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!