DRUMMONDVILLE
- GRAN FONDO CENTRE-DU-QUÉBEC
As we rolled through Middle-of-Nowhere, New
Brunswick, one of the rookies piped up: “Jesus you guys are a quiet bunch. And I thought I’d have a hard time getting a
word in edgewise!”
He wasn’t long getting a response. “We’re like an old married couple, son. We still enjoy one another’s company, but
we’ve pretty much run out of stuff to say,” answered one of the old
timers. Another interjected: “We used to
talk about women, you know…” And a
third: “The real reason is that at our age, at least one of us is having a nap,
and we don’t want to wake him up.” That
seemed to satisfy the rookie, for the time being at least.
We left Charlottetown bright and early one fine
Saturday morning, bound for Drummondville on our annual out-of-province cycling
junket. Mark had the good sense to pack
a cooler-full of grub for the drive, supplemented by generous helpings of Sandy’s
chocolate-chip cookies and Ira’s biscuits and home-made jam.
Seven of us sported the Over the Hill Gang (OTHG) colours this year, our largest group yet:
rookies Ian MacIntyre and Mark Grimmett, and veterans Ira Birt, Richard Birt,
Russ Melanson, John MacQuarrie, and myself.
Due to family obligations, Kent Wood was unable to join us. Richard had found us a dandy twelve-passenger
Chevy van, a perfect set-up for the
seven bikes, ourselves and our makeup bags.
We arrived at the Drummondville Aquaplex just
ahead of the 6:00 pm deadline and registered for the next day’s event. From there, it was on to our luxurious
accommodations, the Motel Alouette, a
two-star hostelry that fit our standards perfectly. We opted for a bellyful of grease at St. Hubert and retired to our rooms.
The Rio Olympics were on, the final of the womens’
800 metre race. We watched three
hyperandrogenous (look it up…) pseudo-females power away from the rest of the
field, including Canada’s Melissa Bishop who finished fourth. She was gracious in defeat, but the
disappointment showed clearly on her face. While no one cheated, the playing field was
definitely not a level one. The poor woman never
had a chance.
Then it was Gord Downie’s turn. He and The
Tragically Hip made us proud to be Canadian. The band’s televised last concert from
Kingston was electrifying. I could feel
his pain and his joy and, like everyone at that concert, including the band I’m sure, didn’t want it to end. After
three encores, he finally made his way off the stage, a tragic end to an iconic
career.
We’d asked the motel proprietor to recommend a
good place for breakfast. “You have two
choices,” he said. “L’Extra or Tim Horton’s.” Not much of a choice really! We were at the door when L’Extra opened at 7:00 and had ourselves a really good feed,
enough, we hoped, to keep us going through the first part of the ride. Never have I enjoyed such a fine breakfast
for just $8.23!
The ride to the start line took us along the
Rivière Saint-François, back through downtown Drummondville. We reconnected with our old friend, Luc, the
supervisor of a cadre of twenty-five encadreurs-experts,
cyclists whose role it is to accompany groups of riders from start to finish,
making sure they don’t get lost, and looking after any mechanical issues. Luc was our companion in 2014 when we rode
the Gran Fondo Forillon in Gaspé. He introduced us to Éric, our man for the day,
and we waited on the line for the 9:00 start.
Full disclosure.
Yours truly had a nasty crash less than three weeks before the
Drummondville event. My back wheel came
off as I was riding west on the Trans-Canada between Maypoint Plaza and Boom-Burger,
doing about 40 km/hr. I don’t remember
the crash or the next hour or so until they wheeled me into emerg at the QEH. I suffered a concussion, three broken ribs,
busted shoulder and collarbone, bruised pelvis, and major road rash. In the days that followed, I doubted I’d be
able to travel to Drummondville, let alone ride in the event. But on day 7 after the crash I put on my new
helmet and gave it a go…
With Éric out front, we rode through a beautiful
stretch of hardwood forest -
the kind that makes an old forester like me drool - along the Saint-François. Although we could feel the wind freshening,
the first 20 km of the ride were quite sheltered until we hit open farm
countryside near Sainte-Brigitte-des-Saults, a pretty little village that
straddles the Rivière Nicolet.
We started the first 45-km loop with a favourable
wind on our backs, rolling along at just under 40 km/hr and thoroughly enjoying the
experience. One of the timed sections of
the ride started at a sprint point and ran for a 3 km stretch. The rookies tore off like bats out of hell,
with Richard and John not far behind while us old timers paced ourselves. We reformed after the sprint, crossed the
Nicolet on a wooden-decked bridge and headed along the east side of the river,
buffeted by a strong crosswind. The
second timed section was not nearly as much fun because of the stiff breeze. Again, we let the youngsters go and caught up
to them later.
We rolled through a tunnel of corn until we got to
the village of Sainte-Perpétue, hometown of Olympic cyclist Hugo Houle, then turned west toward Sainte-Brigitte-des-Saults and the first rest stop. After loading up on fluids and food, we climbed
a steep little ‘kicker’ out of the village and started our second trip around
the loop. This time, when we reached the
timed section, I decided to ‘giv’er’.
Éric led out for me and, by the time I reached the end of the 3 km, I
was pretty well cooked. I’d known when
we started the second loop that my body wasn’t going to go the full 130 km distance
of the Medio Fondo, so might as well have a little fun! As we reformed and crossed the Nicolet for
the second time, I knew the jig was up for me.
I fought the crosswind for as long as I could,
then told the boys I was dropping back to stay with Ira. The two of us crawled to the rest stop in Sainte-Brigitte-des-Saults,
opting to wait for four-wheel transport to take us back to the start-finish
line. The boys came by a second time,
and we posed for a shot before they headed for home.
Rumour had it that the wind was causing some scary
moments on the course. One group of
eight riders was split in two by a tree that fell across the road. Half passed ahead of it and the other four
had to break and manoeuvre hard to avoid catastrophe. Further along, two women touched wheels in
the crosswinds and both went down. Seeing
the two of them loaded into an ambulance brought back bad memories of my own
too-recent experience.
Ira and I rode in style in Luc’s van, rejoining
our OTHG partners back at the
Aquaplex where a post-ride meal of salad and pasta awaited us. We stuck around for the door prizes (Russ picked
up a $65 bottle cage!) and pedaled the 6 km back to our motel just before the
rain hit.
The ‘après-ride’ is one of the best parts of the
trip. We’re hurting a bit - but not too much - and the endorphins flow freely. Beers are cracked open and the stories begin. We remember past rides; the good and the
bad. We reminisce about crashes and near
crashes (except for Richard who has no such stories). And we talk about next year.
Past the point of starvation, we hit the showers
and headed for the Baton Rouge,
according to Ian, one of the better steak houses in the city. Turned out he was right! I thoroughly enjoyed my 14-ounce slab of
prime rib and everything that came with it.
We left there full and ready for bed.
Next morning, after another hearty breakfast at L’Extra (this time the fare for mine was
a jaw-dropping $6.03!), we said goodbye to Drummondville, took the ramp onto
Route 20 and retraced our steps, arriving home to a thunderous welcome from our
assembled better halves!
As I look back on the experience, I’m glad I went
though I wish I’d been in better shape. Up
until the crash, my season had been going quite well. But, I’m thankful I was able to walk away and
get back on the bike again. Now, I can
take a few days to let the ribs heal some more.
Elva and I are registered for a gran fondo in Nova Scotia in late
September. It’ll give me something to
train for.
As for the Drummondville event, I give it mixed
reviews. I was expecting more participants
than the 220 or so who showed up. While the
presence of encadreurs-experts is of
great benefit to a group like OTHG, it makes it harder to meet local
riders. I felt very much the outsider
even though I can speak the language. Few
people approached us to ask where we
were from, what brought us to Drummondville, or to talk about our shared
passion. Maybe it was the language barrier.
On the positive side, the route was beautiful, the
roads were good, and drivers were very tolerant. Québec knows how to organize gran fondos and
Prince Edward Island would be wise to take a page from their book. Everything runs like clockwork and everyone
has their role down to a T.
According to Richard’s calendar, it’s Kent’s turn
to pick where we go next year. I can’t
wait!
