Then I moved to Vancouver…..

Riding my bike in this city is another type of amazing. This is the second largest city in Canada and the only one that has been designed for all year riding. The bike routes share the road with cars for a few blocks at a time, and then the cars are forced to turn. Buttons have been setup at major intersections, not only for pedestrians, but for bicyclists as well.  The downtown core has a bike route that separates the riders from the cars and keeps the flow rather well. You can leave the city centre to the North at Lions Gate Bridge separated from traffic as well to the south at Burrard Bridge.  You can also ride the entire seawall from Kitsilano all the way around false creek and right to the end of Stanley Park.

These changes were put in place by the city’s “green initiative” and have been complemented by plenty of bicycling parking downtown. The city enforces cyclists to wear a helmet, have a bell, and front and rear lights for night use. I have noticed lately more people not wearing helmets, which can only end badly for those individuals.

This year I decided to get another bike besides my eZee Forza, for the city. I chose a light, single speed racer which has been great, even for the hills. I don’t cover the ground that my eZee bike can but I am not so worried about it getting ripped off. Bike theft seems to run ramped in the city. I spoke to an eZee bike customer the other day that parks his bike near the Science World building when at work, and he witnessed an attempt in broad daylight on his bike. Two men in reflective vest like construction workers, one with a cordless drill and one with a cordless sawzall, were working on his lock when he approached the bike. He yelled at them, they told him off and sauntered away, probably to their next victim. In this day and age of information, you’d think that ordinary citizens with smart phones would take a picture or call the police but instead riders lose their bikes everyday here. Strange days.

SeparatedBikeLanes-UpdatedTechnicalBrief

–Bjornson

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My name is Miles Howe. I’m in Ottawa. I’m from Ottawa. I purchased a Dahon folding bike in Winnipeg and hitchhiked/rode to Thunder Bay. I was riding an Ezee Torq across the country, playing music shows, spreading the electric bike lovin’ like peanut butter on hot toast. I started in Nanaimo, BC, and rode it all the way to Shoal Lake, Manitoba. Let’s get caught up.

Ottawa.

Well, hot greasy damn! I’m back in Ottawa, my hometown. Good old Ottawa on a sunny day in the fall. The colours are out. The joggers are out. The civil servants come out at lunch, all pasty faced and squiting at the sun. Dear mom is still here. Some good friends are still here too. They’re still plucking tunes, still drinking 50, still talking about getting out of here. The porch is painted baby blue instead of pink and red. Mom’s garden is almost done for the season, but she’s always eager for a show and tell session. In the dying light of Thanksgiving Monday there are white and purple asters, and three little fleece flowers almost ready to bloom.

The overzealous smoke detector still beeps at the slightest exhalation from the stove, and the house is inundated with the smells of roast fall vegetables, and a little roast chicken. I am an only child, and one little chicken seems just fine for thanksgiving dinner with mom.

Fresh off the attempted cross-Canada electric bike trip, there’s a lingering melancholy that only I can know. A few days ago I was chin deep in prairie grasses on the side of a Manitoba highway, now I’m sleeping in. I was here, there, everywhere. Honestly though, I’d rather be at home for thanksgiving with mom than out on a Northern Ontario highway, riding a bike along the shores of Lake Superior to play one more show. It was to be Manitouwadge for thanksgiving.

Manitouwadge? (Mani-too-ah-juh)

“Manitouwadge?” asks the Ojibway as he takes the rolled cigarette from my fingers. His lady friend is asleep in the front seat, completely hidden in a fleece blanket. I’m in the back of his pickup. We are driving down highway 71, bound for Fort Frances from Kenora.

“Manitouwadge. But I’m not going now. I’ll never make it on a folding bicycle.”

He takes a small puff, and quickly passes the rolled cigarette backwards again. The tobacco is strong, and he gets sentimental. He has just quit his job, and he’s driving to the liquor store. He says something about his wife, but it’s a tired story, the dissolution of a man’s family, through drink, through drugs, through it all. This is not his wife sleeping in the front seat. I don’t really know who she is, or care. The folding bike is in the back, and we’re flying down the freshly-paved highway 71, bound for Fort Frances.

I look out the window, at the new asphalt, at the rocky bursts of granite and quartz, all covered in lichens and moss. Purples and pastel greens of lichens and moss, growing ever so slowly, feeding off the very rock. Big Jack Pines tower over yellow pine, spruce, birch and poplar. Tamaracs, set to drop their needles, are fireballs of orange and yellow.

My driver stops talking. We cruise on softly, a slight snoring coming from the blanket. I look at his scraggly beard, at his ballcap, his dark skin. He is from here, Sioux Narrows, the most beautiful middle of nowhere you can ever imagine on an eastern Canadian fall day.

Nanabijou and How the Moose got his Flappy Skin.

“If Manitou is like God, then who is Nanabijou?” I ask.

“Nanabijou was the trickster. Nanabijou was good and bad. He played tricks, but he gave gifts.”

“Will you tell me a story about Nanabijou?”

“Did you ever hear the one about how the moose got his flappy skin?” He asks.

“No, I haven’t.” I reply.

“The moose was quite good friends with Nanabijou. So one day Nanabijou tells the animals that tomorrow he’s going to give them all the gifts of fur and feathers. You see, before this all the animals looked plain.”

I imagine a bunch of pink, fleshy looking animals wandering around the woods. I look at my own skin and think that they probably looked a lot like me.

“The next morning comes, and all the animals are hurrying to get to the spot where Nanabijou is going to give them their gifts. Bear comes running along and he spots Moose. Moose is just grazing, not rushing or anything.”

“Hey, Moose!”Says Bear. “Aren’t you coming to get your gift? If you don’t hurry up, all the good furs and feathers will be gone.”

“I’m not worried.” Says Moose. “Nanabijou and I are good friends. He’s probably got something special for me.”

“Suit yourself.” Says bear, and runs off to get his fur.

“The day goes on, and all the animals except for Moose get their gifts. The animals look beautiful now. The wolves have their furs. The foxes have their furs. The lion has his fur. Although I don’t know why the lion chose that kind of fur, with a big collar on it.”

My driver mutters a few words about lions. It seems strange to me that Nanabijou would be handing out furs to lions, but this probably all happened a very long time ago. For the sake of the story, let’s imagine that all the continents were still one big pangeatic ball where lions could intermingle freely with their North American animal cousins.

“Anyways, the peacock got his feathers. Everybody got their gifts. At the end of the day, the Moose goes down to the spot where Nanabijou has been giving out the animals’ gifts. And the moose sees that there’s only one fur left. And it’s the biggest, loosest, blackest, fur there is, with silly antlers coming off of it. It’s been sitting there all day, and nobody chose it.”

And the Moose says, “You seriously expect me to wear that?”

He pauses as I laugh heartily.

“But there’s nothing else left, so that’s what the moose had to take.”

“He shouldn’t have expected Nanabijou to save him anything.” I say.

Fort Frances and the Little Beaver.

This country is spattered with displaced city artists, making their stand in rural settings you probably couldn’t find on a map. They’re everywhere, cast out of high rise apartments and lofts, perhaps disillusioned with the city’s often grimy vista, with the city’s neon demands. Perhaps they’ve found that the grim reality of city living is giving them way less time than they’d like to make their art.

They’ve moved back to their childhood hometowns, or have made hometowns of places they’ve never known before. They breathe the life of culture into small-town anywhere, Canada, which is often resource-dependant and insulated. They create the venues that straddle the line between edgy and engaging, but don’t necessarily have drink specials, ladies nights, or, where permitted by law, VLTs.

To the travelling musicians, the ones who find themselves on folding bikes, trading marijuana for car rides, tripping out on trees, it is most gratifying that they exist. Too many of my friends in Ottawa are still clinging to the Toronto-Montreal dream, that dream of rocketing into the “big time”. Lots of them are talented and broke. Lots of them are caught in jobs that they can barely get up for anymore, paying the bills so they can find that hour or two of practice time, all the while giving another arbitrary number to their five year plan. I don’t know if the path through Fort Frances ever leads to the big time, but it keeps me fed and clothed and housed, and that keeps me happy.

Fort Frances, Ontario, is everywhere, Canada, and it is nowhere, Canada. But to Lindsay and Carson, proprietors and visionaries behind the Little Beaver Cultural Centre, it is their line in the sand. They are Vancouver expats, and Lindsay has brought Carson along for a return to her Fort Frances roots. Lindsay is a great artist, a painter and a teacher. Carson is a school-trained bass player. They run the Little Beaver as a music venue, as a watering hole, and as a place to grab a tasty home-cooked meal. They also run art and music lessons for the local community, making painters and bass players out of mill workers.

I play with no shoes. I play with no cares. I am as surprised to be here as they are, and perhaps even more thankful. The Little Beaver is nestled at the foot of Fort Frances’ only ski hill. The hill is made out of garbage, the T-bar is rusted solid, and there’s no more money to replace it. It was Lindsay’s father’s garbage hill, and now it is becoming hers. But with a new biomass burner at the mill, the princess heir to the garbage hill may yet find herself sitting on a goldmine.

For musicians out there reading this, Ontario can be a huge barrier to trek across Canada on your way west or east. Get in touch with the Little Beaver in Fort Frances. Not only did they treat me right in all ways and manners, the next day they took me on a road trip from Fort Frances to Atikokan, site of the next gig. I didn’t even need to pedal the folding bike…

Atikokan. On the Shores of a Drained Lake.

Atikokan is about 190km east of Fort Frances along the highway 11. Down here they call the highway 11 “Mom’s route”, and it crosses right into Minnesota as a gesture of international friendship and camaraderie. There is a unique relationship here between Ontario and Minnesota. Minneapolis-St.Paul is far more relevant than Toronto or Ottawa, and more than one Fort Franciscan mentions that the entire North of Ontario should be turned into its own territory, for all the attention the politicians at Queen’s Park pay to it.

There’s also a certain conservative fear out here. It’s a community that has been slipping downwards in population, in standard of living, in employment, for at least a generation. It’s getting grey, and old. Many homes are in dire need of a fresh coat of paint, a new roof, a few window panes. The older population has watched the mining jobs and the forestry jobs dry up. The kids for the most part have fled to the city, to college, often never to return. Thunder Bay fumbles along admirably as the central hub, while the Atikokans and Fort Frances try to stay afloat by luring mining exploration, by playing guide to flush Southern Ontario and American hunters, or by redesigning themselves as retirement communities. Trying to hitch a ride around here is an exercise in convincing the elderly that you’re not going to axe murder them.

****************

Northern Ontario in the fall is a great place to take it slow, and the Olde Union Pub in Atikokan is a unique watering hole and a worthwhile stop. Ancient owner Evee, as stalwart and cranky as a chunk of iron ore, has plastered the pub’s walls with yellowing photographs and documents, which lead you through Atikokan’s strange history.

Just north of Atikokan, the receding glaciers tore out of the Canadian Shield the depression that was later to become Steep Rock Lake. Steep Rock Lake existed as many other lakes did for several thousand years, that is to say, full of water and undisturbed. In 1938, iron ore was discovered at the bottom of Steep Rock Lake. Full of wartime fervour, “can do” gusto, and lax environmental laws, Canadian mining companies undertook the largest earth moving scheme in history. Basically, through an arguably brilliant feat of engineering, the flows of water into Steep Rock Lake were diverted and dammed, and the entire lake was drained and its hollow floor mined for ore. Thus did Atikokan become Atikokan, a town in the middle of nowhere living and dying off the ore of a drained lake. A massive chunk of iron ore in the middle of the floor of the Olde Union Pub pays homage to this oft-underappreciated rock.

The second floor pub is situated on top of a bowling alley, and looks like it was decorated to the height of airport lounge-inspired fashion in 1972. As money has steadily trickled out of Atikokan, the bar has not seen a change in upholstery since. A guitar picking local shows up with an antiquated sound system. Not long after, the town’s displaced children, gone to college in Thunder Bay and Winnipeg, but back for Thanksgiving weekend, begin to fill the bar. It’s a good show, full of families getting drunk together for the first time in months.

Evee doesn’t pay (me anyways), but the hard working musician should consider making this a stop on a cross-Canada tour. She’ll feed you and house you, and on this night the Atikokaneers are generous with their dollars in the tip jar. If you’re partial to a drink or seven, the locals are free-wheeling with their offers. Northern Ontarioans are demonstrative of their appreciation through the gift of beer, and by the end of the evening Lindsay, Carson and I stumble through the deserted streets back to motel, tabs taken care of.

On To Thunder Bay.

One more pedal and hitchhike day brings me to Thunder Bay. For all intents and purposes, Thunder Bay is a dying monstrosity of a shipping town. If Thunder Bay were a colour in a box of crayons, it’d be rust. On the other hand, Thunder Bay has this thing going on, and the thing is that by the time you get to Thunder Bay, from either the desolate east or the desolate west, you are truly enamoured by its high flying cosmopolitan ways. This is also the seat of education for the region, and this is where the kids are learning their crafts. Music pours out of the windows, people wear their gumboots all year round, and a huge and vibrant Finnish population ensures that you are never far from a meal of salt fish and flat pancakes, although perhaps not at the same time.

The show is a no show for me. What was originally supposed to be a bike-themed party has undergone a severe revamping, and now involves me playing on a bill on which I am not advertised, and will receive no pay. Normally I’d do it anyways, but the thrill has been replaced by fundamental exhaustion. My mom would call it “bone tired”. I call up with an excuse, check into a motel, and pass out mightily.

And That’s It!

Well, I caught the plane to Ottawa, and for the moment, that’s it for the trip. The folding bike subbed in magnificently. Dahon makes a wide variety of very sexy bikes. They are light, dependable, and go faster than you think. They also fold up and can be stowed in someone’s trunk if you’re hitchhiking, or as cargo on an airplane for no extra charge. My folder did a great job of lugging around one pannier, a mandolin, and a snare drum. Obviously they’re not built for long-distance trekking, but now that I’m back in the city, I’m finding it a great and unique way to ride. For the moment I hardly miss my racer.

I’d like to thank Todd and Michael at Scooter Underground/Quiet Revolutions for providing me with the ride to get this thing started. They’ve been helpful and supportive all the way through.

I’d like to thank all the interesting and interested people I’ve met along this trip. Doing a bike tour is something I’d recommend to anyone. From the shores of Vancouver Island, to, well, Thunder Bay, this is a kind country we live in.

Thanks to all the readers who checked in on me. It was fun to think that there was a virtual community behind me.

I’m off to Halifax. I’ve got a ton of plans, and it won’t be long before you hear from me again. Unfortunately, I won’t be riding a bike there from Ottawa.

So this is it. Take care, and never stop pedalling.

Miles

Photos!

Every time I heard a car, I'd stick my thumb out...

Me on Garbage Mountain.

Tall grasses.

Lindsay!

Carson.

Lindsay's artwork.

Folding bike in Thunder Bay at sundown.

Friendly Manitoba? Manitoba just trampled my ride like a heard of friendly bison.

It is with a sense of regret that I must inform you that outside of sunny Brandon, Manitoba, the Torq met its match. All the mountain ranges in British Columbia could not stop this magnificent electric bicycle. All the oil derricks in Alberta couldn’t slip me up. All the prairie fields in Saskatchewan couldn’t…cause me to fall asleep at the handlebars. I was sure that the worst was behind us, and that the rest of the country would spread its autumnal beauty for me in one incredible cornucopia of attentive audiences, serene landscapes, and gentle fall weather. I was looking forward to Thanksgiving in Manitouwadge!

Now, I’m back in Kenora. Riding a folding bike. Hitchhiking. Last time I was in Kenora they thought I was from the band Metric, and boy were they kind to me. Until, of course, they inevitably found out I wasn’t from the band Metric. Then they shut down my set in the middle of the classic “Salmon Song” (Those who like it, like it alot.) But we’re getting off track, and I’ve got some ‘splaining to do.

Wind.

The Prairies are flat and flat. And flat. They are also flat and windy. When the wind is blowing from the right direction, flat (and flat) and windy is a cyclist’s dream team combination. I had the pleasure of experiencing a few of those days on this trip, and the Torq logged huge distances. Remember? 400k in two days? Towing a trailer all the way? Yeah, that was me. The past two days, however, have seen feisty headwinds throw a monkey-wrench into this bike trip.

Two days ago, I was a bit apprehensive when the Torq’s four Lithium Ion batteries were completely drained after the 110km ride from Yorkton to Russell, Manitoba. Did I mention I sent the two Lithium Polymers back to HQ? I did.

“Uh oh.” I thought to myself. “That makes me feel apprehensive.”

Yesterday, facing much stronger headwinds, the four fully charged batteries lasted a disappointing 65km. It caught me by surprise, far from any town of size, far from any outlet with which I might recharge the batteries. There I was, as cooked as a thanksgiving turkey. Wearing a sky blue and yellow toque in the middle of nowhere. Wearing shorts.

“Uh oh.” I thought to myself. “This makes me feel apprehensive.”

Thankfully a farmer with a pickup stopped and drove me, the Torq, and the bike trailer, into Brandon. We discussed the fact that last winter mice had made a home out of his pickup, and that the air freshener didn’t really cover up the faint, yet pungent, aroma of dead mouse that permeated the cab. Then I fell asleep.

Wind is always a factor when riding across Canada. It is to be expected that a rider will experience both head and tail winds, although the wind does more frequently blow from West to East. People talk of “riding with the westerlies”, but there is an absolute unpredictability of wind patterns out on the prairies, especially as autumn comes on and winds from the our arctic north begin to be a factor.

You simply cannot depend on the wind blowing from west to east. As I was to learn, I could not depend on the Torq when the winds began to howl in my ears. When riding a conventional bicycle and headwinds arise, riders must simply “dig deep” and find the physical reserves they need to continue. There’s simply no way around it. You take the good with the bad, the heads with the tails.

When a rider is pedalling an electric bicycle with four batteries, one is faced with an extra load of about 60 pounds needed to make the bike electric. This would include the front-wheel motor, a slightly heavier than average frame, four batteries, and two chargers. All the bells and whistles that helped me sail over the mountains, laughing like I had found the secret to life, were to be my very downfall. With the added weight, when the batteries die, it is essentially impossible to continue to pedal this extra weight unassisted. I’m pretty fit and I couldn’t do it. I’m not daring you to try, I’m just sayin’.

In Canada, 65km in any direction can leave you far from the nearest town and electrical outlet. I got lucky in that it was early in the day, it was warm enough so as not to be uncomfortable, it wasn’t raining, and that I was picked up at all. I don’t think I can count on that luck on a daily basis. Eventually, even my luck is bound to run out. And when it does. Oh, when it does. Let’s just say I don’t want to anywhere near Dryden, Ontario, when it does. Already I’m too close. Last time I was there I wound up sleeping on dump road in the middle of winter. I woke up with a vague sense of being watched. I turned to my left and there was a huge coyote, pondering me out of one semi-closed eye. No, I can’t go back there. Anyways, off track again, aren’t we?

When the going gets tough, the tough fold.

As fall progresses, and I gaze forward towards the unforgiving land mass known as Northern Ontario, I do not feel confident in the Torq’s ability to help me navigate this landscape. I thank the heavens above that I am finally seeing beautiful lakes, and majestic conifers of all manner of green. But the weather will become less predictable, strong headwinds will most probably be encountered again, and if/when the Torq dies, drivers in Northern Ontario are notoriously hesitant about picking up hitchhikers, especially those encumbered by an electric bicycle and trailer. So I’m cutting the ride short. I can safely say that wind is the Torq’s nemesis. When Superman found out that Kryptonite turned him into a dribbling pile of jelly, he didn’t book his next vacation to the planet Krypton, now did he? No. He didn’t. I don’t think we need to watch this majestic bike crumple in the wind any more. Plus, it gets expensive paying farmers to take you and your bike where they need to be.

But its not over.

I sent the Torq back to Victoria. I sent the trailer on to Ottawa. I sent myself by bus to Winnipeg. But I couldn’t send away the enjoyment I’ve experienced over the past month. So I’ve decided to honour the last few dates on this leg of the tour. I’ve bought myself a folding bicycle, and I will be carrying on in a stripped-down fashion towards Thunder Bay.

I know that the folding bike will never make the repeated 200+km days that I envisioned the Torq doing between Winnipeg and Thunder Bay. I know that I look fairly silly riding a folding bike down the highway with a snare drum and a mandolin bungee-corded to the back rack. I saw you taking snapshots of me on your way out of the gas station.

The folding bike will, however, allow me to bike at least a considerable distance away from every town I stop in. After a certain distance, I’ll fold up the bike, draw a sign on a piece of cardboard, and carpool. Its not ideal, but its better than giving right up. I want to bike another few hundred kilometres, write another couple blog entries, and play a few more shows. Here it is…

Oct. 7th – Little Beaver Cultural Centre – Fort Frances, Ontario

Oct. 8th – Union Pub – Atikokan, Ontario

Oct. 9th – Crocks and Rolls – Thunder Bay, Ontario

Seal of Approval.

I would still recommend the Torq for any number of usages. If you’re a tradesperson, you can carry a large amount of necessities in a trailer behind you, and arrive at work in fine form. Forget that machismo garbage. Bikes are cooler than cars any day. Plus your husband/wife would love you more if you maybe ate a bit less at Timmy Ho’s and started pushing a cycle. Trust me. 

If you’re a commuter locked in rush hour traffic day after day, the Torq will change your life for the better. If you’re eager to incorporate bicycling into your life, but perhaps aren’t as fit as you’d like to be, this bike will ease you back into the world of physical health. The list of reasons to get yourself one of these machines goes on and on.

I don’t see this ride as a failure by any means. Alright, maybe a tiny bit. But, I think in the back of our collective minds, we’re all a bit surprised it lasted this long. We’ve had some good times together, and sure, we all wanted the Halifax reunion with my girlfriend to happen by Torq, but not everything can last forever. Do you think Marie Curie just stumbled upon Radium? No, she had to struggle away in a shed, exposing herself to the very same radiation that eventually killed her. Maybe that’s a bad analogy. But still, its true.

Although I’m sure this untimely end to the ride opens the door to any number of “I told you so” responses from cycling purists, detractors of electric energy, and rednecks in general. Its already started. So before you start, let me just tell you that I don’t need to necessarily know about the guy you met who walked across Canada, and why aren’t I just walking. Or the tons of people who just ride it with a normal bicycle, so why don’t I just…HEY! Why don’t you then?

Ahem. I had a great time using an electric bike. Believe me, I’ve ridden thousands of kilometres on a normal bicycle. I’ve even tried to bring musical instruments with me on a normal bicycle, but I’ve always come to regret the added weight.

I know, you’re saying, “Miles, you play a harmonica!”

Its true. But I also bring a bunch of other musical stuff with me in order to play said harmonica. Like a mandolin. And a snare drum. And a kick pedal. And there’s not just one harmonica. There’s like fifteen of them. Plus I have to try and sell CDs to make a living and eat. So I need to bring them with me. It adds up.

The Torq helped me meet new people, make new friends, share good music, travel with an easy conscience, climb the peaks, coast the valleys, get fitter, and live life at a slower pace. There’s no better way to see the land roll by than on a bike, electric or otherwise.

Shouts Out!

I would like to recommend the Fainting Goat in Regina, the 5^th Avenue Cup and Saucer in Yorkton, the Russell Inn in Russell, and Lady of the Lake in Brandon, as four excellent establishments. The food at all four is worth a stop, and the staff and owners went far out of their way to ensure that I was well taken care of. They provided me with many things, some of which I can speak of publicly. They even washed and folded my laundry! Thank you to each and everyone for your help, your hospitality, and your friendship.

As a good friend would say,

Bless and respect.

Miles “Happy Feet” Howe.

CDs!

Speaking of CDs, if you do happen to want a CD, I only have about 75 left, and then I’ve sold 1,000! Not all on this trip mind you, but still, I think I get an aluminum plaque for selling 1,000. Or is it tin? Anyways, each one has been travelling with me since Nanaimo, and is individually “antiqued”. Don’t worry, the CDs are not at all scratched and will still play fine. I’ll even autograph each one. Email me at mileshowe@hotmail.com. I’d give you my home address (by home address I mean my mom’s address), but I don’t know you. So seriously, email me. Suggested retail price is 10$, but I also take trade.

Photos!

I left my heart in a haybale.

Then Manitoba trashed my bike.

Side of the road calamity.

My new ride. The hitchhiker's special.

All folded up in Winnipeg.

When last we spoke I was in Swift Current, Plains Cree territory. I had just finished playing for a crowd composed largely of seminary students from Millar Bible School. Its been a few wacky days since then. So let’s get caught up!

Multicultural Festival in Swift Current.

Picture a late September Saturday in Swift Current. Its windy, although I get the feeling that goes without saying in Swift Current. Its also sunny and warm, and after what sounds like a very wet summer, the Swifties are downtown in significant numbers. Its multi-cultural celebration day in Saskatchewan, and the Lyric Theatre in Swift Current is putting on a day-long show.

There are tables with dioramas, food samples, and traditional clothing from a variety of countries of origin, all lining the closed off Main Street. Inside Lyric Theatre, people eat delicious multi-cultural meals, and watch amazing multi-cultural displays. Tiny girls in traditional Philipino dress balance LED lights on their heads while dancing to a CD of traditional Philipino music. A couple from Columbia twirl each other around the stage to Latin grooves.

And then there is me. What am I doing here, you ask? What culture do I represent in this wonderful mosaic? Well, I can speak French. I’m also willing to bet that on this particular Saturday, I’m the only person in Lyric Theatre who can speak French, keep 4/4 time, and shred the harmonica.

Now, I do speak French fairly fluently, and I have performed in French once in Hearst, Ontario. That, on the other hand, was to a bar full of half-drunk Franco-Ontarians. Nobody was drunk in Swift Current on Saturday afternoon at Lyric Theatre. Also, I’m fairly sure that there were probably only two other people besides me in the place that could speak French. This was probably a good thing, because the set was mostly comprised of improvised blues lyrics sung in French, with topics ranging from how badly my bum hurt from riding a bike, to how badly I had the Prairie blues. Needless to say, it was one of those gigs where you kind of just go through it, smile, and laugh afterwards.

Never Get Off the Bike. Or, lost in the Jowels of a Moose.

The thing with afternoon festival-style gigs is, in general, by the time you get out of where you’re supposed to be, its always an hour later than what you had hoped. Multicultural day in Swift Current at the Lyric Theatre proved no different, and suddenly it was 4:00, and I needed to be in Moose Jaw, 175km away, by 8pm. I don’t blame the Lyric Theatre at all for my blunder in planning. Thank you very much, in fact. The Lyric is a great place to play, and is run by kind and committed people. It was a treat to play.

Anyways, getting to Moose Jaw that evening was simply impossible by electric bicycle. So I stashed the bicycle in the basement of Lyric, and thumbed it to Moose Jaw. Not to worry, I thought. I’ll thumb it back to Swift Current the next morning, and ride back to Moose Jaw. Things, however, took a bit of a turn for the strange in Moose Jaw.

Since this is a blog about an electric bicycle, I won’t go into all the details of the rides Peter and I procurred to Moose Jaw. You’ll have to wait for the bonus chapters which may or may not ever appear, depending on if I get to do a book out of this. Anyways, things were interesting indeed.
By the time we headed into Moose Jaw, we were ready for New York. Or at least an audience. Instead, there were three people at the coffee shop where we were slated to play. And play we did. We played for the heavens to open. We played for the lame to walk, for the blind to see, for the seated to get up and dance. 

With no guaranteed pay, and no accomodations, Peter and I wound up homeless on a Saturday night in Moose Jaw with 2.37$ between us. A well-kept Saskatchewan secret is that you can go to the police station and tell them that you have 2.37$ and no place to stay, and they’ll call up motels, and if there’s a room available, they’ll pay for it. I think you only get to do this once a month, and they do ask the motels if they have room for a transient. But if you don’t mind being called a transient, and you need a roof, its a pretty sweet deal.

As it is, all the motels in town are full, so its off to the Riverside Mission, which is a joyous if kind of smelly affair. Kind of like a Skid Row Village People’s YMCA come to life.

Backtracking to Move on.

The next morning I was gone with the dawn, back out onto the highway, trying to hitch my way back to Swift Current. I needed to get the bike back, and figure out how I was going to bike 245km from Swift Current to Craik, Saskatchewan, where I was supposed to play an early evening show at the Solar Restaurant at the Craik Eco-Village.

By the time I managed to convince a French couple from Africa that I was not a roadside thief (thank you again mom, for getting me into French Immersion before I even knew I was learning French), and that I would pay them for a ride back to Swift Current, it was too late in the day to make the Craik show. I had fallen a day behind schedule. Horror of horrors.

I managed to ride almost all the wayback to Moose Jaw, about 155km, before it got dark. I spent the night at the lovely Pilgrim’s Inn, part of the Briercrest Seminary. The Pilgrim’s Inn is a great place, and the breakfast spread the next morning almost allows me to justify digging deep and splurging on a motel. Having sacrificed camping gear for Lithium batteries, and needing to charge up, there’s not a lot of choice.

Up North to Saskatoon and Bruno.

The next day, Monday, I rode back into Moose Jaw (will I never get free?). At this point, I was beginning to watch the schedule getting farther behind. I was slated to play in Saskatoon, 235km North, that afternoon. Not only that, but the next day I had a really important show at the Bruno Public school, 95km further Northeast from Saskatoon. I had bitten off more than I could ride, but I figured that rather than try to ride and fail in getting there, I’d save the gigs, and show up by bus. Besides, stashing the bike in Moose Jaw meant that in two days I could swing back down south, and continue on an easterly course to Regina on Wednesday. So it was back to the Riverside Mission, where I stashed the bike, and caught the bus north.

Everything went smooth as butter from there on in, but I was bikeless for the moment. I ran into another old treeplanting friend, Aaron, in Saskatoon, completely out of the blue. It was a lucky chance, as I knew Aaron was making his way across the country heading west. Aaron was crossing the country in a veggie-oil powered car, and so far had spent a mere 25$ to make it from Sault St. Marie to Saskatoon.

It was a great and unexpected reunion, followed up by a delicious dinner, followed up by the arrival of my friend Tyler from Bruno, coming to pick me up and drive me back to Bruno for the next day’s public school presentation. I should mention that Tyler is one of the driving forces behind Bruno’s emergence as an artistic hub in the prairies. 

 Tyler’s vision of crafting a home for artists, visual and musical alike, has birthed a great venue (All-Citizens) for travelling musicians. Most recently, Tyler and his merry band of Brunoans have turned what was an empty bank building on Main Street into a two-story arts centre. The main floor has space for future gallery showings, art classes, offices, film screenings and aerobic activities. The top floor is quickly turning into an artists’ residence. Check out Tyler and give him thanks, for he is one of the kindest people I know. Bruno is my favourite small town in Saskatchewan. Maybe Canada. Maybe the world!

Talkin’ Bikes to 5 year olds.

Tuesday morning, and the school presentation in Bruno was worth it all. All the bus trips. All the sleeping in Missions. All the drinking beer in pick-up trucks (don’t do this at home kids). I gave presentations to kindergarden, and grades 1,2,3 & 4. When I asked the kids who had a bicycle, every hand in the class shot up. We played songs. We banged on noise makers. We talked about batteries and electricity. We made drawings of where we would go on our bicycles, if we could travel anywhere. Many children chose to go to a Saskatchewan Roughriders game on their bikes.

One of the funnest parts of the presentation was when local Bruno inventor Gilbert Ludwig demonstrated his gas-powered bicycle to the children over recess. Imagine, if you will, forty children cheering and chasing him around the school yard as he putted around on his ride.

Back to Moose Jaw!

This morning was an early rise for a ride back to Saskatoon with my friend Marcel (another cool Brunoan). Marcel and his wife Wendy have two cats, both of whom eat melon, tangerine, and cucumber. I caught the bus back to Moose Jaw, and finally escaped the sloppy clutches of the Mooses’ Jowels, with a 75km ride into Regina.

Until we meet again.

I’m now in Yorkton, sweet Yorkton on the Saskatchewan/Manitoba border. Many amazing things happened between Moose Jaw and here, but it’s also getting into the wee hours of the morning, and I’m knackered. You’ll have to wait for the next posting. But fear not Regina, fear not Yorkton. I love you both dearly and will write of your splendors in the the next posting. For now, enjoy some photos!

Last But Not Least, The Bike.

The bike continues to impress. It is one hell of a ride. I do have a couple of pieces of advice however…

1) The back brake on my Torq is a plate brake. I’ve never seen one of these before, and nor has anyone who has looked at the bike. And lots of people have looked at the bike. If/when you get a flat tire, the plate brake requires some intimate interactions to actually disconnect it from the wheel. You will need a 15mm wrench to get the nuts off the axle, which is standard for non-quick release wheels. But you will also need an 8mm wrench, working with an small Allen key, to get the brake free of the wheel. Two pieces of the brake then slide off. Its hard to describe in words, so I highly recommend that you either switch the rear wheel of your Torq to a more conventional braking system, or MAKE SURE that you are proficient with getting the wheel on and off before you take off down the road. This ISN”T a quick tire change. 

2) The right hand throttle slides on the handlebars like any normal grip. It is then tightened into place with an screw. Over repeated use this screw tends to get loose, meaning that if you’re not careful, the throttle can start moving all over the place in your hand as you try to hold on. Its just a tiny adjustment, easily done with a small Allen key. FYI.

3) If you’re thinking of doing a similar long-distance voyage by electric bicycle, I highly recommend this bike. I also highly recommend that you take NO MORE than four batteries. As you may know (see last blog), I’m now carrying six batteries. That means that at all times I’m carrying four batteries in the dry bag, which sits in my trailer. This has the weight of a medium sized child. Better to carry four, meaning two are unused. If you’re concerned about running out of charge, use each set of two batteries equally in the morning, then take a break somewhere with an outlet (everywhere) and ask them nicely if you can charge your battery packs for an hour or two. This should get you wherever you need to go.  

Photos!

Me and Dan Toombs, from Big Sky Cycle in Swift Current. Good guy, thanks for the shirt and the gig hook-ups!

Gilbert Ludwig and his homemade bike!

Aaron's Veggie-oil car. This is the closest I could get to this top secret technology. 25$ from Sault St. Marie to Saskatoon!

Sundown in Bruno.

In case you're wondering, its still pretty flat.

Cows. Just cows.

Through every mountain range that BC could throw at us, the Torq proved itself to be as nimble as a mountain goat. But, is it as fleet as an antelope? What would happen when the ground flattened out and I started making long-distance requests from the bike? Would the battery packs begin to tire? Would I begin to tire? These were the questions resting heavy on a nation’s collective mind. But fear not, the answer to this question is that the Torq and I are as at home on the range as we are in the plains.

 I find myself in Swift Current, traditional territory of the Plains Cree. The Cree historically held a vast territory, so its kind of a catch-all statement to say “Plains Cree”.  But better to catch it than let it fall. It is early fall, and over the past two days the Torq has shown that it is master of the fast and friendly flatlands of the prairies.

Yesterday it was Lethbridge to Medicine Hat, a distance of 175km. Today, under blue prairie skies, tremendous tailwinds, and good vibes provided by Greg and the gang at The Cyclepath in the Hat, the Torq ate up the flatlands and made it 225km into Swift Current.

By the way, I’m putting photos up at the end of the blog. Rather than banging my head against the wall trying to get them formatted one way, and then published in a totally different way, we’ll just leave them for a photo gallery at the end of each blog.

Lethbridge to Medicine Hat

I bid Peter farewell over breakfast at The Penny Coffee House in Lethbridge. Delicious quesadillas, graciously provided by Eileen at the Penny, provide the first boost of energy I needed to get out of Lethbridge. Cyclists should be aware that Lethbridge doesn’t allow bicycles on the Crowsnest highway within city limits. If you chose to ignore this, keep your eye on the white line until you break out, as things are tight with trucks within the city. 

Eileen’s care package of blueberry loaf and yoghurt are a great mid-morning snack in Taber, which markets itself as the home of Alberta’s best corn. I can’t validate this though, as no one is selling roadside roasted corn on this beautiful morning.

The ride is fast and flat, and the summer has come back in force. Grain elevators, looooong trains, and crops ready for harvest adorn the landscape.  The prairies get knocked around for being so flat, but no right-minded cyclist on a cross-country trip could really complain. Bring on the flats and the tailwinds and the sun and log the kilometres before winter hits.

The Cyclepath in Medicine Hat

The future of Medicine Hat’s cycling community is in the kind and capable hands of Greg and the gang at The Cyclepath. To coincide with my arrival, Greg has planned a customer appreciation night, complete with his son Myles & company’s amazing band, and two inspiring cycling videos. Everyone through the door gets a free “Support Your Local Bike Shop” T-shirt, and free pizza and pop. There are prize draws all night, culminating with the top prize of a new Kona frame.

I had planned a bit of a speech to go with my music. I was going to focus on the functionality of the Torq as a commuter vehicle, capable of taking a tradesperson and their tools to and from the jobsite. I was going to talk about the responsibility we all share for our children, our children’s children, and the world in which we are only steward’s, not owners. I was thinking the room would be full of surly Albertan men, hell-bent for oil. Instead, the audience is comprised of eager teens, already heavily into the world of cycling. These kids need no convincing that bikes are the way to go, they know it and live it. I keep the speech short and sweet, and tell them that if they take anything away from the evening, it is to keep cycling a part of their lives as they grow and find themselves in positions of more responsibility. How many of us were cyclists as children, only to find that our adult lifestyles simply couldn’t support one of our favourite childhood pastimes? I sense, however, that the kids are alright, and that after I’m gone Greg will still be bringing in guest BMX teams, giving away prizes, and keeping the bike torch of Medicine Hat burning bright.

A special thank you also goes out to Mountain Equipment Co-op. A care package containing a new Derecho jacket is waiting for me at the Cyclepath.

Medicine Hat to Swift Current

No tour can call itself complete without a 200km+ day. We are a very long way away from this tour being complete, but may as well try for 225km under perfect conditions. Greg treats Peter and I to a hearty breakfast, and I roll out of Medicine Hat, fixing to bid adieu to ol’ Alberta, and roll into Saskatchewan. I haven’t done a 200+ day in over 6 years, when I rode from Hearst to Longlac on a racer loaded with panniers. I remember going more than a bit crazy that day. 

The winds are blowing fiercely east, which suits me perfectly. As the first 100km roll by in a wondrous autumn backdrop of blue skies and harvest-time browns, I decide that it will be a good day to drain both types of batteries under similar conditions, and see how far each type will go.  The Lithium Manganese batteries last a whopping 140km before they finally give up, just on the outskirts of Tompkins, Sask. The Lithium Polymers take it home, and are not drained by the time we get to Speedy Creek (Swift Current), 80km farther down the road. I’m still a fan of the Manganese though. Although it may be partially related to my own physical self getting taxed at the end of the day, I’m fairly sure that in general they give more push per kilometre. 

Urbanground Coffeehouse

Our gig for the evening is at the Urbanground Coffeehouse. I’m tired. Feeling great after banging off the 225km, but tired enough that when there are only two people sitting around the coffeeshop talking, I consider just not playing. The staff is understanding, and nobody minds. But then most of the students from the Miller Bible School pile into the shop, and suddenly every seat in the place is packed with future pastors and missionaries. How could we not play?

The evening is filled with a mutual admiration between audience and performer, and the students’ generosity is astounding and much appreciated. We are tired and weary road wanderers, and the generosity is an incredible blessing, and recharges my spiritual batteries. Speaking of batteries, another care package awaits me at the Urbanground. This one is from Scooter Underground/Quiet Revolutions, homebase so to speak, back in Victoria. Its a pair of new Lithium Manganese batteries, two inner tubes, and some chain lube. I’m now rolling with 6(!) batteries, and suddenly the monstrous whale-shaped mass known as Ontario seems like a possibility not a fool’s errand.

Itinerary

Here’s an updated schedule for where we’re going to as we prance through the prairies:

Sept. 25th – Gypsy Cafe – Moose Jaw, 8pm

26th – Solar Restaurant – Craik, 5pm

 27th – Cafe Solla – Saskatoon, 4pm

28th – Bruno Public School

29th – The Fainting Goat, Regina, 7:30pm

30th – The Cup and Saucer – Yorkton, 7pm

1st – Kristy’s – Russell, Man., 9pm

2nd – Lady of the Lake – Brandon, 7pm

4th – Shannon’s Irish Pub – Winnipeg, 10:30pm

5th – Mondragon – Winnipeg, 7pm

Catch us where you can!

Photos!

Liquor and Lethbridge. Good Times!

Flatness.

Bye bye Alberta!

Torq in the prairies

Me in the prairies

Bikes rule in Medicine Hat!

Preachin to the choir.

Greetings from Medicine Hat, Alberta, traditional territory of the Saanis First Nation.

Its been three days since the last post, which found me in Fernie, BC. I was in the doldrums. My mandolin had met an untimely demise, my phone and digital camera had turned to useless, and things were rainy, damp and wet. It was a low, low time. But not to fear, the ride continues and things have gotten flat and fast. And summer’s back. Let’s get caught up.

Fernie to the Border. Bye Bye BC.

The ride from Fernie to the Alberta/BC border takes you through the Crowsnest Pass and the Rocky mountains. The Crowsnest Pass is a geological masterpiece, with massive snow-capped peaks rising everywhere you look. Autumn is, in my mind, the best time to see these amazing mountains, with a light dusting of snow on pines, and yellow-leafed poplars lining the lower elevations. 

The sun comes out, and all day I ride through the majesty of these peaks. If I were more of a poet and not dead tired in Medicine Hat, I’d write something about feeling very small and inconsequential in compared to the grandeur of the timeless mountains under whose shadowy massiveness I found myself. I might write about the feeling of wandering through this unique vista, where two massive plates came together in some distant bygone era, and in an eruption of rock and magma and immeasurable violence, became one.

Alberta Bound. Twin Butte General Store Good! Stella’s Inn BAD!!

I’m headed for Beaver Mines, and Stella’s Inn. Beaver Mines is a lovely place tucked into the southern foothills of the Rockies. Its real cattle country, where guys actually take their dates out on horseback rides, and brand cattle, and fence off land. In the winter, they go snowmobiling, and have a good old time. I know, I’ve been snowmobiling and had a good old time just down the road in Twin Butte. Its lovely country, and for a picturesque view of wide open pastures, with big brown beef cows roaming around, backed up by the monstrous Rockies from which you’ve just emerged, it can’t be beat. In fact, I’d recommend that everyone go to Twin Butte and stop in and say hi to my friend Jenny who runs the Twin Butte General Store. The General Store is a great music venue, and Jenny’s having trouble with the neighbours making noice complaints. So help her out. Write her an email, send her your love. She works hard, makes the best Mexican food this side of Mexico, and is incredibly hospitable to her musicians.

On the other hand, I would recommend that you never go to Stella’s Inn in Beaver Mines. Stella, of Stella’s Inn, is one nasty piece of work. Remember how my mandolin got run over by something wheeled? Well, I tried to find a mandolin for the Stella’s Inn gig. I called every school between Coleman and Lundbreck, and nobody had one. There are no music stores in this part of the world. But I am a rare harmonica player, and Peter can slay a six string. Did I mention I’m on a bike? So we figure we have a good show anyways. Stella, on the other hand, is not empathetic to the situation whatsoever. The abuse starts as soon as we meet, and doesn’t stop. I should have followed my first mind and simply left. Instead, we play to a satisfied crowd, who enjoy themselves for four hours while we get down blues-style. At the end of the evening, Stella announces that we will not be getting paid, as the entire bar was comprised of locals who she didn’t charge cover to. I find out the next day from a lady working the register that this is a lie. So, I encourage every musician out there to listen to me on this one. I’m not kidding here. DO NOT PLAY AT STELLA’S INN IN BEAVER MINES. The decor is inviting, yes, but Stella is an abusive thief. She’ll call you every name in the book, belittle you, make you feel like you should pay her. DO NOT PLAY AT STELLA’S INN IN BEAVER MINES. DO NOT GO TO STELLA’S INN IN BEAVER MINES. In fact, Peter and I now spit every time we say Stella’s Inn in Beaver Mines. “Ptou!”

But Lethbridge is Cool!

Next morning, after Peter andI contemplate burning down Stella’s Inn in Beaver Mines (Ptou!), I head east towards Pincher Creek, and Lethbridge beyond. The ride is much faster and flatter, but some baby rolling hills, seeming like Rocky Mountain aftershocks, do add a bit of difficulty to the terrain. No matter. The sun has come out, and what seemed like winter in the Crowsnest Pass has turned back into Indian Summer in the prairies. Rolling prairie fields are the name of the day.

The Torq’s twin battery packs are taxed after the 120km ride, and for those of you out there who are interested, the Lithium Manganese batteries, while heavier, have come out as far and away the stronger versus the Lithium Polymer batteries.

The Penny Coffee House and the Owl Acoustic Lounge.

We’ve got two shows to play in Lethbridge, both of which I play on my new mandolin, graciously knocked down in price by cool cat manager of the Lethbridge Long and McQuade, Rob Habetler. Thanks Rob!

The early show is at The Penny Coffee House, the later session is at the Owl Acoustic Lounge. Eileen Abbott, owner of The Penny, is an incredibly kind lady who gives amazing hugs. These aren’t those “pat pat” hugs that leave you feeling mmm, alright. These are those rare “let’s lock down with a hug, and hug til we both feel better”. She’s awesome. I hug her twice. She feeds us dinner twice, brings a cool soundman in, and sets up a curtained backdrop just for us. After the night before at Stella’s Inn in Beaver Mines (Ptou!), The Penny is sweet salve on the wound. To top it off, the Owl feeds another dinner. Three dinners in one night, not bad.

More Coming!

I know, I’m Medicine Hat. I should tell you all about the amazing ride here, and the incredible party we just had at Customer Appreciation Night at The Cyclepath. But I’m tired out! It was 175km ride, and a 225 km ride tomorrow to Swift Current. I gotta go to bed. More soon, I promise. For now, though, sleep well and see you soon.

Photos…

Made It!

Want a gig at Stella's? Why not hit yourself in the head with a stone instead? It'll make you feel about the same.

Me and a Rolling Fields.

Cows and a Rolling Fields

Snow Covered Wheat and a Rolling Fields

Lazy Green Gnome at the Sirdar Pub.

What can I say? BC is a rainy mother in September, and it comes down in droves as I head southeast out of Sirdar, traditional territory of the Ktunaxa nation. There truly can never be too many mist-caped mountains in the vista, but when its pouring rain and you’re on a bike, even a kick-butt electric bike, let’s be honest with ourselves…they all start to look the same. I’m sure I’ll miss them later, but for now I’d settle for dry and no mountains. I’d settle for the complete absence of beautiful mountains, I don’t even need one, if it would just stop raining. Ah, but that’s crazy talk.

The smart biker (that’s me?!) heading east from Nelson to Creston has already taken the eastern shore route of Kootenay Lake (see last blog posting).  The Kootenay Lake ride is spectacular, by taking it you get to bypass the monstrous 1700+ meter Kootenay Pass between Salmo and Creston. Your eyes and legs will thank you for it.

The road along the Lake is known as the 3A, and soon after Sirdar begins to head eastward, away from Kootenay Lake, and into the Creston valley. For added points, when you get to the town of Wyndell, before Creston, take a quick right after the lumber yard onto Lower Wyndell Road. This road leads you through the flat valleys and farmlands of the Creston valley, and bypasses all but the last climb into the town of Creston. The highway runs right through downtown Creston, which on this rainy Sunday looks all but deserted. Things are as grey in town as the skies overhead, and I park myself at one of the two open coffee shops for a quick battery charge, breakfast, and to wait out the blasted rain.

Rainy Creston Valley

Several Cups of Coffee Later…

The rain doesn’t stop.

Too Many Cups of Coffee Later…

I can’t sit here any longer with the Sunday Creston geriatric coffee crowd. I’m eavesdropping, and starting to get drawn into their conversations. Many of our Canadian small-town retired population have nothing of any interest to talk about. Rain or no rain, and believe me there’s rain, its time to go. Wet suit on, neoprene booties under the cleats, garbage bags a-flapping in the wind, I head out into the elements.

There’s a fine line between laughing, and laughing maniacally, and by the time I ride into Yahk, that line is crossed. I contemplate taking a photo of myself by the “Welcome to Yahk” sign, looking like I’m about to, well, yahk. It’d be high school funny. On a serious note though, watch out for Hummer Gas, the first gas station you see in Yahk heading east. There’s no price posted per litre at Hummer, and if you’re not careful, you’ll wind up paying a whopping 60 extra cents over normal price. Its a scam you need to watch out for, if you’re still buying gas that is. Hummer gives Yahk a bad name.

I stop at both Yahk motels, looking like the lovechild of a wet dog and a sewer rat.  Either the owners are out, or they’re hiding behind the blinds waiting for me to go. Nothing to do but change the bike batteries under an awning, curse softly, and move on.

Water and Electronics don’t Mix.

As I near Moyie I figure I’ll check out what time it is. I’m slated to meet my friend Joel in Kimberley, a bit north of Cranbrook, and the day is wearing on. I reach into my pocket and fish for my cellphone. Never leave your cellphone in the front pocket of your rainsuit on a rainy day, or you will actually be fishing for it when you go to check what time it is. As it is, my cellphone doesn’t tell the time anymore. It doesn’t take or make calls either, so if you’re trying to call me you’d probably better email, at least until tomorrow. I don’t even want to talk about the digital camera. Let’s just say its taken its last photo.

The general direction of the day is east, but the general direction of my mood is headed south in a hurry. By the time I get to the Moyie pub I can’t even acknowledge the idiotic remarks of warm, dry, people who see me trying to lean a soaked bike and trailer against the wall. Here’s a thought…soaking cyclists do not need your updated weather report. Believe me, I know you’re trying to be nice. But I’ve actually been in the weather all day. If you see me cold, filthy and shivering, trying desperately to free a dry pairs of socks from my panniers, I will not even look at you if you say something like, “Wet day for this, eh?”

I will actually punch you forcefully in my mind.

Silver Lining.

No one is at the Moyie church. I know this because I go there to beg a night’s stay. It is a Sunday after all. So instead I sit in the Moyie Pub, and drown my sorrows in a cup of tea. Wild times, I know. There’s a B&B in Moyie, but there’s been an accident down the road, and the owners are stuck in traffic.

When they do arrive, they are a heaven-sent. Bob and Linda of the Mountain Time Inn take pity on me, but its not really pity, its humanity in the form of a free room, free hugs, and a beer and dinner. I can’t express my gratitude enough.

Moyie to Fernie. Tougher Break.

Peter and the Mandolin Pieces.

Next morning seems promising, what with its three eggs, sausages, bottomless coffee urn, homemade toast and hashbrowns from garden-fresh potatoes. Wireless internet, rooms fit for royalty and good conversation. Its always time for Mountain Time.  Except when its cycling through the rain time, that is.

So its off to Cranbrook, a quick 32km down a gentle rolling road. The Rockies, the last mountain range to get through before the great plains open up, loom ahead. The view is just great. Really rainy, mind you, but breathtaking country to contemplate from behind a pane of glass. Maybe with a woodstove burning warmly, a loyal hound, a good book, and your love by your side.

Cranbrook comes on like a mecca today. Its a sort of non-descript town, the size of which merits a smattering of the usual box-store culprits, which in turn decimate what looks to have been a once vibrant downtown core. But even a decimated downtown core usually has at least a few coffeeshops to chose from, and Cranbrook is no exception.

I’m not too proud to sell CDs on the streets of Cranbrook, especially when I need to raise some quick funds for a new phone and camera. I wander from store to store, and the kind shopkeepers of Cranbrook help me out big time. There’s health food stores and a Belgian chocolate store, so that basically covers the gamut of your culinary needs right there. I even run into a music fan at the local audio shop who cuts me a good deal on a camera. Things are looking up, right?

Well, sort of. I spend a bit too long in Cranbrook, and then need to haul it into Fernie for the evening’s performance at The Brickhouse. The sun begins to set, the skies open up again, and now it is dark and raining. I’m soaked and tired by the time I finally make the turn towards downtown Fernie, and its only then I realize that the mandolin, which is supposed to be wrapped in a garbage bag bungee corded to my trailer, is gone. I roll to the bar, where I find Peter. Peter has made friends with some locals, and we all pile into a pickup truck to look for a mandolin in a black garbage bag, on the side of the highway, in a rainstorm. Fun!

On our second drive by, we find it. It has been run over completely, at least once, and is now crumpled pieces of a mandolin in a garbage bag. There’s no saving it, and at least its already in a garbage bag. At least there’s closure? Then its back to the gig, where mercifully I get to change out of my soaked clothes, eat some nachos, and watch Peter appologize his way through “People are Strange”.

How's my playing?

The Bike.

Ah yes, the Ezee Torq. The Torq is a masterful ride. It doesn’t quit. As other gear disintigrates and gives up, gets waterlogged or run over by cars, is lost, stolen, or simply disappears, the Torq carries on silently. It doesn’t complain. It barely makes a sound as it throttles onward through the deluge. Its electric bicycling at its best. Other bikes may come close, but if you need to get through the late September rains of Southeastern BC, hauling 70+ pounds of gear, the Torq is your ride. Find a local Ezee bike dealer and take one for a test drive. If you haven’t got a local Ezee bike dealer, become one!

Tomorrow!

Tomorrow is another day. Its now five in the morning, and the amorous drunks in the next room seem to finally have exhausted themselves. Hopefully I’ll now drift of to sleep listening to the hearty patter of rain on the street, and by tomorrow it’ll be nice and sunny as I cross the Crowsnest Pass into Alberta. There’s probably no music store between here and Beaver Mines (where?), where we’re slated to play. If, on the off chance you live in Lethbridge, and are reading this, and can get to a music store, and can borrow a mandolin for an evening, please bring it to Stella’s Inn in Beaver Mines for Tuesday night. Otherwise, I’m sure SOMETHING will work itself out. So until then, rest easy readers, and know that the ride continues. HAHAHAHAHA! (manical laugh)

Shouts Out!

Thanks to Mountain Equipment Co-op for sending me a more waterproof jacket. I can’t wait to liase with it in Medicine Hat.

Thanks to all the kind merchants in Cranbrook who bought a CD. I’ll name you all individually later when I can find my wallet and my new collection of business cards.

Thanks of course to Bob and Linda from the Mountain Time Inn in Moyie.

Thanks to my friend Steph Mills from Morningstar Herbals for a great supply of homemade Arnica cream.

Thanks to Marc, a slightly inebriated customer, from the Brickhouse. He was nearly moved to tears when he saw the pieces of mandolin on the stage, and donated a hearty sum towards the purchase of a new one. Thanks Marc!

My name is still Miles Howe. I am still riding an Ezee Torq across the country, headed eastward. I started in Duncan, BC, and am now in a coffee shop in Creston, BC. The last time we spoke, I was just finishing a gig in Winlaw, BC. So many fascinating things have happened since then, you wouldn’t even believe it! I don’t even know where to begin…

Winlaw and the Slocan Valley

Winlaw and the Slocan Valley are part of the traditional territory of the Siniixt people. Man, when traditional territories were being handed out, these guys got lucky! The Slocan is a special spot on earth. Its fertile and lush, and seems hidden away from the rest of the world by the tree-laden Selkirk Moutains. For the adventurous, there’s world-class climbing and rafting. For the gastronome, fresh and local fare will make your tastebuds dance. For those simply looking to relax, there’s yoga, spas, natural hot springs, and a 360 degree breathtaking view. Wherever you look, something, or someone, will catch your eye in the Slocan Valley.

The Slocan is also home to some of Canada’s most colourful and expressive people. Feathered hats of intricate and rare plummage, tie dye, dreadlocks, home made buckskin pants, anything goes in Slocan. Its a wonderful, healing, place, where hardworking farmers in rubber boots burn incense and chant Sanskrit to Hindu deities and crystal shrines.

Into Nelson

Leaving Winlaw, I head back south down the highway 6, and link up with the highway 3A. Its a rainy affair as I head into Nelson, the metropolitan capital of the Kootenays.

Nelson is everything done right in a small city. Nestled on the shores of Kootenay Lake, with mountains galore wherever you look, many people come to Nelson for a visit, and never leave. Indeed, you can’t stop in Nelson without leaving part of yourself there. Lately I’ve thought that if the Commercial Drive neighbourhood in Vancouver were a city, it’d be Nelson. If Sunday Tam Tam sessions on Mount Royal in Montreal were a city, it’d be Nelson too. Its an amazing place, filled with free and expressive people, independently-owned stores, a good live music scene with receptive and appreciative crowds. There are beaches and boating, hiking and biking, culinary delights and more ways to relax than you thought possible. Nelson’s got it all.

Me and my treeplanting friend Marita. A chance encounter in Nelson.

How to Leave?

That is the question, truly. But, if you’re on a cross-Canada Electric Bicycle Music Tour, there’s no real choice but to leave. This isn’t the Duncan to Nelson Electric Bicycle Music Tour. No, no its not…

Head to the East Side.

In my mind, the most beautiful and amazing way to break away from the magnetic pull of Nelson is to head north out of town along the western shoes of Kootenay Lake. Beaches, boat launches, and tiny communities dot the 34 kilometre ride out of town towards Balfour, where you then catch the longest free ferry ride in the world to the eastern shore of the lake. 

If you enjoyed the peace and tranquility of Kootenay Lake’s western shore, get ready for the eastern shore. On this day I’m headed to play a show in Sirdar, about 60 kilometres southeast. Maybe a dozen cars pass me the entire way. There’s mists on the mountain tops, massive rainforest-sized Douglas Firs, Big-leafed Maples and Cedars, and of course the haunting waters of Kootenay Lake. Being alone with Kootenay Lake for an evening ride is like going to a year of therapy. I yell, and yell, and yell, maybe shed a tear or two. The waters seem to want to hear your secrets, release you from them, and sink them into its steely blue waters.

Balfour

Kootenay Lake

The Bike.

The Torq continues to hold together admirably. The front wheel drive motor hums along, a whisper of assuredness amidst this mad world of pavement and rain and RVs and logging trucks. I find that the Lithium Manganese batteries, although heavier, are more up to the task of pulling 70+ pounds of gear through the moutains. The Lithium Polymer set are lighter, but have begun to fade quickly. They seem better suited to peppy, light-weight commuter rides. Other than that, the Torq has been a hassle-free, comfortable, and dependable, ride thus far.

The Torq

Next…

Last night it was a gig at the Sirdar Pub and Grill, and a sighting of owner Rob’s ZZ Top length beard is worth the stop by itself. He and his wife are kind hosts, and Peter and I were well-treated, well-fed, and well-received. Today, the rain continues to pour down. I’ve left the shores of Kootenay Lake behind and have entered the fertile Creston Valley. Its another two days to the BC/Alberta border and the end of this first chapter of the ride. Its a rainy Sunday, and I’m hungover and tired in a Creston coffee shop. No matter, the ride goes on, with today’s destination of Cranbrook 110km away. Just about time to go!

Shouts Out!

Thanks to Claudia at Soul Creations in Grand Forks for hooking me up with a t-shirt and keeping the laundry demons at bay for one for night. Thanks to Jill, Anita, and Amanda in Nelson for putting me and Peter up. Thanks! You ladies rule. Thanks to Paul at the Cedar Creek Cafe for always being a great host, and human being. Thanks to William Brown at the Moonmonster’s Cave shop in Winlaw for the birthday Agatha Christie book, it’s a good one!Sorry if I missed anyone.

My name is Miles Howe. I have riden an Ezee Torq from Nanaimo, British Columbia to Winlaw, BC.  Today is my ninth day of consecutive riding. I’m also a musician. Today is my ninth consecutive day of gigging. If you’re new to this blog, I’m riding the Torq to Halifax. Yes, I’m aware that winter is coming. But for now, I prefer to think of it as a cross-Canada Indian Summer Tour, no offense to our First Nations’ Peoples. In fact, all the respect in the world.

My travelling companions on this voyage are young Peter, and his dog Hazel. Peter is a great guitarist and an accomplished Tahini pail player. He’s hitchiking home to Moncton for the winter. We meet up at the end of every day, and play shows together. Hazel is an amazingly well-behaved and calm German Shepard mix. Her happy dance at the end of the day is a sight for tired legs, if my legs had eyes.

Here’s the day-by-day breakdown of where I’ve riden to, and where I’ve played.

Day 1: Nanaimo to The Duncan Garage, in Duncan – 55 km

Day 2: Duncan to downtown Vancouver – 82km

Day 3: Downtown Vancouver to Skinny’s Grille in Hope, BC - 145km

Day 4: Hope to Cowboy Coffee in Princeton, BC – 137km

Day 5: Princeton to The Gold Dust Pub in Hedley, BC – 36km

Day 6: Hedley to Fibonnaci’s Roastery and Grill in Penticton, BC – 78km

Day 7: Penticton to The Prospector’s Pub in Rock Creek, BC – 112km

Day 8: Rock Creek to Kokomo’s in Grand Forks, BC – 96km

Day 9: Grand Forks to Cedar Creek Cafe in Winlaw, BC – 142km

Total: 883km

Last time we spoke was yesterday, when I was about to play a show at Kokomo’s in Grand Forks. Let’s get caught up.

Grand Forks and Kokomo’s

Grand Forks, Canada’s self-proclaimed smallest city, is located on traditional Ktunaxa Nation territory. More recently, Grand Forks has called itself home to one of Canada’s largest Doukhobor populations. The Doukhobors were/are a group of pacifists from Russia, who fled Russia out of a desire to avoid government interference in their lives. Without belittling their contributions to the quilt that is Canadian culture, Grand Forks serves up some of the finest borscht and perogies you’ll ever eat. But I digress.

The gig for the evening is at Kokomo’s. Kokomo’s is owned by an excellent mother and son team, Susan and Tom. Susan’s got a second degree black belt in white tiger-style kung fu, and Tom’s built like a pro wrestler, so don’t get any ideas.

Tom turns the side room of Kokomo’s into a cabaret-style venue, with candles and snack dishes at every table. Two chairs for Peter and I, a japanese rice paper wall, and a floor lamp on a table complete the atmostphere. Travelling musicians should ask these two for a show. Travelling travellers should definitely stop by for a drink.

The citizenry of Grand Forks turns out with interest, a reporter from the Grand Forks Gazette snaps a few shots and asks a few questions, and the evening goes smoothly. Peter and I share a room, while Hazel the dog sleeps outside on the porch.

Grand Forks to Winlaw: The Ride is Rough.

Grand Forks is located at the confluence of the Granby and Kettle Rivers. It is farming country, awe-inspiring greens and autumn browns abound. Late summer weather continues, and the day is perfect blue, with only a few non-threatening puffs of gentle cloud in the sky.

A soothing 20km ride into Christina Lake starts the day, and Torq and I roll smoothly through the early morning mists of the valley floor. But, looming ominously ahead is the Paulson Summit, and the Bonanza Pass.

The climb into the mountains begins not long after Christina Lake, and it doesn’t stop for the next 40 or so kilometres. Its a taxing haul, and takes hours to reach the summit. Signs advise you to be prepared for hazardous weather at any point until you get up and over the Paulson Summit. I advise you to be mentally prepared before you try to ride this one.  It will drain your equipment, it will drain your body, it will test your resolve. By the time you get to the top, you’ll be stunned. You won’t even have the capacity to be proud of yourself, or understand what just happened to you. That’s for later.

Its a 50 kilometre climb from sea level to 1500+ metres. The woods are deep, dark, and thick, all around you. The highway cuts through massive granite cliff faces, and you feel very, very small.

Torq’s Reaction 

I’m about 50km out of Grand Forks when the set of Lithium Manganese batteries gives up the ghost. Its a huge climb, and I’m carrying a bit of weight, and I thought this might happen. A quick switch to the Lithium Polymer batteries and I pedal onwards, past the Paulson bridge, and upwards, ever upwards. At the time of the switchover I’m 46 km from Castlegar, the next town with electrical outlets, and I’m a little skeptical of the Torq’s chances of making it. I’m in the woods with two batteries left.

Fortunately, what goes up must come down. I reach the summit, give what amounts to a war-mumble rather than a war-cry, and begin the descent into Castlegar. Its a long, long, ride down, and if my mind weren’t slightly shattered from the ride up, I might think of pleasant things. Instead, I keep my mind on the battery charge, and thankfully coast most of the way into town.

I recharge both sets of batteries for an hour in Castlegar, and head onwards for the final leg of the journey, taking highway 3B towards Nelson, and then grabbing highway 6 north heading into the Slocan Valley, and Winlaw.

The bike and I limp along the 6. Both battery packs are drained to the red, my right knee is twanging in pain, and I feel overextended in every sense of the word. When the Cedar Creek Cafe finally appears on the horizon, I am fazed and exhausted. If I was a horse, I’d be limping. If I was a car, there’d be smoke belching out from under the hood. In any case, its done! Happy birthday to me, and tomorrow’s another day.

Photos!

I’ve just liased with my own laptop, so its a matter of a few hours before the first photos come up. Stay tuned!