BIKEPACKING THE LOG DRIVER’S WALTZ

"Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light.”

- Helen Keller

********* spoiler alert*******

"I live here now” I told my friend Anne, while I laid deflated on a picnic table in Danford, Quebec. It was noon on Day 2 of our bikepacking adventure on the Log Driver’s Waltz - an 800km bike route that showcases some of the best and most challenging gravel roads in the historic Ottawa Valley, including some 10,000 meters of climbing, all of which we decided to complete in just four days. I lay prostrate on a picnic table, succumb to the unruly rebellion of my bowels, which had recently void themselves for the fifth time that day.

“No you don’t,” Anne replied. “No one gets left behind.”

I groaned. Little did my gastrointestinal track know its mutiny was in vain. It had two and a half more days of digesting gas station food while pedalling this bicycle. I popped two TUMS and peeled myself off the picnic table. Off to the next gas station confectionary and truck stop bathroom.

Welcome to Day 2 of our adventures on The Log Driver’s Waltz. In case you missed Day 1 of this series, you can find it here.

Day 2 - Mont Saint Marie to Renfrew - 220km, 2300m, 78% unpaved

“Who needs coffee?” I asked our little crew of slightly disheveled, supremely bad ass women. It was Saturday morning, day 2 of our 4-day ride. We were packing up to leave after a brief sleep, having rode 187km and 3200m of elevation the previous day on bikes accessorized with multi-day travel gear. I watched my comrades roam the rental unit as tired bodies, resigned to face our longest day in distance travelled, riding 220km before reaching our destination in Renfrew, Ontario. It was a stupid question, we all needed coffee.

I stepped out onto the balcony to watch the sun rise over the hills of Mont Saint Marie, promising another hot summer day. This moment at Mont Saint Marie basecamp, coffee in hand, the cool August morning air, the sky alive with colour, would become the lead into my trip highlight. We packed up our bikes and said goodbye to our ski hill accommodation, then tipped downhill into a fast, paved descent to Lac Saint Marie. The rush of crisp, dewy breeze sent a chill through my core as we raced down to catch the sunrise over the lake.

We left town tracing the edges of the Gatineau River on sweet champagne gravel, winding our way northward. This was my favourite part, the moment was perfect. The river’s gentle morning currents were a mirror for the rising sun, framed by tall grasses, the shore’s edge sprinkled with cottages. I was thoroughly enjoying myself, basking in the serenity, and still riding the rush of the previous day’s adventure. Yesterday was my PB and jam, ripping through forest trails, preferring the road less traveled. Today was going to be another big day out, and I felt the unburdened ecstasy of a child out riding a bike with friends, currently liberated of the knowledge that these moments of reprieve are annoyingly fickle. They materialize, then vanish without permission, and our day’s minor medical emergencies had yet to unfold.

We were cruising along, minding our own bee’s wax, when I heard Care Bear cry out in pain followed by a string of swear words. Screeching to a halt, we whirled around to find Care Bear battling with her helmet, arms swinging wildly. A wasp had flown into one of her helmet’s tiny square openings and was trying to free itself by chewing its way through her forehead. The little demon took a formidable chunk out of her face. She was moderately certain she was not allergic to its venomous bite, so with a quick check to ensure she wasn’t going to pass out, we were tentatively rolling forward, right into the next medical predicament.

What started for me as minor gastrointestinal distress morphed into a hyper-concerning problem. My body was refusing to process nutrition in any form. Instead, I was unravelling with debilitating stomach pain and an inability to intake even minimal amounts of fuel. I couldn’t ingest anything that would result in energy output, yet somehow this still lead to a mass exodus. I was struggling, and it was early. Ironically, all this drama was unfolding on a farm road bombarded with cow diarrhea. We weaved through the cow patties, attempting to ride the line that avoids connecting the dots, the consequences of losing this game being throwing a tire full of cow diarrhea to the subsequent rider’s face. Seriously, more? The diarrhea trail just kept going. Our gauntlet ride finally gave way to exactly one cow. The girls were dumbfounded how this much waste could come from just one animal, but I felt his pain. The universe intersected solo diarrhea cow and I in a moment of sympathetic parallels between the human and animal kingdom. Maybe his suffering was also self-inflicted, choosing candy and Coke as nutritional offerings for an unnatural amount of time, all while attempting to run all the fields in the Ottawa Valley. Why are you doing this to yourself Solo Cow? Cows should not be trying to run so many fields; it’s too much Solo Cow. I caught his eye as we rode past and gave him a sympathetic half smile, wishing him good luck with his future digestion endeavours.

The sun was busy dragging up the temperature when we finally stopped for lunch at the gas station in Danford, Quebec. The break was overdue and our little team was looking a bit rough around the edges. Care Bear’s face now featured a budding unicorn horn, the swelling from the wasp bite having been perfectly contained to the offending square section of helmet.

“ I have After Bite in my med kit,” J’Amy announced, after seeing Care Bear’s emerging horn, and began rummaging through the contents of her triangle bag. But after a thorough search of the med kit, no After Bite materialized. “That’s strange, After Bite is literally written on the label as part of the contents, and this kit has never been opened.” We checked the label. Sure enough, boldly declared in print was After Bite. We rifled through the contents again. Nothing. “This med kit needs a disclaimer: Med kit not as advertised,” J’Amy decided, gathering the spilled contents to disappear back into the hollows of her triangle bag. “Wow. That’s a dangerous company.” I agreed. It should read: “May contain lifesaving medication.” With a sigh, Care Bear donned her helmet, resigned to this being the best option to contain the swelling, and continued with the overall unicorn transformation process.

Considering her needs now partially met, I moved on to my own bodily dysfunctions. I approached the very nice lady attending this slightly revolting gas station with someone’s discarded dentures on the front lawn. “Où sont les toilettes?” (Just kidding, I asked in English. My brain wasn't working that fast).

“There’s a public toilet down the street, next to the splash pad.

“Splash pad?!? Is it on?”

“Yes, it’s always on.”

OMG YESSSS!!! Salvation laid within the splash park. I raced down the street to find a washroom, for blessed bowel relief, and moved onto cooling my body and rinsing the day’s mounting filth, only to discover that there was no water supply to the splash park. NO! Why?!?! It’s so hot and I feel so bad. Defeated, I prostrated myself as a sacrificial offering on a nearby picnic table.

(Ha! I thought some of you might enjoy this throw back to the Spain blog).

Moments later, Anne came by to check on me.

"I live here now” I told her, resigned to my new life in Danford.

“No you don’t,” Anne replied. “No one gets left behind.”

I groaned. This was not my idea of a good time. I got back on my bike and rode straight through the furnaces of hell for the next 34km until we reached Ladysmith, Quebec, wherever that is. I visited the facilities and emerged from the confectionary with my preferred low-energy snack of Coke and a snickers bar. I looked sadly at the calorie dense food, wondering how I was going to manage to ingest it, then collapsed on a bench next to Anne just outside the confectionary door. “I $#!t six times today,” I announced sheepishly, unsure if cracking open the door of my suffering to the group, and ultimately myself, would make this reality worse for me in the long run. Anne’s jaw dropped. “You need Imodium!” she asserted helpfully. Wait, what? YESSS!!! There were drugs formulated specifically to stop this! That’s exactly what I need!!! Somehow that thought had not crossed my mind. J’Amy rummaged through her triangle bag, handed me the little golden pill of liquid relief. I washed it down with a swig of Anne’s Red Bull. “Do you think this is as prescribed?” I joked. “Maybe this is what a Jaggerbomb looks like when you’re over 40.”

Just as I was pondering all the life choices that took me from the days of downing shots of Jäegermeister and Red Bull amongst a flurry of bodies on a dance floor to downing an Imodium with Red Bull at a small town gas station confectionary (honestly, had I become at all smarter with age?), a woman meandered out of the store clutching two bottles of gin and a pack of cigarettes. She spotted me slumped on the store front bench in my cycling garb. “How is the ride going?” she asked. I gave her the rundown of the day thus far. “Looks like you are about the have the opposite sort of day,” I said to her, motioning to the contents in her arms. We both laughed, clearly not relating to each other’s version of free time festivities, though at this point it would seem debatable who’s would be more detrimental to their body in the long run. We wished each other good health and parted ways.

These photos are actually from two different fuel stops, but I like them because the girls look similarly tired and in awe of snacks.

The ride continued with some high rolling hills. We climbed up and up, leap frogging each other before launching into a full send down the other side. These were quiet roads and we were enjoying the serenity, absent of the noise and air pollution that accompanies motorized vehicles. Plus, the sun had now hid itself behind some shade clouds, so that was helping our collective current mood.

We eventually climbed over the escarpment to descend into Shawville, Quebec at the 164km mark for our last possible refuel stop of the day. There were 56km remaining before we reached our destination in Renfew, Ontario. By this point Anne’s saddle region was protesting too many hours of continual pressure, and she was suffering immensely. Spotting a opportunity for relief, she instinctively nabbed a Coke from the freezer and started icing her nether regions. “Oh man, this feels sooooo good,” she declared, melting with the cooling relief. Simultaneously shopping for snacks while holding the cold Coke can in place, she spotted a more desirable can of Sprite, replacing the now redundant Coke back into the cooler, not realizing her faux pas until after she had paid for the Sprite and left. We broke into a laughing frenzy as she recounted her tale of saddle sore rejuvenation, though none of us had the energy reserves to rescue the can of Coke from a future unsuspecting patron’s consumption.

My gastro issues hadn’t completely resolved, so I swallowed a second Imodium with a banana Muscle Milk and a bag of chips, hoping the banana flavoured drink tasted enough like penicillin that it magically become the secret medical ingredient to finally halt my crippling stomach pain and persistent bodily evacuation. This was a new sort of low for me, a two-Imodium kind of day.

We peddled out of Shawville, zig-zagging our way through country roads, starting our final push for what turned out to be Care Bear’s Day 2 highlight. We were surrounded by rolling hills of maturing crops, the scent of summer on the breeze. J’Amy took the lead, startling all of us with commanding end of day power, leading our little echelon with remarkable speed. We were flying! The tiny but mighty J’Amy dragged us for 25kms before we finally crossed back into Ontario. This was an extremely exciting moment. Whoohooo! We did a thing!!!

The good feelings were short lived as an unhappy realization kicked in. We still had more than 30kms remaining before our tired legs were due for their rest in Renfrew. The day felt both almost done and never ending.

We fought for every last kilometer. J’Amy was now in the back of the peloton, having earned a bit of recovery after her full-on battle charge. Our mental cognition was rapidly depleting with each pedal stroke as we approached Renfrew. The processing required to visualize our surroundings, interpret the situation, perform the corresponding physical reaction, then decimate the correct verbal instructions to the subsequent peloton member, was entirely too much. Glaciers had mobilized faster than our mental functioning at this point. “J’Amy you’re on your own!” became a reoccurring entertaining kind of cringe-worthy joke as we repeatedly rode through intersections with unverifiable cross times, forcing J’Amy in the back to attempt to beat the light or remain marooned on the other side. Though we were making light of our leaden reaction times, I wouldn’t recommend these practices when riding in a group :/

It was late as we pulled into town, so options for food were limited. We stopped at the A&W close to our hotel. Care Bear attempted ordering off-menu. “Can I buy a head of iceberg lettuce. Yes, a whole head. I don’t care what you charge me for it.” After much deliberation, the teenagers behind the counter concluded that no, they don’t sell full heads of lettuce. Sigh. This was our one opportunity to consume vegetables for the day, something that might actually help calm our irritated gastrointestinal tracks. I settled on ordering something that was once a potato, and a chicken sandwich because it appeared to have two pieces of lettuce instead of one. Shoving a milkshake into my bottle holder and holding a doggy-bag of fast-food in my mouth, we biked the remaining half kilometer to the Days Inn, our destination for the night.

We reached hotel with renewed enthusiasm, having booked this accommodation because it had a pool. I was hoping that floating in rejuvenating waters could restore my inner well-being. Who knows, maybe we could even rehydrate through osmosis. But soon after entering the establishment, it became apparent that under no circumstances would we be swimming in their pool. Walking barefoot seemed risky. But the woman working the front desk was incredibly accommodating. Anne convinced her to wash all our dirty kits in the hotel laundry then hand delivering them back to our room having followed Anne’s explicit instructions to dry them for 30 mins on low as not to harm the expensive tech fabrics, saving us the tedious task of handwashing our kits in the hotel bathtub. This was such a gift. We were exhausted. And FILTY. We found ourselves once again sitting around in towels munching on fast food. “Is my face as dirty as Amy’s?” J’Amy asked looking at me sideways. “You have a unibrow.” Indeed I did. She did too. Riding the desert roads in the South of Spain didn’t come with this consistent grime. Stepping out of the tub after my shower I took a look at the damage. The tub now contained the remanence of our ride. Was there any dirt left between here and Mont Saint Marie? Most of it was in our bathtub. I don’t think we could have cleaned our jerseys in this tub if we tried. The swimming pool might have been cleaner. Maybe.

Now washed and fed, my intentions of running through a nightly mobility routine had faded with the setting sun. Even as the team rehabilitation specialist, I couldn’t bring myself to expend another kilojoule of effort. Instead we all collapsed on the beds, our heads turned to the foot, and our feet elevated skyward against the headboards. We laid there inverted, like eight legs of cured meat, and with about the same amount of life left in us, reviewing the plan for tomorrow’s ride.

“How much climbing Anne?” I asked.

“At least 3000 meters.”

I stared at the ceiling, both corners of my mouth tipped down. This was close to double what I was expecting. The ever optimistic ‘Ride With GPS’ had prepared me for 1700 meters. But Anne had bothered to transfer the route into Strava, an app well regarded for accurate elevation profiles. I glanced at Care Bear. Even from this angle she looked weary.

Another 3000 meters? I was not mentally prepared for another 3000-meter day, and definitely not if it went like today. Despair clouded my vision.  I really had no idea if I was going to be able to complete this route. But J’Amy kept the mood light, recapping our journey and making light of how long we had been out on the road. It had only been two days since we left Parliament Hill, but it could have been three weeks, or three months, with another three years to go. Time was moving deceptively slow.

Eight clean legs now sufficiently drained of blood, we turned in place to fall asleep amongst an atom bomb of fast food wrappers, cycling clothes, and filthy bikes. It was lights out for a quick sleep and an early start.

******************************

I am fortunate that my partner Will’s impeccable sleep hygiene has rubbed off on me. So with ear plugs and an eye covering, I had barely registered there was anything amiss when I pealed open one eye lid to find Anne standing on her bed fixing the roof. Apparently the fire alarm battery was heralding its near death experience by eliciting a high-pitched rhythmic scream. “Anne’s got it,” I thought to myself and rolled over to face the other direction. I’m ashamed to admit how easy it became to rely on this always being true. Anne had indeed always “had it”. It seemed unequivocally unfair to pile so much responsibility on her, but what can I say, she was just so damn good at it. She probably made quick work of the overly vocal fire detector battery, who can say, I was already back to sleep. Fortunately for us, there were no fires that evening at the Renfrew Comfort Inn.

Day 2 Totals:

Distance: 221km

Elevation: 2306meters

Ride time: 10h48m

Elapsed time: 13h 32m

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