GRAN FONDO GARNEAU

For those of you who don’t know, I’m a passionate cyclist, and have been for the past thirty years or so. Because of my bad knees, I’m limited to low-impact exercise like cycling and cross-country skiing. I actually got into cycling as a way to stay in shape for skiing.

In 2004, I was invited to join a cycling group called the Over-the-Hill-Gang; OTHG for short. The original members are brothers Ira and Richard Birt, Russ Melanson and Gerry Ridgeway. Gerry and his wife, Phyllis, moved to Wolfville last year after retiring from the provincial public service. Our newest member is John MacQuarrie. Annually, we travel to an off-Island event and, this year, we chose the Gran Fondo Garneau, a 110-kilometre ride along Route 138 from Trois-Rivières to Saint-Augustin-de-Desmaures, where the Garneau factory is located.

A gran fondo is a short to long distance, organized, mass-participation cycling event, typically held annually.

We left Charlottetown bright and early on Saturday morning after loading five bikes and our gear into a seven-passenger van. After an uneventful trip marked by too many pee breaks, we arrived at our destination, the Motel-Miami in Cap-de-la-Madeleine, a down-on-its-luck establishment in the poorer part of town. We never travel first-class, but this place makes any Travelodge look like the Ritz-Carlton! If you don’t believe me, check out the photo below!

After getting settled in, we set out to look for a place to eat, since the restaurant across the street was closed. We eventually stumbled upon a very good Cuban restaurant downtown, the Café-Bistro Le Paladar. After satisfying our hunger, we came face-to-face with a thunderstorm, one of those where the rain bounces off the pavement, and we waited for half an hour for it to blow over. When it became obvious it wouldn’t, Ira made the supreme sacrifice, and ran through the rain to pick up the van. 

After loading up on beer, we returned to the motel and watched a recap of the Olympics, seeing a heartbroken Jared Connaughton take the rap for the 4x100 team’s disqualification. Knowing I might wake myself up snoring, I brought along my best beeswax earplugs just in case and shoved them into my ears before retiring.

Sunday morning, Gran Fondo day, we got up bright and early and crossed the street to the finally-open Café Rétro, hoping to get a bellyful of some decent pancakes and coffee. The café was practically empty except for a few decrepit-looking men sitting at a table, one of whom announced reassuringly that we’d be served tout de suite. Along came the waitress, who’d seen better days and looked like she’d just gotten out of bed. The place was decorated with all manner of 50s memorabilia, including an old juke box, the front end of a ‘57 Chevy, and images of Elvis. The torn leatherette seats had been lovingly repaired with duct tape, which made us wonder whether Red Green had been there! A couple strode in dressed in their best black shirts and jeans complete with bejeweled guitar-shaped belt buckles. She sported the nicest black curly mullet I’ve ever seen!

Our bellies filled with greasy pancakes and good maple syrup, we donned our kit, prepared the bikes, and rode up to the start line. We stood around for a while, and then a reporter from the magazine Info-Vélo took this picture of us. 

Soon after, an official-looking guy came along and told us we’d have to ditch the OTHG jerseys and put on the ‘mandatory’ Gran Fondo ones. So, we pedaled back to the motel and put them on, arriving back at the starting line just in time to take our places at the back of the 30-35 km/hr group.

At 10:00, the 40+ km/hr group got the order to start, and we made our way slowly up to the start line, waiting for our turn. A few minutes passed before the 500 or so riders ahead got up to speed. It was decided that I’d lead out because “You understand the language”; whatever the hell difference that made is beyond me. But, as usual, I did what I was told. At least a dozen riders had mechanical breakdowns before we even got out of town; they looked disgusted as we passed them kneeling on the side of the road. Traffic control was awesome, and spectators lined the circuit.

We stayed to the far left of the eastbound lane, sometimes crossing over into the westbound lane when things got hairy. Bikes were at least three across, sometimes four, and we didn’t want to get boxed in. At every opportunity, we jumped from one group to the next, getting behind someone’s wheel to draft for a little while each time.

At about 20 kilometres, we came upon three crashes, with riders down on the pavement. We reached the 60 kilometre rest stop, disappointed to say goodbye to a couple of really good riders who’d decided to stop. From that point on, we had to work a little harder, as the groups got smaller and more spread out. We caught and passed a number of lone riders who’d run out of gas, and got into a few nasty little hills. People cheered us on all along the route.

Each one of us took a ‘pull’ on the front and we began to anticipate the end of the ride. It was a perfect riding day: no wind, dry pavement, a relatively flat course, and no breakdowns. We had the road mostly to ourselves for the last half of the ride, and were in the company of experienced riders for the most part, none of whom did anything stupid. The cycling culture is very strong in Québec.

As we got to the outskirts of Saint-Augustin, traffic control tightened up, and we prepared mentally for what we knew would be a nasty little climb to the finish line. As we came around a bend in the road, the wall appeared, at least a 12% grade, short but tough. John took off, with Ira and Richard not far behind, leaving me in their wake. Russ was cramping up, and told us he’d be taking his time. I’m not a climber but I gave everything I had left and, by the time I got to the top of the steepest part, was in range of the front three. I caught up to them before the finish line, and we crossed at just under 3 hours and 5 minutes, an average speed to 36 km/hr. It’s the fastest we’ve ever ridden over any distance.

The fastest riders came in at just over 2 hours and 30 minutes, comfortably over 40 km/hr, and well out of our range. We finished in the top third of male riders and in the top 25% of riders in the 50-59 age range. Russ finished 15^th out of 101 riders in the 60+ category; an impressive result! We passed at least 500 riders along the way.

At the finish line, we ate what little provisions we had left and rehydrated. It had turned into a very hot day as the sun came out. We showered in a trailer unit provided especially for the purpose, checked out the results, checked in our bikes for the return trip, and boarded the bus for the ride back to Cap-de-la-Madeleine. Our bikes arrived safe and sound not long after we did, and we rode gingerly back to the Motel-Miami, not much the worse for wear.

The next priority was to get some food into our famished frames. But first, the boys had to have a few ‘pops’; as the designated driver, I stuck to the Perrier. We made our way along the main drag, Rue Furey, and wandered around until we found a table at a terrasse, the Bistro Bar Fusée. The food was basic but good, and Richard had his first taste of poutine, Québec’s national dish. He professed to liking it. Russ put the moves on a female Elvis mannequin, but to no avail! 

After a couple of pitchers of draft, we headed back to the flashing lights of the Motel-Miami, watched the closing ceremonies of the Olympics, and engaged in male-only contests of the kind that naturally follow consumption of copious amounts of beer and greasy food.

Monday morning, we awoke bright and early and walked down to McDonalds, opting to forego the nearby Café Rétro. We were on the road at 7:45 and had a leisurely eleven-hour drive back to the Island. Our butts were a little sore, but we all agreed that it was a good trip, highlighted by our participation in a first-class event, and one hell of a ride!

À la prochaine!