Day Fourteen - La Fin
/Being the last day of my ride, and given that I had to get to the bike shop with which I’d coordinated to have my bike boxed & supper, and considering that I still had yet to find lodging for the night, and feeling well-rested and raring to go after a day of enforced rest, I got up and on the road early. “Morning begins at night” was my motto, and I’d packed and loaded all my bags onto my bike the night before. I still had a little chicken pot pie left over from my grocery run a few days ago, and I discovered that a little chicken pot pie is actually a pretty good breakfast before riding 55 miles on a cold morning into a headwind. I’d managed to miss the headwinds along the shore until today - probably because of the shift in weather patterns from the storm. But things were returning to normal, which meant a steady breeze from the Southwest. I noticed it as soon as I woke up, actually - the flag at the Maritime Museum across the road had already begun flying in the opposite direction from yesterday.
Off I rolled, out of L’Islet-Sur-Mer before most of its residents had finished their déjuner, and into a dry, if cloudy, morning. The winds started slow and then gradually increased as the morning wore on, and of course it varied based on tree cover, proximity to the seaway, and the road itself. The route I’d chosen had me winding often through little residential areas along the shore, so I was often able to avoid the wind by avoiding the main, open road. And it was a safer and more interesting route anyway. “Who are you people?” I often asked myself when riding past houses with big gardens or their own dock or, in one surprising instance, a series of miniature models of restored, historical buildings (maybe in the neighborhood) lining the walkway up the the front door. It was like walking through a slightly larger, Lionel train set display - only minus the trains. Retired? A modeling enthusiast? A real estate broker? Who knows…
The occasional inlets from the seaway (or out to the seaway) got wider and, at one point in Montmagny, opened up into a wide falls whose turgid waters frothed and churned below. The quickened and chopped water flow reminded me of the run-up to Niagara Falls on last year’s ride, though naturally with a far more modest climax.
Again, with the roadside art.
Again, with the wide farmlands.
And again, with the trail closures.
La Route Verte would seem to be in need of, or on the way to, a lot of construction at the moment. Fortunately, there were a lot more options for detours than back up on the Martian landscape I’d crossed a couple days before.
And again, with the silver-topped churches. I don’t know if it’s an aesthetic choice or for another more practical reason, but all the larger or mid-sized churches along the seaway have the same, silver roofing. It may have something to do with snowfall or heat management, but it’s a surprisingly anondized (and thus modern) feel to what are otherwise charming, roadside churches. As if Boeing’s getting into religious architecture.
The wind was the wind. I knew it would be there, and I was glad it wasn’t worse. I’d had worse on this ride, and I didn’t care to revisit it. I took the opportunity to move into the drops on my handlebars and practice my aerodynamic stance. It might have been more helpful if I wasn’t also carrying front fork bags, but it helped, particularly on the downhills.
Although it was a pretty flat route, and flattening out all the more as I approached Québec. The bike trail got closer to the water, and now it was paved again. I passed several other cyclists, going both ways - people on their way to work or school, couples on their own journeys, and a couple squads of athletes in training who zoomed past me with the sound of ten ratchet hubs all spinning and chattering loudly in brash synchrony. Québec - the city and the whole province, is cycling country; often I would pass handwritten signs for campgrounds or simply wide lots that announced that cyclists could camp overnight for free. In fact, I remarked on how little I was remarked upon with any of the interest I’d encountered for many rural parts of Maine. “Right, guy on a bike, some bags, looks like he’s going a fair distance. <pfff> Ce n’est rien.”
And whether the wind was relenting or my anticipation was growing, after I plugged in the final 18 miles of routing on my GPS, I was riding at a quicker pace. A few nights before, I’d accidentally discovered how to livestream on social media from my GoPro by using my iPhone as a hotspot. I knew my family would like to see the homestretch live, if they could. I amused myself trying to set it up, anyway. And hopefully I amused a few Facebook friends when, as I rode past the Ferris wheel in Quai Paquet, with the sight of Château Frontenac as it stood tall on top of the hill across the water, and realized my route had led me not to a bridge, as I assumed, but to a large, commercial dock. “Oh, I guess I’m taking a ferry across the river. Huh. Hadn’t expected that.” After all my planning, months of checking the route, building redundancy measures into my gear, scanning weather forecasts and consulting with people and organizations along the way, not to mention the over 3,000 miles of training I put in over the season, this last little bit somehow escaped my noticed. Not a bridge … but a boat.
I got to the gangway. The gate manager told me to dismount & I walked down the plank. “I’m sorry, I haven’t bought a ticket,” I explained & he pointed me to the window for cars (the bike ticket window was closed) and smiled as he checked the time on his phone. “You’ve got three minutes.” Challenge accepted. I sped to the window, quickly bought my passage, and returned to the gangway. He welcomed me aboard and I parked my bike by that of several other cyclists also on board. Tourists, commuters, students. A bike is a legitimate means of transport in this town. All the more impressive when you take into account how hilly the city can be.
It’s a short ride across the seaway, about twenty minutes. I realized I hadn’t been narrating much of the streaming video, so I tried to add a little color for however many viewers were watching. I took a little stroll around the sections of the boat where I could walk, holding the camera up & out, panning it around like every single Times Square tourist you’ve ever seen. I didn’t even think about the fact that my trip was almost over. Barely even thought about the fact that I would soon arrive. I just tried to rest and watch the waves bounce off the bow of the ship, the gulls sloping in gentle arcs off the air currents.
Then almost as quickly as I’d gotten on, we were docking. The other cyclists start milling around their bikes. I went to get mine. I’d had to remove the bags on my front fork, so that the wheel would fit into the bike stand. I put them back on. I also had to get out my battery pack to charge my phone. Turns out live-streaming is pretty power-intensive, and I was running low.
The ferry docked. The gangway opened. The twelve or so other cyclists walked their bikes up the metal walkway. I followed behind them. I stepped off the walkway and onto the pavement. And just like that, I was in Québec.
Which meant that technically I’d achieved my destination, but I’d routed my way to the entrance of Château Frontenac, at the top of a brutal climb. There was traffic, there were tourists, and there was construction. I rode as much of it as I could, but it was busy; I didn’t want to get in the way of cars driving up the single open lane or push past pedestrians walking up the hill. So yes, it’s true, I did not climb the whole thing on my bike. I got about halfway, and I was clearly going to be in the way. I got off and pushed Franco (and all the luggage he was dutifully bearing) about a third of the way, when the construction opened up & the tourists turned left to a staircase. And dammit, I would ride the last few hundred yards if there was any way possible.
Cresting the hill, I squinted up at Château Frontenac which stood right in front of the sun on a clear day. Harry Potter’s first arrival at Hogwarts came to mind. Only, I was the one driving the Hogwarts Express. Driving it … Up… This... G*D... D@&^%D…. HILL…!
And then … I was there. I’d made it. Two weeks of riding and nine months of planning was, for all practical purposes, over. I took some selfies. I walked around Dufferin Terrace and stared up and the grand hotel just above it. I looked down over the wall at the Funicular du Vieux-Québec taking tourists up and down the hill so easily, compared to my most recent effort. I looked at the Monument to Samuel de Champlain, the founder of Québec, as a bronze relief of Victory holds a trumpet to her lips in honor of the indomitable explorer’s spirit.
I felt my muscles cooling, by breath slowing, my skin drying. I relished the moment. Momentarily.
And then the moment had passed.
It was off to Vélos Roy-O, the bike shop I’d contacted a couple days before (and a couple months before that). I walked in and gave my name. I met Xavier, with whom I’d first corresponded back in March. He walked me through the procedure for checking in and dropping off my bike. I took off the luggage. I paid the fee. I told him I’d coordinate with the shipping service (I’m using something called BikeFlights, which had been recommended to me - I understand they specialize in handling bikes and are also good at dealing with the necessary customs and other paperwork involved. Fingers crossed on all that, but they’re a very well-established company with a good reputation, so I’m not too worried.) They wheeled my bike back to the shop. And after all this time of the two of us, working together and looking after each other through it all, I’m not gonna lie; it wasn’t the easiest part of the journey.
I loaded up my bags and walked a block to the nearest pub. I ordered a pint and started looking for lodging.
Although Québec is rife with WarmShowers hosts, I quit after writing to 10 of them and having no luck. People were either out of town, already hosting, or just not inclined to respond to my emails. I went on to booking.com and hotels.com and found options that were out of my price range. But then I lucked into what I thought was an apartment share but which turned out to be a proper B&B on, appropriately, AirBNB: La Maison Lafleur. Right in the heart of Old Town, on the second floor, with a flower-boxed window, a sink in the room, a shared half-bath down the hall, and a full breakfast in the morning. Booked.
I hauled my bags awkwardly for the 20-minute walk to the B&B. Checking in, I was shown to my room. “Si charmant” was the phrase that came to mind. I dropped my bags, laid down on the bed, and laid quietly for a few minutes. There were still errands to run. I needed to find transportation back home. I needed to find somewhere to buy a cheap duffle bag in which to carry all my smaller bags together. I needed to coordinate placing the order and handling the paperwork to ship my bike. But these were simply that: errands. The challenge was complete. In a few moments, I’d get a shower, change my clothes, go for a walk around town, and get dinner.
Even then, I could already feel the trip starting the shift from an active endeavor to a proud collection of memories. My body felt strong, if tired. My mind felt clear, if full. And the last of the afternoon sun, which I’d chased for so much of the last two weeks, fell warm and easy through the window before slowly revealing a blue evening sky.
