Three days in the saddle, 400 kilometres travelled, 5000 plus meters elevation gained and nothing but good friends and high vibes to pull you through the inevitable hours in the pain cave. Untrained, unprepared and emotionally unregulated I joined my friends Dan and Bert, two avid cyclists, on a mission to circle the beautiful costal roads of the Cabot Trail, Nova Scotia. 

This adventure started approximately three weeks prior with the purchase of a ‘new to me’ Focus Mares gravel bike.  The hope, to find myself a rig that would be both comfortable and functional with the ability to take on whatever terrain we were to face.  In an effort to reduce, reuse and recycle; saving a few bucks, I took to the sewing machine armed with some scissors, an old ski jacket and a get sh*t done attitude.  A few sessions of sweat equity later, a couple redesigns on the fly and more finger pricks than I am willing to admit I was able to create a custom matching set of frame and handle bar bags.  As for the colour-way of both bike and bags, what can I say?  That was just the universe coming together in perfect harmony. 

After two days on the road we made base camp at Whycocomagh Provincial Park, just south of Baddeck. Once we established camp we broke out the abundance of provisions we had packed and began stocking up for the ride.  Discussions arose regarding gear.  What to bring, the necessities versus the luxuries and of course those must have essentials.  Before long saddle bags held clothing, frame bags were loaded down with snacks and bar bags held miscellaneous electronics and camera gear. Needless to say we were locked and fully loaded. Last thing to do was settle in and enjoy a good night’s rest. 

As morning alarms rang, groggy eyes opened and heavy heads arose.  We awoke to the delightful sounds of torrential downpours hammering the roof of the van.  To some that last sentence may have seemed sarcastic, but to the Okay We Go Homies it’s the truth.  When the going gets tough, the tough get going. So with smiles on our faces and gumption in our hearts we made our last checks, closed up camp and set out to do what we came to do…. “Ride our guts out” - Bert Feilding. 

Day one of our cycling adventure had been initiated.  We hooted and hollered as we put the pedal to the metal, soaked to the bone by rain, yet glowing from the warmth of the shared experience. During an early pit stop to grab a bite to eat and a warm drink to snap the chill of the rain, we met Nick from Village People Coffee Roasters.  Living true to the stereotypical hospitality of an East Coaster, Nick, having recently cycled the Cabot Trail himself, spent some time to share his experiences, tips and noteworthy waypoints along the route. 

Armed with a full belly and newfound information, we carried on battling our way through rain, high winds and a couple gruelling climbs…. Just a foreshadowing of the elevation that was to come. With some stops along the way, the glorious warmth of the sun finally sharing some rays, a roadside nap and the occasional cheer from the amazing ladies, Julia and Sarah, in the support vehicle, we eventually made it to the Markland Coastal Beach Cottages. And with that the night was claimed by an early dinner, a hot shower and a couple ice packs on the knees as we drifted off to sleep.

Bright and early we began day two with a pre dawn rally race down the dark winding roads towards Meat Cove. As one of the most eastern points on the map, Meat Cove brought us a beautiful sun rise accompanied by a family of curious foxes playing and watching us from the hillside as we skipped rocks against the calm ocean tide. 

Returning to the costal cottages, the crew raided the continental breakfast. Those pastries never standing a chance. Stuffed to the brim (and pockets overflowing… shhh), we geared up and jumped back in the saddle for what would be one of my most difficult days on a bike to date.

Muscles aching and joints screaming, I willed my body and mind into a conscious calm as we continued on our journey.  With every pedal stroke taking us seemingly closer to the sky, the mind and soul began to falter.  But with every climb came a no brakes, downhill, full send, bomb to re-spark the light, bringing a much needed reprieve from the constant grind. 

Appropriate fuelling forever playing an integral roll when partaking in high effort activities, we knew that stopping for lunch at the Rusty Anchor was the only reasonable plan of action.  A brioche bun barely able to encompass the cold, pink lobster spilling from its grip was not quite what I had envisioned for my first lobster roll experience. Expectations aside I dove in, and with one bite that roll quickly made its way to onto the Homies’ plates.  Sorry to my East Coast friends and family, but y’all can keep your seafood.  I’ll take my points for trying! As day two progressed so too did the elevation gain and the energy expended.  

Dawn beginning to set, we switched on our bike lights to help guide our way, staying visible to the constant pass of vehicles carrying other weary travellers from near and far who had also come to experience the beauty of the East Coast.  As darkness fell and the moral teetered on the brink of disaster, the Homies came together to discuss our path forward.  A long haul on the dark roads to finish the day or the gravel path short cut through the forest.  What would you choose?

The votes in, a unanimous decision to take the path less travelled, off we journeyed down the forested path into the darkness of the night, exactly where our mothers always told us to steer clear of.  They clearly knew better than we, because the phrase “gravel path” in Costal tongue roughly translates to “ATV trail” in mainland English. 

Too far down the rabbit’s hole to turn back, we trudged on as Alice did, through boulders, loose rocks, downed trees and the inevitably low visibility of the night darkened forest.  Pushing the limits of the mind and soul, we bobbed and weaved our way through what we could, walked when necessary and prayed to the bike gods above to keep air in our tires as we bombed blindly down steep decent’s and sharp turns.  

With one profound “f*ck” the silence of the darkened night forest was broken, the last of my mental fortitude escaping me and the pain cave encapsulating my mind, body and soul.  No words, no smiles, no laughs, no fun.  Overtaken by single pointed focus on the flashing red of the Homies’ tail lights dissipating into the night and distance far ahead. Breath to breath, pedal stroke to pedal stroke, floating in a space between conscious and unconscious thought I continued the forward fight. 

Crossing what I thought to be my breaking point multiple times that evening a new introspective view of what I was capable of began to seep into the forefront of my mind.  If there was anyone who could do it, if there was anyone who should do it, if there was anyone who would do it.  It was me. With a little positive self talk and a lot of delusion I willed my legs to continue spinning and spun they did until finally, after a lifetime personal record elevation gain, I stopped. Tipped into the front grass of the Normaway Inn and awaited my fate.  Two angels approached, wings glimmering in the street lights reaching forward for my hand to lead me to the other side….. wait, hold up. Angels yes, but winged?  The other side?  Get real. This was even better than a dream as the lovely ladies of the support vehicle struck again, two bite brownies in hand and a sugar boost to save my soul.  

Ride our guts out.  That was the plan and we stuck to it .  My guts spilled, left on the climbs of day two  and surrendered to the bike gods as a sacrificial gesture for the strength to make it through day three. 

A crisp chill in the air, the morning dew on the edge of frost, geared up and ready for war, we once again straddled the sleek frame’s of our respected noble steeds and mounted up for the last leg of our Cabot Trail adventure.  Today’s assignment: strictly make it back to base camp.  

As our wheels began to hum along the pavement, so too the creaks, cracks and groans began to break the silence of the morning air.  Don’t worry though, the bikes were in pristine condition.  My bones and joints on the other hand, well they had seen better days.  Screams of muscles dimmed by  the vibrant smiles of three Homies in an experience of shared suffering.  Revelling in the warmth of the late morning coastal sun, we took solace in knowing that today’s total kilometres and elevation were nothing in comparison to the past two days.  With that there was nothing left to do but spin. 

10 km down, 20, then 30.  Before long we were closing in on 80 km, the revelation of completion causing overwhelming joy.  Ecstatic cheers escaped exhausted bodies as we rounded our last turns to base camp, but they wouldn’t last.  We had quickly forgotten over those three days that we had made camp at the top of yet another gruesome climb.  Digging deep we searched for energy we didn’t have, pushed down through leg muscles we no longer owned and gritted teeth which just started smiling.  With one final test of mental fortitude we found our way up that climb and pulled into camp.  

Time for a nap.  

Moral of the story: stay trained.  That way when the Homies ask if you’re coming on the next big adventure your answer will always be…

Okay We Go! 

Peace and Love, 

• Uncle G