Cycling is an individual exercise. Even while riding with a buddy or in a group, there reaches a point where the experience telescopes down to nothing but the machine and the road and the rhythmic pulsing of the body. It can be intensely liberating, but also intensely solitary. On long trips, day after day, thoughts return over and over, sometimes with each pedal stroke. The physical act of motion is mirrored in the mind’s movement, the heart’s, through the past, the present and into the future.
When I broke free of Halifax’s roads and found my way out to the coast, my legs were pumping easily. A salty wind blew into my face, leaving a fine crystal film on my sunglasses. I passed the teahouse on the hill above Lawrencetown beach and cruised past the krummholzed spruce trees, flagged by the constant winds that battered the coast. It was misty and colder than it was inland. A thick fog-bank sat just off-shore, hazing the dropping sun.
I stopped at the beach. The hurricane swell had not yet begun, ankle-height waves lapped on the sand. I sat eating an apple on the boardwalk over the marram grass, thinking of the times I’d spent there over the years, the walks with the love who had finally quit me. I launched the apple core into the ocean, wondering when I would see that coastline again.
There were a series of tiny outpost towns along the south coast of Newfoundland that had remained alive and relatively unchanged since their founding. Their French names betrayed their origins, but the pronunciations of the names by present-day locals betrayed how much those origins had faded. Names like ‘Grand Bruit’ and ‘Francois’ had become ‘Grand Bret’ and ‘Fransayce’. There were no roads to most of these towns, making them accessible only by boat, helicopter, or snowmobile during the winter. A circuit of small passenger ferries strung these communities together from the west coast of the island to the Burin Peninsula in the east. I had decided that this was going to be my route to St. John’s. With little money in my pocket and all of my belongings on my bicycle, I planned to ride the eastern shore of Nova Scotia and catch the ferry across the Cabot Strait to Port Aux Basques, Newfoundland. It was going to take me five days to get to the terminal in North Sydney, Cape Breton I would need every one.
I pitched my tent in an elementary school soccer field the first night and behind a Presbyterian church parking lot the second. Locals drove by slowly in their pickup trucks, watching as I sat cooking pasta over a single-burner stove. Some would wave while others stared at my bike and trailer, probably wondering why the hell anybody would do such a thing. The nights were lonely but short, truncated by my fatigue from the long days of pedalling.
I stopped in small towns whose names either began with ‘port’ or ended in ‘harbour’. Names like ‘Spanish Ship’ told of the fishing industry that had once filled the area, while places like ‘Ecum Secum’ revealed the region’s Mi’kmaq roots. The road wound its way to the coast and away from it, changing the feel of each settlement that lay at the heads or mouths of the bays.
By the third day, I left the eastern shore, bound for the causeway to Cape Breton Island. In the crossroad town of Country Harbour, I stopped at the convenience store for provisions. I discovered a small, battery-operated radio mixed in with the hunting supplies. No bigger than my hand, it had a volume dial that turned the device off when spun all the way to the left and a tuning dial that picked up the FM band only. I strapped it down beneath the bungee cords on my rear rack and covered the final kilometres to the causeway.
Just beyond Port Hawkesbury, I was coming fast down a hill, too fast to avoid a large pothole at the bottom. The bike and trailer bucked heavily, almost throwing me into the ditch. I heard a loud crack and felt hard bits of plastic and metal spray against the back of my legs. I jammed on the brakes and dismounted. The bump had knocked the radio loose, sending it down through the spokes of the rear wheel. Pieces of red plastic and cheap wiring littered the road behind me. I lay the bike down softly and returned to gather as much of the destroyed radio as I could. With my pockets full of transistors and broken antenna, I got back on the bike and continued on.
It was a beautiful evening. Lazy insects buzzed overhead as I pulled into the gas station at St. Peter’s. I filled my water bladder from the tap on the side of the building and loaded it on the trailer. There was a large field across the street and a small community building in its centre – a perfect guerrilla camping spot. There was no one about, so I straddled my bicycle to manoeuvre it over.
As I sat on the saddle, I heard a terrible sound, like a rod had been snapped to attention. The noise quickly repeated itself, the sound of metal giving way under great strain. I leaned forward on my handlebars and closed my eyes. I didn’t want to look, I didn’t want to know.
Holding the bike upright by the saddle, I tried to inspect the welds in the aluminium frame, the seams, any weak points that would’ve blown. It only took a moment to see that two of the spokes in the rear wheel had snapped and four or five more in either direction had been badly damaged. The radio.
I looked around the empty parking lot for help, or at the very least some confirmation of the disaster’s magnitude. Weak with exhaustion and hunger, I doubted everything. All of my failures bound to this one, all of my plans to start fresh suddenly ridiculous. I carefully walked the bike across the road and found a place in the middle of the field. With the light fading I got quickly to work.
On the rear wheel of a bicycle, the hub is covered on one side by the sprocket that holds the chain that turns the wheel when you pedal. The spokes of the wheel are all anchored through the hub before being attached to the rim. There is no way to replace broken spokes without removing the sprocket to get at the hub.
I was going to have to take the wheel off the bike, remove the tire and tube from the rim, remove the sprocket, replace the spokes, tension the spokes to true the wheel, and then put it all back together again. I only had four replacement spokes, so I could only pray the others would hold.
By the time I had unhooked the trailer, unloaded the bike, and flipped it upside down on the grass, daylight was almost gone. I pinched a flashlight between my teeth as I laid out my tools and removed the rear wheel. With the wheel between my knees, I tried to remember how to remove the sprocket from the hub.
A car pulled into the parking lot, its headlights sweeping the field and coming to rest on the community centre. Two men got out, drinking cans of beer. Laughing and talking, they walked up the steps to the building and unlocked the door. They began turning on all the lights and opening the windows onto the warm summer night. The light fell over the field like a spotlight, highlighting me and my troubles.
I turned and blinked as a procession of cars began pulling into the lot beside the building, parking haphazardly, wherever there was space. Car doors opened, spilling their well-dressed passengers laughing and yelling into the field. The last car to pull in was an antique convertible carrying a bride and groom in the back seat. The crowd cheered at their arrival and traditional Celtic music began blaring from a stereo inside the building. I dared not stand, and extinguished the flashlight that was still hanging from my face.
In no time at all, the party was raging and I was stranded out in that field like some lame, greasy animal. It wasn’t a campsite and I was there illegally, wondering what I should do or where I should go.
I was surprised it had taken the company so long to find me out, but soon enough, a couple of men on the deck of the building spotted me and came over to investigate. Their voices became audible as they stumbled through the uneven grass towards me.
“What’s he got? A bike?” said one.
“Jesus Murphy, he’s gotter all into pieces now,” said the other.
I stood and turned to face them.
“Whadya got done toer, b’ye?” said the taller man.
“Hey guys, sorry about this, had a bit of a breakdown this evening,” I said.
“No need to apologize, you’re welcome here. Name’s Carl,” said the shorter one, extending his hand.
I showed them both my thickly stained hands and tried rubbing off some of the stickier chunks. “Another time, maybe,” I said with a laugh.
“I’m Pete, anyway,” said the taller one.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
They both nodded. Carl had a sweating beer can in his hand that was dripping onto his white collared shirt. He was trim everywhere except his belly, which protruded like a camel’s hump. Pete was tall and balding, pointed in his skinniness with a dark drink sloshing in the tumbler he held in his bony hand.
“Got a wedding going on,” I said.
“Ya, you know, it’s that time of year, one after the other, seems I been drunk for a month now,” said Pete. “What’s the problem here?”
“Ah,” I said, turning back to the mess of tools and parts. “Busted some spokes.”
“Where ya headin?” said Carl.
“Newfoundland.”
They both laughed heartily. “I woulda driven you up the road somewheres, but you’ll have to get a few more beer into me before I’ll get on the ferry,” said Carl.
I laughed and explained that I was determined to get there under my own steam.
They both turned to examine the bike. “That job looks like it requires a stiff drink,” said Pete.
A teenage boy in his Sunday best came running up behind the men and stood between them. “Just in time, Kevin,” said Carl. “Run and get this feller a drink.”
Carl turned to me. “Whadya drinking?”
“Oh no, I don’t want to crash your wedding,” I said.
“Listen my son, there’s enough booze in that building to sink Cape Breton Island. You’ll have a drink,” said Pete.
“A beer, I guess, I’ll have a beer.”
Kevin began jogging back to the building.
“You eat?” said Carl.
“Naw, not yet. I was gonna get this fixed up and then make myself some pasta,” I said.
“Nonsense,” said Pete. “Kevin!”
Kevin turned back to us, midstride.
“Bring a burger and some chips to boot.”
Kevin said nothing and turned again.
“Now, what have you got done here?” said Carl.
“Gotta replace some spokes, but I’m having trouble getting the sprocket off so I can get at them.”
They examined the wheel. I had the tool for removing the sprocket affixed to the hub with a wrench attached to it. “I can fix a lawnmower or an outboard, but I don’t know nothing about bikes,” said Carl.
“I just can’t remember how to get it off. I’m missing something, but I can’t remember,” I said.
Kevin returned with a paper plate sagging under the weight of the greasy food. Under his arm, half a six-pack still in the plastic rings.
“Atta boy,” said Pete, giving Kevin a noogie. “Get it into ya.”
I unhooked a beer for myself and one for Carl and we all raised our drinks. I used my cleanest fingers to start eating the burger and plain potato chips on the side. Kevin knelt down beside my wheel and examined the situation. “Where’s the chain whip?” he said.
Sitting there with my mouth full, it all came back to me. I put down my food and quickly found the chain whip amongst my tools. The whip is a wrench with a few links of bicycle chain attached that allows the mechanic to keep the free-wheel from spinning while wrenching the sprocket off.
I attached the whip onto the teeth of the sprocket and pressed on the small adjustable wrench. It was too difficult to both hold the whip and wrench at the same time. Kevin stepped in and held the whip down with all his weight while I pressed hard on the wrench. Just when I thought it wasn’t going to budge, it popped and Kevin and I fell to the ground. All four of us let out a collective ‘hey!’ and I was able to unthread the sprocket easily. Kevin stood and wiped his hands together proudly.
“Well, Kevin, you’ll be a man one day yet,” said Carl. “We should get back to the party now. Come on over when you’re finished up. Put on some pants, though. Caper girls aren’t into the spandex.”
I thanked them again as they wandered back. Kevin followed reluctantly, walking backwards most of the way, eyeing the tools and parts, my gear strewn over the lawn.
By the time I had replaced the spokes and put everything back together, it was late. I finished my cold burger and cracked the last beer before setting up my tent. I lay down on my sleeping bag and told myself I would have a quick nap and then join the party that was now in full tilt. When I woke again, the field was empty and quiet, the low sun shining down on the morning dew. The party and the love it had celebrated still seemed to echo in the cool air, but the doors and windows of the building were shut tight and soon the wind picked up, whistling through the frame of my overturned bicycle. I broke down camp, loaded up, and kicked through the drained beer cans back out to the road.
Photo by Dennis Flynn
It took me another day to reach the Mira River. The ride was almost perfectly solitary except for a black farm dog that followed me, repeatedly ducking into the road-side forest only to reappear suddenly at my side minutes later. I would lose him downhill, but he would eventually catch up when I switched gears and plodded up the other side. In the end, he followed me for nearly fifty kilometres, until he crossed the lonely road following his nose and disappeared under the rusted fence of an auto-body junkyard.
The next morning I dumped my gear in a hotel room in Sydney. I brought my bike into a bike shop to have the wheel professionally trued and inspected. The remote Newfoundland roads would offer very little assistance in case of another break-down. I left the bike at the shop and replenished my supplies. When I returned, the mechanic had the bike by the entranceway with a dozen spokes taped together.
“The wheel was pretty good,” said the mechanic. “Didn’t need much work, just replaced some of the damaged spokes. I left them there in case you want them.”
I thanked him and held up the bundle of bent spokes. “I don’t know if I need these,” I said. “They’re pretty bent anyway.”
“They’ll still work,” he said. “Can’t hurt to have them along.”
I thought for a moment and looked at the warped heads of some of the spokes, scratched heavily from the metal bits of the radio.
“They don’t weigh nothing,” he said. “Can’t hurt.”
The following morning, I cycled the final kilometres to the ferry terminal. The ship rocked across the north Atlantic and I slept uncomfortably in a chair during the passage. A full rainbow filled the sky ahead of me as I pedalled north through the misty west coast mountains to visit friends in Stephenville.
I was going to join the south coast ferries in Burgeo, the first of many small crossings that would take me to the eastern side of the island. I left Stephenville after a few days, turning off the Trans-Canada onto one of the most isolated stretches of road in the country – the Caribou Highway.
The ride to Burgeo was one-hundred and fifty kilometres of bog, forested lakes, and the green covered hills of the Annieopsquotch Mountains. There were no houses, no stores, no people. Caribou tracks littered the thin gravel at the sides of the road while moose filled the surrounding marshes and forests, both visibly and hidden. In the entire first day of cycling along the Burgeo highway, only one car passed me, a rusted Honda Civic, blasting music, smoke flying out the windows, bombing down the road, all she could suffer.
I passed empty gravel pits on the side of the road next to the ponds at the base of the hills. There were tire tracks hardened in the dirt from the trucks and trailers of temporary fishing camps. Bald eagles and osprey circled the water, doing some fishing themselves. I started to feel the distance I was creating from the life I had, from the love I’d lost. The bike moved faster under my spinning legs and burning lungs.
Just before the ninety-kilometre mark, I found a rusted school bus set down in an embankment. In a dirt clearing, the old Blue Bird sat, wheeless and sprayed pink with primer. I pulled down over a sharp curb into the site to inspect the bus.
I pried open the sliding doors and looked inside. A filet knife and dirty wooden cutting board sat on a makeshift scrapwood table. In the back, a rusted cot sat amongst the empty beer cans and mouse droppings. It smelled faintly of fish and mould, the floorboards stained from the water that had leaked through the ceiling.
Outside, moose prints led me around the lot. I tracked them into runs of broken branches and trampled vegetation. Down at the water’s edge, a faded wooden sign read ‘Salmon Lake’. The water looked refreshing, but my sweat had dried and I was no longer hot from pedalling. I returned to the clearing and pitched my tent. While the rice cooked, I stretched my legs and watched the moon that had appeared in the darkening sky.
Photo by Dennis Flynn
The morning wind was high and blowing from the south. I started to worry about making it to the ferry in time with such a strong headwind. Weather permitting, the ferry only left twice a week and if I missed it, I would’ve been stuck in Burgeo until the next one came. I ate a light breakfast and packed the bike quickly.
As I pedalled back up the embankment, the trailer caught and shifted on the road’s steep curb. I stood and put all of my weight down onto the pedals. The rear mainstays must have bowed under the strain, sending the chain off the large cog of the sprocket. The chain fell against my spokes and, under the pressure I was exerting on it, tore through almost all of the spokes on that side of the wheel. I could feel the chain rip through each one as my pedalling foot reached its trough.
Steadying myself in the middle of the road, I looked back to the wheel, the rim bowing under the weight. I dismounted and let the bike and trailer fall hard to the pavement. I sat down beside it, my knees cupped by my elbows, my head hidden in between.
The long stretch of road lay behind and ahead, the single yellow line passing underneath me, reaching farther than I could see. As I began thinking about the steps to fix the wheel, it only took a moment for my frustration to turn into astonishment.
Amongst the tools in my trailer, I found enough bent spokes from the first disaster to replace the ones I had just shredded. I righted the bike and found a grassy patch to unload my gear. The repairs went quick and easy, the wrenches loosened and tightened everything into place.
Writing from Halifax, Chris’ work has been a finalist for a National Magazine Award and can be found in recent editions of Grain Magazine, The Malahat Review, Event Magazine, and a forthcoming edition of The Dalhousie Review. Find him online at badbutnotbroken.com
