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DAY
36
It's 62 miles from Saginaw to Port Sanitac on Lake Huron, the
road is straight all the way. Stopping just outside Kingston on
Lake Huron, I lay down in a cemetery to get some sleep. "Better
not lie here too long," I thought, "or I'll end up in
a box under the ground." I couldn't sleep so decided to cycle.
The scenery continued as a two dimensional landscape with farmhouses,
barns and a few small towns. It was slow going without sleep or
rest but I decided to keep going to Port Huron (94 miles from Saginaw)
and stay in a motel tonight. After a few days of straight road,
deep blue water appears on the horizon. Like a madman I throw my
arm in the air. "Yes!!" Port Sanitac is a small town with
a marina and a few shops. I sit down next to the water with a cold
drink, looking out over the expanse of water. I'm fatigued - the
water blurs and the sky moves, seagulls circle me on the grass,
I feed them with bread. The bike attracts interest from yachties
and I answer their questions. Lying on the lawn looking up at flags
I realise that I'll have a tailwind to Port Huron. Soon the Moulton
is flying down the road, passing houses on the lakeside. "Only
31 miles to Canada and I have a tailwind," I convinced myself
to keep going. I floated into Port Huron where lines of people were
sitting in chairs next to the road. I was in a 'Hot Car Parade '
- thousands of spectators watching race cars, hot rods and custom
sports cars cruise up and down the road. I felt like I was hallucinating
as arms waved and people cheered when I rode past. A meal in a café
gave me a reality check and suddenly I felt normal again. Ten minutes
later I was on the Blue Water River bridge, waiting to cross over
into Canada. Unfortunately I wasn't allowed to cycle so a pick-up
took me over to Canadian customs. 15 minutes later I was cycling
through Sarnia where I found a motel, had a shower, and the feeling
as I lay on the bed is too difficult to describe. Sleep came very
quickly.
DAY 37
I woke up three or four times during the night - in the end I open
all the windows, throw my sleeping mat on the floor and sleep soundly.
I take my time, repack all the bags and clean the bike (it is no
longer brown but green again). I head towards London on Highway
22. It is hot with a strong northerly cross wind. The road is in
very poor condition as most people use the freeway nearby. Gravel
shoulders, potholes, wide cracks makes riding erratic and very uncomfortable.
Traffic is noticeably quieter in Canada - fewer big cars and pick-ups,
but I find this section of road difficult to enjoy. I reach the
small town of Warwick and stop for lunch in a café. Five
farmers are sitting around a table talking about the merits of different
fertilisers. I eventually figure out that three of them are called
Bob so it was like a Monty Python sketch. 'Yes Bob,' 'Right Bob,'
No Bob.' I sit quietly and enjoy a pot of tea before setting off
for London, 56 miles away.
I've seen thousands of fake deer in gardens
across North America. Like the garden gnomes in England and the
koalas in Australia, these ornaments always make me do a double
take so that when I see real deer in a garden I laugh when they
suddenly come to life and run away. Near London I stop at a factory
where these deer are produced, thousands of them in a car park with
concrete chipmunks, silicone skunks and stone squirrels! I skirt
the top of the city (pop. 330,000), go around a block three times
and then eventually head towards Thamesford on Highway 2. It's getting
dark now as I didn't start my ride until late today. After about
15 miles I see a restaurant and order pasta. They make quite a fuss
of me and announce to all the customers that I have just cycled
from Vancouver. I receive a king size portion of pasta and it takes
me a long time to eat it. I don't like large meals when I'm cycling
and try to eat small meals seven or eight times a day. One of the
customers tells me about a campsite called 'Ponderosa' - just turn
left at Thamesford lights and follow the road under the bridge.
When I reach the town I check with a policeman who's pulling over
vehicles for identity checks. "Yeah, just down there under
the bridge." No signs anywhere. I cycle under the bridge out
of town, up a hill, past a farm... after 20 minutes I turn back
to town and ask again. Up the road, keep going for three miles,
turn right at the crossroads, there's no sign, and go down there
for two miles and it's on the right. I backtrack, follow directions
and there it is - Ponderosa. How people know it's there beats me.
Nobody around so I put my tent up under a tree.
DAY 38
I'm up early and gone before anyone in the campground gets out of
bed. I find a small café opening for breakfast - bacon, sausages,
egg, coffee, orange juice. This is unexpected luxury at this time
of the morning. I chat with the French chef - he's not a cyclist
but talks about Tour de France heroes, such as Fausto Coppi, Jacques
Anquetil, Eddie Merckx, and he remembers the English rider Tom Simpson
who died in the mountains. As I left he said "Colin, my friend,
God speed, I pray for your safe journey." From here the road
is quiet with little traffic as I head south east to Ingersoll and
Tilsonburg, passing farmhouses, old barns and the occasional very
old, abandoned stone building. It is Sunday morning and the church
car parks are full, hymns drift across the cornfields and tractors
lie idle. Farm dogs are not barking today - weekdays or weekends
mean nothing on a long ride. Signage is poor here (and Michigan).
I have motorists asking to look at my map because some junctions
and crossroads require some psychic ability or a GPS to find destinations.
From Tilsonburg I head east through Delhi
to Simcoe where I head south onto the lakeside road on Lake Erie.
Initially I am disappointed when the landscape is covered with huge
refineries, smoke stacks stretch up into the stratosphere and the
odours of heavy industry make breathing uncomfortable. Eventually
the ugliness has slipped over the horizon behind me and I follow
the narrow road along the beach. Hundreds of small beach shacks
and houses with candles out on the decks and people eating their
evening meals under the twilight stars. I stop at the Red Parrot
café for a bowl of fettuccini and a glass of wine - a Hawaiian
beach house atmosphere miles from the sea. I sit for an hour and
enjoy the music, relax and talk with locals. The narrow road continues
to snake around the coast, the moon reflected in the water, no traffic
and I'm enjoying the ride. Knight's Beach campground appears on
the beachside. I ask the price for a small tent - $US36. I said
it was too expensive and cycled out. A voice called me back $10
if you're leaving in the morning.
DAY 39
When I was packing up this morning the manager brought me a cup
of coffee and some toast. I tried to pay the campground fee and
he wouldn't take it. "You just have a safe journey" and
he shook my hand. I cycled slowly down the coast road, stopping
frequently to walk on the beach, feed the seagulls or just sit and
watch life go by. I meet Marie in Buffalo on Friday and I'll arrive
there today, Monday. Time to rest, laundry and catch up with correspondence
before the final leg to New York City. Meanwhile I'll be staying
with Doug Milliken for a few days. He's the local Moulton dealer,
an avid Moultoneer and an engineer by profession. I continue down
the lakeside and stop in the small town of Byng for a meal. This
is where the waters of the Grand River meet Lake Erie, a popular
spot for fishing, hiking and canoeing. Inside the restaurant, weather
is the topic of conversation and today is the hottest day of the
year, 95 ºF. I guess living in the tropics has given me the
ability to cycle in hot, humid weather without too much discomfort.
 From
here it's about 60 miles to Fort Erie where I'll cross the Peace
Bridge into Buffalo, USA. There's a cross wind from the south as
I pedal down Highway 3 and I think about my experiences over the
last 40 days. I've averaged about 160 km a day, excluding rest days,
and I will arrive in Buffalo four days earlier than Marie. I spend
all my Canadian coins at a gas station and cycle across Peace Bridge
on the sidewalk. When I get half way (what country am I in now?)
I stop to take photographs. Buffalo City towering in the background
and the bridge is swaying as big interstate trucks rumble past.
For me, this is such an exciting landmark in my ride across North
America. Initially I had doubts about making it here in less than
43 days but have plenty of time to spare.
At customs nobody was interested in the
contents of my bags - they wanted to hear my story and look at the
bike. "That is a cool bike." I showed them the suspension
and gave them the small wheel story before a couple of men took
the bike for a ride. Half an hour in customs and I'm free to go.
I follow Doug's directions to his house - he comes to meet me with
a few miles to go. A big, friendly smile and handshake between Moultoneers.
I pushed the bike into his workshop and couldn't believe what I
saw - Moulton bicycles galore - a belt-drive NS, a Jubilee, an ATB,
a stowaway Mk3 - just to name a few. Wheels hang from the ceiling,
fairings stored on shelves - my green bicycle felt at home! Doug
has interesting stories about all his bikes and plenty of time to
talk during the rest days ahead.
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