It’s Day 55 – Cape Spear—The End of the Road
Day 55 was the shortest ride of the entire Ride for Di. Just 50 kilometres separated the beautiful home of Rob and Jane, who had hosted us in Conception Bay South, from Cape Spear, the easternmost point in Canada and the final destination of my journey.
Fifty kilometres.
After nearly 7,000 kilometres across Canada, that hardly seemed like a distance worth mentioning.
But these would be the most impactful 50 kilometres of the trip.
Rob was my guide for the final ride. Along the way, he shared the history and stories of the many remarkable places we passed: Bell Island and the Clapper, Signal Hill, The Rooms, and countless other landmarks and breathtaking ocean vistas.
The first 30 kilometres were relatively flat, following the fine gravel on the Newfoundland T’Railway, a former railway line converted into a recreational trail.
But the final stretch was a different story.
We wound our way through the streets of St. John’s before tackling four impressive climbs to Cape Spear. Two of them included what cyclists affectionately call walls—sections with gradients around 10 to 13%.
Apparently, Newfoundland wasn’t going to let me finish this journey without one final test.
Then Rob said,
“Around the next corner, you’ll see the Cape Spear lighthouse.”
Despite the climbs, my legs suddenly found another gear. I couldn’t help myself. I was turning the cranks faster and faster.
The clouds had hung dark and low all morning, threatening to unleash a downpour, but we’d encountered only a little rain. It was 10°C, although the damp ocean air made it feel considerably colder.
The smell of the sea filled my lungs. Fog drifted across the cliffs, softening the rugged coastline.
I turned the corner.
And there it was.
The lighthouse.
The road wound around one corner after another, with the ocean and towering cliffs on one side and windswept, barren hills on the other.
Then I saw people ahead. I hadn’t expected that. And suddenly, everything seemed to slow down.
I thought about Mile Zero in Victoria, where this journey had begun.
I thought about Dianne.
I thought about my family.
And then it really hit me that there was no more road ahead.
After 55 days, I wouldn’t be getting on my bike tomorrow morning to ride another 150 kilometres. There would be no next campground to reach, no next province to cross, no next mountain to climb.
This was it.
I teared up.
And yet, I couldn’t have been happier.
I was overwhelmed by the people who had come to celebrate with me. When I finally stopped and put my feet on the ground, Hugh handed me a Canadian flag to hold in celebration of crossing the country.
Wow.
I couldn’t stop smiling.
I looked out over the Atlantic Ocean.
The Journey of My Life had come to an end.
But tomorrow would be Day 1 of another journey.
And somewhere out there, beyond the ocean and the horizon, lay a road for which I had no map.
I wouldn’t know its challenges, its climbs, or its unexpected turns until I encountered them.
And somehow, that no longer frightened me quite so much.
What the Hell Was I Thinking?
When I stood at Mile Zero in Victoria, I couldn’t have imagined that my journey would end this way.
I had just turned 70. I was relatively inexperienced at bike camping. Ahead of me lay the Rocky Mountains, the Prairies, Northern Ontario, unpredictable weather, wildfires, mechanical problems, and thousands upon thousands of kilometres of uncertainty.
Three months earlier, Deanna and I had taken two of our grandchildren to the Canada Science and Technology Museum in Ottawa.
In the section devoted to trains, planes, and other modes of transportation, I was shocked. I came to a sudden stop.
My heart started racing.
I could hardly breathe.
I felt sick.
There is a wall-sized map of Canada.
Presumably, its purpose is to impress upon visitors the extraordinary vastness of our country and the importance of transportation in its development.
It certainly impressed something upon me.
I stared at the map.
“What the f$%& have I committed to?”
“What the f$%& was I THINKING?”
“I’ve taken on too much. WAY more than I can handle!”
I stood there, staring at the immense distance between Victoria and St. John’s.
The enormity of what I was about to attempt truly sank in.
As it turned out, my fears weren’t entirely misplaced.
There were times during the ride when I felt that the journey had thrown just about everything it could at me.
The relentless rain in British Columbia.
The punishing headwinds and rain on the Prairies.
The long distances, isolation, and difficult weather of Northern Ontario.
The major mechanical breakdown in a remote part of Alberta, where I had no cell service and needed to be rescued.
The roads and trails where I got lost and travelled kilometres out of my way.
And, of course, there were the climbs. Always another climb.
There were days when I questioned whether I could keep going.
But something remarkable happened along the way. The difficulties became less important.
The people, the beauty, and the extraordinary experiences became so much more important.
And I began to understand that the journey was giving me far more than it was taking from me.
The Kindness of Strangers — and Friends
I will never forget the unexpected acts of kindness and generosity I encountered across this country.
I think of Tex, the noble farmer in Chaplin, Saskatchewan, whose kindness came when I needed it.
I think of Mike and Caroline in Calgary, Hugh, Rose, and Vivienne, and Rob and Jane in Newfoundland, who welcomed us into their homes and overwhelmed us with their hospitality.
I think of the countless strangers who stopped to help, offered encouragement, shared a conversation, or simply made a difficult day a little easier.
These people became part of my journey.
They reminded me that, no matter how vast this country may be, the distance between people can be remarkably small.
And then there was the beauty.
I think of the ferry crossing from North Sydney, Nova Scotia, to Argentia, Newfoundland.
The vastness of the ocean.
The sunset and sunrise over the water.
And the pod of dolphins that appeared near the bow of the ferry, leaping and diving in perfect synchrony.
“LOOK! LOOK! LOOK!!!”
We were like two-year-olds.
How could you not smile and giggle with delight? I felt like the luckiest man alive.
After the final ride, Hugh and his family welcomed us into their home for fish and chips.
The next morning, I sat at their dining room table, savouring my coffee and looking out at the extraordinary view.
Life is good.
We are blessed.
What Happened to the Man Who Left Victoria?
When I set out from Victoria, I knew that riding across Canada would be a physical challenge.
What I didn’t anticipate was how profoundly it would change me.
I am different.
Physically, I lost the equivalent of 25 one-pound bricks of butter in body fat. But the more important weight loss had nothing to do with my waistline. During the hundreds and hundreds of hours I spent alone on my bike, I had time to think.
Really think.
About my life.
About the past.
About the people I love.
About the things that matter and, perhaps even more importantly, the things that don’t.
Somewhere along those thousands of kilometres, I began to let go of mental baggage I had been carrying for far too long.
Things I simply didn’t need to carry forward into the next chapter of my life.
With every turn of the crank, I felt a little lighter.
And a little stronger.
I arrived at Cape Spear with a renewed sense of purpose and a much clearer understanding of how I want to spend the years ahead.
Will I keep all 25 pounds off?
Who knows?
But I intend to keep the more important weight off.
Because the man who arrived at Cape Spear is not the same man who left Victoria.
And that, perhaps, is the greatest gift this journey has given me.
The Inspiration of Terry Fox
Throughout this journey, I often thought about Terry Fox.
In 1980, Deanna and I were driving across Canada to begin a five-year adventure living in Vancouver.
Somewhere in Northern Ontario, along one of the longest and most isolated stretches of highway imaginable, we came upon Terry.
It was early in the morning.
There he was, running along the highway on one leg, mile after seemingly endless mile.
I remember thinking that the stretch of road was almost unbearable to drive.
And there he was.
Running it.
We were moved to tears.
Terry ran the equivalent of a marathon almost every day during his Marathon of Hope. His extraordinary determination inspired a fundraising movement that has since raised hundreds of millions of dollars for cancer research.
My journey and my achievement are nothing compared with his.
But comparison isn’t the point.
Terry showed me something that has stayed with me for more than four decades.
That an extraordinary dream can begin with a single step.
That determination can carry us further than we ever imagined.
And that sometimes the most important thing we can do is simply show up.
Get out of bed.
Put one foot in front of the other.
Or, in my case, get on the bike and turn the cranks.
Again.
And again.
And again.
You don’t have to know exactly how you’re going to reach the end.
You just have to find the courage to begin and the determination to keep going.
Learning, Earning, and Returning
Much of my thinking during the ride centred on the final stage of my life.
I have often reflected on the idea that life has three broad stages: Learning, Earning, and Returning.
I’ve spent much of my life learning and earning.
Now, at 70, I am firmly in the Returning stage.
And the question I kept asking myself, kilometre after kilometre, was this:
How do I make the most of the years I have left?
How can I make a meaningful difference to my family, my friends, and my community?
What do I want my legacy to be?
I have a long list of things I intend to change and do.
But two stand out.
First, I intend to reconnect with the meaningful people in my life with whom I’ve lost touch.
Life is too short to let important relationships quietly fade away.
And second, I hope this journey leaves something lasting for my grandchildren.
I hope that one day, perhaps long after I’m gone, one of them will face a seemingly impossible challenge.
Maybe they’ll feel overwhelmed.
Maybe they’ll doubt themselves.
Maybe they’ll wonder whether they have what it takes.
And then, I hope, they’ll remember their grandfather.
And think:
“Grandpa was a BADASS!
“If that old guy could ride across Canada at 70, then I can do THIS!
“I’ve got this!”
If my journey gives even one of my grandchildren the courage to take on a challenge they might otherwise have avoided, then every kilometre will have been worth it.
And Then There’s Di
Of course, there was another reason for this journey.
The most important reason.
My sister, Dianne.
Months before I began the ride, I told Dianne that I wanted to dedicate it to her.
At first, she pushed back.
That was Di.
She never wanted to be the centre of attention.
But as we talked about the ride and what I hoped to accomplish, she became increasingly engaged and supportive.
She even talked about coming to see me ride through Ottawa.
And perhaps being there when I finished in St. John’s.
I think we both knew, back in May, that she wouldn’t be able to do those things.
But we talked about them anyway.
And I treasure those conversations.
Dianne had so much more life to live.
So many things she wanted to do.
So many people she wanted to hug, kiss, and love.
So many ordinary, wonderful moments that we all too often take for granted.
Ovarian cancer took those possibilities away from her.
By the time she was diagnosed, her cancer was already at Stage 4.
It was too late.
And that is what makes this disease so cruel.
In an age of extraordinary medical and technological advances, why are so many women still diagnosed with ovarian cancer only after it has reached an advanced stage?
Why are the outcomes still so devastating?
And why aren’t we doing more?
I want people to remember Dianne as someone who cared deeply about others.
Someone who was generous with her love, her kindness, and her attention.
And I want her memory to help other women and families facing this terrible disease.
I want more awareness.
More research.
Earlier diagnosis.
Better treatments.
And, ultimately, more women surviving ovarian cancer and living the full lives they deserve.
I cannot bring Dianne back.
But I can do something in her memory.
And that is what the Ride for Di has been about.
It is my way of honouring her life, expressing my love for her, and trying to make a difference for others.
Every Turn of the Crank
At the beginning of this journey, I wrote that every turn of the crank had three purposes.
One turn toward my physical destination.
One turn toward personal transformation through reflection.
And one turn toward honouring Dianne by raising awareness and funds for ovarian cancer research.
On the final climb to Cape Spear, those three purposes came together.
Every turn brought me closer to the easternmost point of Canada.
Every turn brought me closer to understanding who I am and what I want to do with the remaining years of my life.
And every turn was for Di.
At Cape Spear, all three journeys converged.
The physical journey was complete.
The personal journey had transformed me.
And the journey to honour Dianne had become something much bigger than I could ever have imagined when I first told her about my plans.
I had set out to cross a country.
But somewhere along the way, the journey became about so much more than reaching the other side.
Thank You
No one completes a journey like this alone.
First and foremost, thank you to my family.
You accepted the risks, the uncertainty, and my long absence. You supported me even when you might reasonably have questioned my sanity.
I missed birthdays, family gatherings, and other important moments.
Sorry, Lindy, for missing your birthday party!
Thank you for understanding why this journey mattered so much to me.
To Deanna, thank you for being my partner through this adventure, for your patience, encouragement, and unwavering support.
To the friends who welcomed us into their homes, helped with mechanical problems, offered meals, or simply made sure I had a comfortable place to rest: your generosity meant more than you can know.
To the strangers who stopped to help, the campground neighbours who shared their stories, and the people who offered a kind word just when I needed one: you made this journey unforgettable.
To everyone who followed the blog, sent messages of encouragement, shared my posts, or cheered me on from afar: thank you.
On some of the loneliest stretches of road, your words made me feel that I wasn’t alone at all.
And to everyone who donated to ovarian cancer research in Dianne’s memory: thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Your generosity has given this journey a purpose far beyond anything I could have accomplished simply by riding a bicycle across Canada.
You have helped turn my love for my sister into something that can make a difference for others.
And that means everything to me.
One Final Ask for Di
One last turn of the crank. One more gift for Di.
If this journey has meant something to you, I ask you to consider making one final donation to ovarian cancer research in Dianne’s memory.
Every contribution, large or small, helps support the fight against a disease that has taken far too much from far too many families.
Together, we can help give other women and their families more hope, more time, and more tomorrows.
Thank you for helping me honour my sister.
Support ovarian cancer research in memory of Dianne
Donate to the Ride for Di Donation link for the Ride for Di fundraising page.
The End of the Road. The Beginning of Something New.
For 55 days, my life had been remarkably simple.
Wake up.
Pack up the tent.
Get on the bike.
Turn the pedals.
Keep going.
Regardless of the weather, the terrain, or the circumstances, the task was always the same.
Get on the bike.
And move forward.
But tomorrow would be different.
There would be no next province.
No next mountain range.
No next 150-kilometre destination.
No road stretching endlessly toward the horizon.
For the first time in 55 days, I wouldn’t have to get on my bike.
And yet, in so many ways, I feel as though I’m only just beginning.
I think back to that day at the Canada Science and Technology Museum in Ottawa.
I remember standing in front of that enormous map of Canada, my heart racing, wondering what on earth I had gotten myself into.
I remember the fear.
The doubt.
The overwhelming sense that I had taken on something far bigger than I could possibly handle.
And now, I can’t wait to go back.
I look forward to standing in front of that same wall-sized map.
I will look at the extraordinary vastness of this country.
I will trace the route from Victoria, across the Rockies, the Prairies, Northern Ontario, Quebec, and the Maritimes, all the way to Cape Spear.
I will remember the mountains and the oceans.
The wind and the rain.
The kindness of strangers.
The laughter.
The tears.
The moments when I doubted myself.
And the moments when I felt that life simply couldn’t get any better.
I will think about the man who left Victoria and the man who returned home.
And, most of all, I will think about my sister.
I imagine standing there, smiling at that enormous map, and saying:
“Dianne, we did it!”
One last turn of the crank. One more gift for Di.
If this journey has meant something to you, I ask you to consider making one final donation to ovarian cancer research in Dianne’s memory.
Every contribution, large or small, helps support the fight against a disease that has taken far too much from far too many families.
Together, we can help give other women and their families more hope, more time, and more tomorrows.
Thank you for helping me honour my sister.
Congrats Barry! An exceptional accomplishment and brilliant tribute. We enjoyed reading all about your journey. So happy for you!
Congratulations Barry!! I’ve followed your trip from the beginning and have found it most inspirational. So much so that I’ve started to plan a similar trip with my brother for when we retire. Hope to ride with you again soon.