Toronto to Sarnia
Leg 1
I’ve become quite familiar with waking up at 5 in the morning. Early morning commutes, the sky a sheet of black in the winter months, setting out into the bone-chilling cold.
But soon enough, your blood starts pumping, your breath heats up your face, and more often than not, you find yourself with a layer too many, or at the very least in need of a zip of ventilation.
This morning was no different. My thin running sweater quickly became uncomfortably warm as I headed off, the ever-present streetlights of the city lighting my way.
My ride through the Queensway was a lot more pleasant than I had hoped. There was a fair bit of bicycle infrastructure, with shared pathways that, for the most part, had been swiftly cleared of snow.
I did have my concerns about this journey, given that just a couple days prior, a massive snowfall had engulfed the city. Out of caution, I had installed my studded, knobby winter tires, unsure of the road conditions that I would encounter.
Last time that I rode through the Halton Hills region, I did not have enough respect for the difficulty of its grades. This time, I was lucky enough that my route through Milton snuck below the hilly region, on a much more mellow path.
The first rest stop I encountered was a sight for sore eyes. The chance to have a hot sandwich and to top up my water was greatly appreciated.
I sat next to a table of fellows who were talking about Zwift (the online indoor cycling platform) and its role in competitive cycling, which was an amusing juxtaposition, given the weathered nature of my journey.
I then passed what appeared to me as a dystopian amount of cookie-cutter houses, as far as the eye could see.
Continuing on, I missed my turn, and ended up at the foot of the Mattamy National Cycling Center Velodrome, and paused, as if in reverence, before setting off.
Not surprisingly, the surrounding roads had more bike lanes than usual. In fact, I saw for the first time an intersection at the end of a bike lane that claimed to detect cyclists for light changes!
I did finally have good cause for keeping the winter tires. On a more remote gravel road, covered in a fair bit of packed snow, the studs and knobs gave me more than enough traction.
Arriving in Cambridge, I stopped at the first fast food place I came across. There, I ordered an unhealthy amount of burgers.
In the washroom, I was engaged in conversation by a fellow who, after seeing my cycling attire, recalled the woeful tale of his previous bikes being stolen or trashed in his less-than-ideal living conditions.
My next stop was the town of Ayr, where I picked up a slice at Ayr Village Pizza, where the owner supplied me with some extra Smarties left over from Hallowe’en for the road.
Another of her customers was also curious where I was coming from and heading to; having that many packs on your bike is certainly a conversation starter.
Night fell swiftly, but despite the dark and cold, there were still a number of rideable hours left in the day before I was ready to pass out, and I was eager to get in as many kilometers as possible the first day, as I knew the following day I would inevitably be tired and sore.
It was eerie riding through the dark countryside, but a tailwind and a resurgence of speed helped me to cover a good bit of ground, finally stopping in Thamesford.
I had purchased some camping equipment from MEC, considering the all-too-real possibility that I could end up stranded in the cold, deep in the countryside. When it came time to look for a place to spend the night, there were no available accomodations nearby, so I decided to face my fears, and try camping out in a local park, with a 24-hour coffee shop nearby just in case.
I set up in the cover of darkness, surrounded by trees and the dampening sound of snow, avoiding thorny branches, and making a small clearing to assemble my bivy and sleeping bag. My inexpensive tarp had good coverage, but I failed to take into account how noisy it was to adjust. As I tucked in for the night, with my battery pack and my phone sidled in for warmth, the smallest noises had me on high alert, the wind being indecipherable from potential intruders. However, my body quickly decided that sleep was more of a priority after 188 kilometers that day, and I fell under quite shortly.
Leg 2
I awoke to my alarm again at 5, quickly packing up before the cover of darkness rose, and made my way to breakfast. My fingers were numb from trying to repack my sleeping bag into my compression sack, so it took a while to warm up. It turns out that it is nearly impossible to pack the tarp as efficiently as it was done at the factory, so I ended up strapping it onto my rear rack over my sleeping pad.
I also delayed a while so as to wait for some of my anticipated London destinations to open coinciding with my arrival.
It was a brisk morning, keeping me on my toes as I rolled into London. The first stop was Alicia’s, to pick up some treats and snacks, both for on the road and to bring as gifts to my family.
I then spent quite a bit more time than I had intended, chatting with the shop owner of N+1 CYCLES, talking touring, tires, and tire pressure. I also picked up a larger bottle cage to handle my oversized water thermos that was up until now really weighing down my rear pannier unnecessarily.
On the way out of London was the first time I came to appreciate my choice of fruit cups as snacks, giving me something sweet, but more food-like than bars to snack upon.
I also had a good lesson in why Google Maps will route its cycling directions the way it does. I accidentally missed a turn that I was supposed to make, and found myself on a long and sharp curve where the speed limit was 80 km/h, and a large tanker truck came barreling from behind before the halfway point of the curve. Seeing the path that the rear-end of the truck took, sliding around the corner, was an eye-opening indication that had me quickly finding the nearest exit road back onto the recommended path.
I had never heard of Komoka, or the Komoka Provincial Park that it contains, which made for quite pleasant view, albeit a little hilly.
I stopped in what I would later realize was the last proper rest stop I would find for the rest of the way. An older gentleman from Petriolia asked me about my journey, and wished me well on my way.
Despite this being the shorter day in terms of distance, it certainly didn’t feel that way after Komoka. The small and infrequently-trafficked country roads felt as if they stretched on forever. I didn’t realize how much I was relying on small towns beforehand to remind me to stop for a break until there weren’t any, and I had to forge my own stops.
Along with the small country roads came quite a number of dogs, most of them just wanting to make themselves known. One particularly friendly one came up to me a few times to sniff and get a few pats in, then proceeding to lead me for a good distance, howling every so often as hounds do.
I did have a concerning thought enter my head for a moment, wondering if this was a Lassie situation, and I was about to come across someone stuck in a well, but thankfully it turned out he was just leading me to his pack of three other dogs. They surrounded me, barking curiously, forcing me to stop for a bit, until their owner attempted to call them off with some difficulty.
The next break in the monotony came when the road suddenly turned to gravel, and with it came a layer of snow, this being the second time I was grateful to have the slow and noisy snow tires. The snowy road took me into a beautiful pink and purple sunset, and eventually turned back to clear paved road as darkness completed itself.
Again egged on by the nervousness of night riding, with only a white beam from my front light, the kilometers seemed to stretch again. Windmills and towns, such as Camlachie, once close and familiar landmarks from my childhood, now seemed so sprawled apart and foreign in the night.
There were barely any other vehicles until the final length, where it finally felt like home, and the lights of a small town welcomed me.
Up until this point, my parents had no idea that I was coming home to visit them, let alone my method. I gave them a call upon arrival, informing them that I had news to share, but wanted to do so in person. With no further explanation, I proceeded to ring their doorbell, and let their minds unravel the situation, as they opened up to me and my heavily packed bike.
It was quite the surprise, but a good one. My mother would not have been able to sleep had she known what I was up to. It was 131 km that day with all said and done.
Sarnia to Toronto
Leg 1
I spend most of the 5 days at my parents’ place off the bike, only poking around town a couple times, and once through the snowy trails on my own to visit the local bike shop, Blackwell Cycle, for some better tire levers and a backup rear light.
By the time I was ready to leave again, I felt mostly recovered, until I got going, and my legs, shoulders, and neck, were almost immediately sore again. I spent a good bit of effort attempting to keep my weight off of my hands, and switched to gloves instead my handlebar pogies in order to unlock more hand positions.
This time around, instead of taking the gruelingly homogenous country roads, I took the rail trail out of town, and then cut below the highway, through a few small towns to break things up. I was also armed with a radio, which helped to distract me from my discomforts, with songs like “Sharp Dressed Man” from ZZ Top.
I powered through with minimal stops for the first 90 km or so, just wanting to get the kilometers in. When I entered London again, I ended up taking some nice paved pathways and bike trails through parks.
I ended up again inevitably at N+1 CYCLE, and again I stayed longer than intended, talking bike packing and routes with another of the shop owners.
Over the course of our discussions, it became increasingly dark and rainy outside, such that when I left, I was soaking on my way to Alicia’s, where I picked up some more supplies for home, as well as a massive assorted meats sandwich for dinner. I also quickly poked my head in to Outspoken Cycles for a peek before heading out of town.
I took a fairly remote and long route out of London, made gloomy by the continued downpour. I had been hearing a fair bit of rubbing from dry chain, leaves stuck in my fenders, and perhaps a bit of misaligned brake pads, but then I started hearing something different.
It started out as my rear wheel feeling a bit wobbly. I was concerned that perhaps I was losing tire pressure, but upon inspection, it was perfectly fine. I kept stopping a few more times after, especially after I heard a clunk, but each time, shining a flashlight in the pouring rain did little to illuminate my issue.
It was only after I had stopped more completely at the side of the road, and noticed that the rubbing noise was happening more when I pushed my bike on an angle that I noticed the awful truth.
That clunk that I had heard was none other than my rear thru-axle unthreading itself fully! My rear wheel was hanging on by nothing other than the pressure of the massive amount of weight I had on the rear wheel. I was very lucky that nothing worse had happened before I found out, as I could have seriously damaged my bike, as well as myself, had the wheel fully come off.
I nervously re-threaded my axle, quite tightly for fear of reoccurrence, and continued on, harrowed.
I had intended to make it as far as Paris by that night, but after that experience, and my clothes soaked through, I decided to ring up the closest motel I could find, Jet Set Motel in Ingersol, and splurged on the dry indoors for the night.
Hanging up my sopping clothes on hangers, setting the fan to high, I devoured most of my sandwich from before, and drifted off in my spare dry clothes. 157 km that day.
Leg 2
I awoke on schedule, but yet I was sluggish to get going and leave the comfort of the motel. When I started the day on the road, the sky had already acquired a tinge of blue to mark the eventual sun.
There was a fair bit of wind this time around, with intermittent flurries of light snow, but thankfully it was more of a tailwind, though a few gusts from the side left me a tiny bit unbalanced.
Despite not feeling too exhausted physically, emotionally I had begun to unravel. The smallest issues can bring you to tears when you are so physically spent. However, it felt freeing to have a good cry in the middle of nowhere, with no one else around, a weight relieved.
I was glad that I was now arriving in Paris by the light of day, so I could better appreciate this beautiful small town. I stopped at a few of the treat shops, finding inventive ways to strap and stuff my spoils onto my setup. I then treated myself to a pleasant lunch at Stillwaters Plate & Pour, overlooking the Grand River.
I took a very cute narrow and hilly road out of Paris, with the sun out in full force, making for quite the picturesque view. It was a bit too hot in my jacket, with the sun beating down, but without it, the cutting wind was quickly unbearable.
I ended up coming across a lovely long rail trail that took me through Dundas into Hamilton. It was a breath of fresh air to be away from the pavement, though I did have to watch out for the occasional horse dropping.
Of course it wouldn’t be a proper bike trip without at least one flat, so I paid my dues along a park pathway, of course just as night was falling. I had my bike laying down, with a spare front light attached to illuminate my makeshift workstation, all my bags strewn around me.
It turned out to be very difficult to take off this winter tire, and even more so to remount it. It took looking up an article on stubborn tires to finally finagle the last section of it on, after struggling with it for many minutes. A bit of working it around inward into the rim gave it just enough slack to pop on.
After that long break, with hands and feet now quite chilly, shivering a bit as I packed everything back on my bike, I took off with a renewed gusto, pumping my legs hard through the night. I made few stops, and had to forgo the nicer waterfront trails in favour of the direct Lakeshore route.
It was reassuring when I saw the CN Tower in the distance, and surreal when I eventually merged into the route I often take on the way home from work.
When I was finally home, I almost didn’t know what to do with myself. My journey was done. I had dedicated those past few days to the road, and only the road, and now I had to somehow calm my legs, and assure them that they need not pedal for at least a few days.
