I’m turning off the Trans Canada and heading down the Burin Peninsula today. I'm nervous as it's 150 km to the next town, Marystown, and 110 to the Placentia West Tea Rose Restaurant, the only place on the road where I can get something to eat. Given the past two days I'm wondering if I can even do 110 kms; Newfoundland kilometres are not the same as ordinary ones. The question on my mind is: "Will I get to eat tonight?"

I'm up at 5.30 a.m. and headed to the 24-7 Big Stop where I plan to fortify myself with a Hungry Man Breakfast, something like 6 eggs, steak, hash browns, Texas toast and bottomless coffee. When I get there, though, I see the restaurant is closed. Oh woe! The convenience store, though, is open and this is where I have to find food for 4 meals for a hungry man. Lordy, lordy, what to choose? Doritos, beer, soft drinks, donuts, Mars bars? It takes a bit of a search but I manage to get two cans of Chef Boyardee beef ravioli, one can of Alphagetti, and 2 bananas. I also have that 3 pound loaf of raisin bread that I bought yesterday. It has no more than six raisins in it and it's horribly gooey, it sticks to the roof of your mouth like the communion wafers you got at church when you were a kid. I remember going cross-eyed trying to peel that stuff off with my tongue, careful not to break the wafer, scared shitless cause, Holy Christ, this is Christ you're trying to peel off here!

With yesterday's freezing downpour fresh in mind, I am delighted to see a spot in the sky that is a lighter hue than the rest. Even maybe not gray. Once at Blue Beach I saw a six-foot sturgeon jump right in front of me.  I could see its whiskers,  the dinosaur spines on its back, the shine on its scales. But in half a second it was gone and there was nothing to suggest it was ever there. I was left wondering if I had seen it at all. That bright spot in the sky was much like that.

Ten kilometres in and the world has opened up, my goodness, scenery in every direction! Wide open emptiness. Rock, scrub spruce and tamarack, matted close to the ground, bare, open tundra, and hundreds of bogs of water black as 80 proof tea. And wildlife, too. In the first hour I see 3 moose! The short legged Newfoundland variety,  what the locals call "rabbit moose." And a squirrel, too. 

And except for the hills, the road is flat. Unlike yesterday when the road only seemed to go uphill, today  it's all downhill! My heart is pounding, I'm on a rush, flying in my highest gears! Except like I said, the hills. These I mostly walk up. Too much testosterone has passed under the bridge for any sort of macho exploits on hills. 

And now, the SUN, boldly from the heavens! In glory accompanied by a procession of angels in shining robes and with choirs singing hallelujahs, and trumpets blowing and cymbals crashing. But seconds later,  well before the big crescendo, the clouds return, the angels quietly pack up their instruments and slink back up to heaven, closing the door behind them with a soft but definitive "click". Not though, alas, before the wind squeezes its way out like a rambunctious puppy cooped up too long. My brothers and sisters in cycling fully understand what direction the wind is going to come from; there only ever is but one. Then, minutes later, out from straight ahead, black and as big as the sky, I see the trickster Weeseekeejack coming, undoing his fly. He's been drinking beer all night and now he needs to piss. Poor me! He's coming on fast so I fling on my rain jacket and madly rifle through my bags looking for the rain pants. I find them and jump into them, just as...the sun comes out again!

And so it is all day; the sky is wild! Clouds, sun, rain, wind, madly fighting each other, each trying to upstage the other, none winning. Wildness creates wildness and I'm rabid, on a high, my legs pumping as fast as the pistons driving a speeding locomotive. I am tireless and I make it to the Tea Rose, not for supper but for lunch! 

The Tea Rose is a cute place, an old building painted yellow and pink, with a slow-food restaurant and a gift shop selling locally made crafts. I sit down for a meal; the guy at the next table sees I’m a cyclist and starts asking me all about my trip. He can’t get enough of it. His dream, he tells me, is to cycle to Bay L’Argent and then take the ferries to Rencontre East, Pool’s Cove, and points west, the very route I hope to take. I’m surprised, this is an exotic trip for me but for him it’s all just next door; why not just do it? His wife is silent throughout the meal but as they leave she whispers to me as she passes: “He’s sick with envy of you.” Everyone in the place is friendly and sweet and a pretty girl from down the road in Rushoon tells me, in a soft brogue, that she likes my accent! She tells me it sounds like what she calls a "Canadian" accent. Gee. 

It’s still 40 kms to Marystown, where I can get a room and groceries. I’m still feeling indefatigable and I decide I’m going for it. I fly off again but, cue ominous music, all is not well.

The lowest gear is grinding, a sound that drills into my head like one of those parasites that bore into your brain and lay their eggs there. They hatch and the larvae eat their way out. It was only last year on a trip from Winnipeg to Nova Scotia that I heard that sound, first the low gears went, then the high. Three bike shops on the way couldn’t fix it and I rode 3000 kms on only a few working gears. 

Twenty kilometres out of Marystown another sound emerges,  random thunks, not in rhythm with my peddling. It’s concerning and when I get to the hotel I decide I’ll check it out by cycling, rather than walking, to the supermarket a block away. Suddenly. ..clunk! The bike stops cold, the derailleur is jammed, the wheel won't go forward or back. The arse has gone out of ‘er; the wheel drags on the ground like a dog with ringworm scraping its ass along the sidewalk. Check that next box, amigos, my trip has just taken a new turn.

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