riding time of 28 days the height of my aspirations, I was reassured about the speed of my progress. A minor increase in speed and I would be at the requisite 100 miles per day. This beacon of encouragement propelled me into Elkford.
The transition from wilderness to civilisation was almost immediate. In the case of Elkford, however, the term âcivilisationâ had to be used with a degree of caution. A broad, metalled road flanked by parched concrete culverts led past a few outlying houses to a crossroads, to the right of which was a small concrete mall with various assorted buildings. The central attraction was the parking lot and the vehicles in it, all of which were consumed by an air of weariness. Everything felt 20 years behind Banff, which was no mean feat given the town was only founded in 1971 as a home to those working in the nearby coal mines. The prospect of a reinvigorating lunch waned with every pedal stroke.
Appearances can be deceptive, however. The nondescript café-cum-restaurant that consisted of a narrow, windowless corridor between two external doors in one of the outbuildings turned out to provide excellent food and company. Still uncertain how to interpret the mixed signals emanating from my stomach, I ignored the long list of classic North American cuisine and opted instead for a Greek salad with garlic bread. My appreciation may have been heightened by the morningâs exertions, but I was immediately transported back in time to an earlier cycling excursion in the Peloponnese where just such a salad had had similar recuperative powers.
I was brought back to the reality of British Columbia by an unlikely offer.
âWould you like to see how the rest of the racers are doing, eh?â
My initial reaction clearly betrayed my bewilderment.
âIâve been following the race, eh, and Iâve got a BlackBerry, eh, so we can see where everyone is, eh?â explained my inquisitor, who was evidently intent on providing single-handed proof of why cousin Steve had referred to Canada as âeh landâ. As dialect foibles go, it was slightly less annoying than Antipodean rising terminals, but it was still early days.
With a mouth full of tomato and feta I must have given some silent sign of affirmation for I was then provided with an âehâ-filled commentary on the race to date. Matthew Lee, as expected, was at the front of the field, having nearly made it to the border some 130 miles further on. Most of the other riders were between him and Sparwood, where I hoped to spend the night. More reassuringly, Cadet and the others could be seen making rapid progress to Elkford. So rapid, in fact, that Arizonan Jeff walked through the door as my Internet guide and race groupie Ken concluded his exposition. Cadet arrived shortly after and we confirmed our shared plan to stop in Sparwood. After unsuccessfully attempting to resist the lure of an unhealthily rich cheesecake, I embarked on the next leg of the journey with a stiff road climb towards one of the enormous mines that had led to Elkfordâs foundation. I immediately regretted the cheesecake.
After the climb, the first part of the remaining 25 miles to Sparwood ran down a narrow and rapidly dropping tributary of the main Elk River, the two separated by a small massif. The valleyâs sides were steep and rough, a roughness exaggerated by the scars of mining and logging activity, but the cycling was easy, thanks to the favourable gradient. By the time I returned to the main valley the wilderness had all but dissipated, the valley having flattened out and become dotted with farmsteads and smallholdings. The sun, too, had become obscured by mid-afternoon clouds as it had the day before, and which seemed to be the predominant weather pattern for the time of year. A notice in the Elk Lakes Provincial Park had warned of the dangers posed by lightning storms, with snow or hail, that were common in early summer.
The outskirts of
The transition from wilderness to civilisation was almost immediate. In the case of Elkford, however, the term âcivilisationâ had to be used with a degree of caution. A broad, metalled road flanked by parched concrete culverts led past a few outlying houses to a crossroads, to the right of which was a small concrete mall with various assorted buildings. The central attraction was the parking lot and the vehicles in it, all of which were consumed by an air of weariness. Everything felt 20 years behind Banff, which was no mean feat given the town was only founded in 1971 as a home to those working in the nearby coal mines. The prospect of a reinvigorating lunch waned with every pedal stroke.
Appearances can be deceptive, however. The nondescript café-cum-restaurant that consisted of a narrow, windowless corridor between two external doors in one of the outbuildings turned out to provide excellent food and company. Still uncertain how to interpret the mixed signals emanating from my stomach, I ignored the long list of classic North American cuisine and opted instead for a Greek salad with garlic bread. My appreciation may have been heightened by the morningâs exertions, but I was immediately transported back in time to an earlier cycling excursion in the Peloponnese where just such a salad had had similar recuperative powers.
I was brought back to the reality of British Columbia by an unlikely offer.
âWould you like to see how the rest of the racers are doing, eh?â
My initial reaction clearly betrayed my bewilderment.
âIâve been following the race, eh, and Iâve got a BlackBerry, eh, so we can see where everyone is, eh?â explained my inquisitor, who was evidently intent on providing single-handed proof of why cousin Steve had referred to Canada as âeh landâ. As dialect foibles go, it was slightly less annoying than Antipodean rising terminals, but it was still early days.
With a mouth full of tomato and feta I must have given some silent sign of affirmation for I was then provided with an âehâ-filled commentary on the race to date. Matthew Lee, as expected, was at the front of the field, having nearly made it to the border some 130 miles further on. Most of the other riders were between him and Sparwood, where I hoped to spend the night. More reassuringly, Cadet and the others could be seen making rapid progress to Elkford. So rapid, in fact, that Arizonan Jeff walked through the door as my Internet guide and race groupie Ken concluded his exposition. Cadet arrived shortly after and we confirmed our shared plan to stop in Sparwood. After unsuccessfully attempting to resist the lure of an unhealthily rich cheesecake, I embarked on the next leg of the journey with a stiff road climb towards one of the enormous mines that had led to Elkfordâs foundation. I immediately regretted the cheesecake.
After the climb, the first part of the remaining 25 miles to Sparwood ran down a narrow and rapidly dropping tributary of the main Elk River, the two separated by a small massif. The valleyâs sides were steep and rough, a roughness exaggerated by the scars of mining and logging activity, but the cycling was easy, thanks to the favourable gradient. By the time I returned to the main valley the wilderness had all but dissipated, the valley having flattened out and become dotted with farmsteads and smallholdings. The sun, too, had become obscured by mid-afternoon clouds as it had the day before, and which seemed to be the predominant weather pattern for the time of year. A notice in the Elk Lakes Provincial Park had warned of the dangers posed by lightning storms, with snow or hail, that were common in early summer.
The outskirts of
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