very active and agile. They’re a delight to deal with and talk to.

They were extremely generous to us in the hospitality and help they provided to us. They didn’t discriminate just because we were two brothers, and not siblings of each gender.

• Clive and I left Marg and Bob in Onanole on Friday. We took their advice to use Mountain Road to connect from Highway 10 to Hwy 5. It was a good idea because the busy Hwy 10 from Riding Mountain National Park to well south of Minnedosa is rough and lacks a shoulder.

Mountain Road (which to us B.C. boys is bit of moniker hyperbole because if that’s a mountain then I’m George Clooney’s doppleganger) doesn’t have a shoulder but it does have next-to-no traffic with nice rolling scenery. Hwy 5 was smooth asphalt with less traffic than 10. We also had a wind at our back as we rolled into Neepawa.

We arrived in Gladstone in mid-afternoon having already gone more than 115 kilometres. We contemplated picking up some food for dinner and going another 30 km to Westbourne gambling that town would have a campground. We were advised there wasn’t (although we may have had bad intelligence) so we decided to stay. 

We struggled to start Clive’s little cooker because of the wind and the wet wood but eventually made a pasta jambalaya which included smokies purchased from Jarvis Meats and Abattoir. The best part of the stay was breakfast the next morning at the Gladstone Bakery and Eatery. It had good bread, good pastries, good cooking, good coffee and Robin’s Donuts furniture hand-me-downs. Clive bemoaned the fact his hometown of Williams Lake, which services more than 20,000, doesn’t have its own bakery while this little town had a gem of one.

But after the sumptuous breakfast, we got hit with rain en route to Westbourne. After that it was an easy roll into Portage la Prairie. We then broke off Highway 1 to take Hwy 26 to avoid the freeway-like Trans-Canada. While it had little traffic it was a rough road. A very, very rough road. Another battle with a north headwind on Hwy 458 and then as a crosswind on 227 and we finally arrived worn out and weathered from a 137-km ride.

• The hardest I’ve pedalled all trip just may have come during that northbound stretch, but it wasn’t because of the wind. I was riding parallel to a sheep farm and saw a beautiful white dog chasing me along the fence. No worries, right. Well all of a sudden he ducked underneath the barbed wire and sprinted across the overgrown grass gully hell bent on getting after me. I pedalled like crazy to reach 24-km/h – until then that day I had struggled to maintain an 18-km/h pace – before the dog gave up. I have encountered a bear, bighorn sheep and elk on this trip but that canine scared the bejeezus out of me. 

• Despite the rough road, Highway 26 is picturesque with plenty of beautiful fields of rich soil where crops are already coming up. I thought maybe it was the rain that made the dirt so dark, but Craig says that area is rated as the best farming soil in Manitoba.

With such large homesteads along the route, we must have seen about eight people cutting their large-expanse lawns with riding mowers in the space of a few hours. When we reached Warren we saw two homeowners cutting their grass the conventional way. As we turned into Bob and Tom’s street, I turned to Clive and said, “It’s nice to see someone actually pushing a mower instead of riding it.”

Well, up from behind the bushes of the house on the corner popped up a woman in her golden years getting ready to start her mower who declared, “Yes, I do it to get some exercise.” I hadn’t even seen her, but she was the third in the block. She then asked where we had biked from, and we told her Gladstone. She replied, “You must be the Grangers.” 

Whoa! Talk about a small town. It turns out the woman gets more exercise than mowing. She was Barb’s regular walking partner and she knew all about us.

• We are visiting my old Winnipeg stomping grounds awaiting the arrival of Brody. Clive’s son feels his knee is strong enough to give it a go keeping up with us so he’s taking the train from St. Albert, Alta., where he’s been staying at the home of his Uncle Brian and Aunt Ruth Menegozzo. He’s expected to arrive Tuesday night so on Wednesday we’ll head toward our next challenge, Northern Ontario.

KILOMETRE COUNT

Day 28: Onanole to Gladstone 118 km Total (22 days riding): 2,501*

Day 29: Gladstone to Warren 137 km; Total  2640

Day 30: Warren to St. Vital 67 km; Total 2708

* Some farting-around-town kilometres, although far from all, included in total.