My Trans-Canada Bike Adventure — On Wheels and a Prayer on the Longest Ride for Di

The Longest Day of the Journey

The question I’m asked most often on this trip is:

“How many kilometres do you ride a day?”

There really isn’t one answer.

Every day on this journey is different. The distance is usually determined by how far it is to the next official campground—or, failing that, my best guess at where I might find a decent wild camping spot.

One day I might ride only 75 km. Another day, much farther. I generally plan around 150 km, but sometimes circumstances require me to stretch well beyond my comfort zone.

Day 29 was one of those days.

I needed to ride 168 km to reach MacLeod Provincial Park.

The day before, Day 28, I had ridden only 106.7 km, but it had been a tough, long day: constant rain and a chilly wind blowing directly out of the north and directly into my face.

Now I was worried about how much harder the next day might be. Fear might be the best way to phrase it.

I rolled into Nipigon Marina Park and Campground after the office had closed. Fortunately, another camper named Dave came to my rescue.

Dave had a sensibly sized RV—one that wasn’t roughly the dimensions of a Greyhound bus—and gave me the lowdown on what to do and where to pitch my tent.

Dave is in the “Returning” stage of life, probably in his mid-to-late 70s. He’s tall, with a full head of striking white hair. You could picture him in a TV commercial for retirement living—he’s that kind of good-looking.

I imagined that back in his “Earning” years he might have been a CEO. He’s outgoing, confident and very much a take-charge kind of guy. And that evening, he took charge of making sure this soggy cyclist got settled.

Dave lives in a condo about 75 km south of Toronto where, on a clearer day than this day, he told me, “you can see the Toronto skyline perfectly.”

He lives near a marina because he loves sailing, which might explain his perfect tan. And he takes his “sensible” RV north to remote places like this to escape the crowds of city life.

We didn’t have much time to talk that evening because the rain started again.

It was still raining the next morning when Dave walked over as I was finishing packing my wet tent and preparing for the long ride ahead.

I thought it was nice of him to come over to say good morning and ask how I’d survived the night in my tiny, rain-soaked tent.

“Good morning,” he said. “Do you pray?”

What?

Do I pray?

Did this guy somehow know how worried I was about the day ahead?

I didn’t answer as forthrightly as I might have.

Something had happened three months earlier.

More on that in a moment.

“I’m not very religious,” I said.

“You don’t have to be,” he replied.

We talked for a while. He was clearly thinking not just about the difficult day ahead of me, but about my entire journey.

Then he took my hand.

He told me that he and his wife were praying for me.

There was something about the warmth of his smile, his words and the simple act of holding my hand that enveloped me.

Wow.

I thanked him.

And I thought about that moment many times throughout the day.

168 Kilometres to Go

Like I said, I don’t set out each morning determined to ride a fixed distance. The road, the weather and my body usually have some say in the matter.

And on Day 29, they had plenty to say.

The first 80 km took me almost directly north, over relentlessly difficult, uphill terrain.

Worse, the wind was once again coming straight out of the north.

It was a cold autumn wind.

My average speed dropped below 10 km/h.

For much of that first half, I seriously considered abandoning the plan to reach MacLeod Provincial Park. I could stop early and wild camp wherever I could find a suitable patch of ground.

And believe me, after hours of grinding into that wind, some very unsuitable patches of ground were beginning to look pretty suitable.

But eventually the road turned east.

Suddenly, that brutal headwind became a slightly favourable crosswind.

The terrain flattened.

The kilometres started coming a little easier.

And late in the day, the sun finally came out.

I rolled into MacLeod Provincial Park with about an hour of daylight remaining.

168 kilometres.

Ten and a half hours of pedalling.

My longest day of the journey. The longest day I will ever spend on a bike seat!

And somewhere in all those hours on the bike, through the cold, the hills, the headwind and the doubts, I kept thinking about Dave.

“Do you pray?”

Do You Pray?

Three months earlier, I had moved into my sister Dianne’s apartment to help her in whatever way I could.

It wasn’t an easy time for her.

I think it was a time of fear.

She was a little annoyed that some people had stopped coming to see her. Part of the problem, as I imagine happens for many people in their final days, was that she wasn’t always forthcoming with others—or perhaps even with herself—about how dire her situation had become.

She also talked about the people who did visit.

Some simply didn’t know what to say.

There were long, awkward silences.

But silences are okay.

There’s no need for them to be awkward.

Sometimes everything that can be said has already been said.

Sometimes silence, with companionship, is enough.

By this point, Dianne had decided that she wanted Medical Assistance in Dying. But she also said she wanted to be alone when it was finally administered.

I wondered if, beneath that decision, she was afraid no one would want to be there.

Our conversations during those days were long and, at times, all-encompassing.

At the end of one particularly difficult day, I helped her back into bed.

I asked if there was anything else I could do for her.

She looked at me.

“Can you pray for me?”

I couldn’t remember the last time I had prayed.

Yet I answered,

“I will.”

That night, following my usual habit of overthinking almost everything, I thought about Dianne and about her fear of what was coming.

I made some notes.

Then, in the den of her 26th-floor apartment, dimly lit by the lights of the city beyond the windows, I lay on the fold-out bed and said a heartfelt prayer for my sister.

The next day, I sat in a chair beside her bed.

Dianne—still my big sister—started asking questions, almost as though she were checking to make sure her little brother had actually done his homework.

I admitted I prayed. I told her I prayed that she would understand, know, how much she was loved by her friends and family, and about how much difference and impact she made on their lives, and what a blessing it had been that she allowed me into this intimate time with her. 

Then we didn’t talk for a long while.

There was silence.

But it wasn’t awkward.

Words were spoken that otherwise would never have been said.

Dianne’s circumstances changed rapidly after that.

She thought she had weeks left but it became days.

With her last breath, in her tiny palliative care room, she was surrounded by family and friends and an abundance of love. 

I think of Dave…

”Good morning, do you pray?”