Nordegg – Brazeau – Hinton – Jasper: 70 km (of cycling)

Under the symphony of tiny drums that the rain plays on the canvases of our tents we wake up. It’s funny how that always sounds so warm and cuddly, yet is foreboding a terrible day to come. Especially today. The rain doesn’t stop and once we’ve had breakfast and packed up our stuff, we’re pretty much soaked. It’s just our second day here, neither of us needs or wants a rest day. So we set out, not even annoyed or unenthusiastic. That’s be because we hope the rain will stop at some point, but hope is not trustworthy, today specifically. For today the rain won’t stop. Bravely we ride into Canada’s wilderness. We won’t see asphalt or villages for at least two days. Our pasta and tomato paste rattles in our bags.

We’re on the Forestry Trunk Road, and we’ll stay on it for two days. It’s a road used by logging trucks and employees of the coal and gas mines adjacent to it. Although we see them traffic rarely. It’s a road that barely deserves the name of road, it does deserve its name, Forestry Trunk, for we are surrounded by pine trees, and the road itself is… not even gravel. Maybe on a dry day whatever this substrate is can pass for gravel. Today I can only describe it as a thick and heavy black mud. The mud sticks to bikes, in-between our tires and fenders, over our cassettes and between our brakes. We can’t reach all of our gears. Our brakes are starting to wear out. We cannot get any wetter. The thick mist has taken away all bright colours, we ride trough a bleak forest and lose sight of each other when one is further up the road.

After 70 kilometres we’re also getting cold. Marijn and I decide to cycle to the nearest campground, 15 km down the road. We both try to fix our brakes while we discuss it but there’s no point. The sand and the mud have worn them out completely, it’s metal on metal. Eager to get into dry clothes we push on. Right before we hit the campground the road descents sharply. I squeeze my brakes. Nothing. I squeeze harder. Still nothing. I’m picking up speed, fast. I get off my saddle and put my heels in the slippery mud. Still way too fast. Corner. Abyss. Crash.

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I know I went downhill fast. Too fast for comfort and too fast to hold corner. Yet it seemed like slow motion, than a quick crash and then slow motion again. I lay in the mud for a second or two, I see my wheel spinning, the spokes on a backdrop of black mud and icy rain. “Marijn must be here soon”, I think, “better get up before I scare him to death.” I stand up, wait for him to come. I start feeling shaky, it’s the adrenaline leaving my blood. Marijn asks if I’m OK.

“Yes”, I say, “my bike not so much I think.”

“How’s your head?”

“Why?”

“You have a little thing there.”

I take my phone out, point to camera to my face. The site is scarier than how it feels. Blood trickles down my forehead. I remember hitting my head but not really feeling it. Kids, wear a helmet!

“Let’s take a picture!”

The campground, latterly 50 meters further, is free, has a shelter and is equipped with a cast iron fireplace. It’s amazing, but I’m mostly worried about my bike right now. The shifters are completely broken, the handlebars have snapped too. There’s no way to ride it, and we’re in the middle of nowhere. As we dry our clothes over the fire, we discuss our plans for the day after. We’ll have to hitchhike. In these pandemic days bike parts are hard to come by. I’m afraid I’ll have to make my back way to Edmonton. I tell Marijn he can carry on if he wants. He tells me there’s no way he will. One team, one job. My anger and disappointment fades throughout the night as the realisation sets it that this is just it, and there’s nothing to do about it anymore, but to act tomorrow. But the pain gets worse. My led and wrist are getting pretty sore and swollen. That might also fade, just with time.

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The next day we wait on the side of the road. About a car every 45 minutes drives by, counting both directions, and most of are construction workers. No time, and no place. We’re running low on food. Water we take from the river nearby. Luckily everybody drives a 4x4 pickup truck here, definitely enough space for our bikes. We stay hopeful. After about 3 hours one of those pick-ups stops and asks us if we’re OK. We explain what happened. He feels for us, asks us if we have enough food and water and when we politely say we do he drives on. He was going the wrong direction anyways. Ten minutes later he’s back, explains to us he’s put our location on social media and has asked the community if anybody’s willing to pick us up and bring us to the next town. He gives us two boxes of protein bars and drives off again. Ten minutes later he’s back. He simply couldn’t leave us behind and takes us with him. This angel’s name is Travis and he’s not even to next small village but all the way to Hinton town where they have a bike shop. Perfect.

Bike shop closed. We spend the night in Hinton with a broken bike but in the company of our Warm Showers hosts Bruce and Kristen. They have a treehouse and we get to sleep in it. The next morning they’ve found Justin on Facebook who’s willing to give us a ride to Jasper, where they have even more bike shops. Man, Canadian hospitality is unbelievable and I’m extremely grateful in this time of need. Justin drops us off at the bike shop, who actually have parts I need, and after drives us up to his favourite lake. We’re in Jasper National Park now, and Justin knows this place well. He stops at insane viewpoints while he recounts stories of hiking, canoeing and biking in this area. He talks about it with a profound love and respect, while referring to himself as a redneck. He has to get his kids from school and drops us back of at the bike shop in Jasper. We spend the night there at yet another Warm Showers host also named Bruce. We drink a beer on his balcony, we cook him pasta.

The next morning, I pick up my bike. It costs me an arm and a leg, and another arm and another leg, and my mind too. But the bike is fixed, we can start, not really where we left off, but we can start again. We’re in the middle of the Rocky Mountains, and life looks like it can only get better.