GASP, Border to Border
Centennial Ride, July 23-30, 2005

(Great Annual Saskathcewan Pedal)

We didn't get off to a very good start. Maybe we should have paid heed to that big black cloud rolling overhead as we gathered in the Wal-Mart North parking lot in Regina.

The first delay was in Saskatoon, when the rental van we required to get to Lloydminster had not been returned. And then there was the delay caused by a very empty gas tank. Lesson learnt: an SUV pulling a big trailer into a horrific head wind really sucks the gas. But just as that cloud rolled benignly away, so did the delays of the first day. In the end we all arrived in Lloydminster, well before dark, and ready for a day on the bike.

At 8 am we gathered on the Provincial border for a group photo, to sing Happy Birthday and to officially begin our ride of the Century. It was an early start to music. Usually it's about day 3 or 4 of a cycling trip before the songs start to randomly run through my head. This time it started with Happy Birthday and quickly ran to Take Me To The River.

We were headed to the first crossing of the North Saskatchewan River. Careful here, enjoy the downhill, but it's a long up the other side. We were headed into Turtleford, a nice little campground in spite of the absence of showers, so we were shuttled off to the local hockey arena. Seems Gord was so overwhelmed by the superior arena shower that he bounded into the waiting shuttle van, whacking his skull on the side door catches. Based on eyewitness reports, Gord's head bleeds quite profusely, resulting in an immediate scramble for a provincial health card and the direct trip to the Turtleford Health Center. Three stitches later, almost good as new, he was ready to ride again.

Our next casualty was, thankfully not for another few days. It was cool start in the morning, enveloping us in a marvelous prairie fog. But breakfast at Mervin is calling. And no hungry cyclist waits for the fog when there is food waiting. Mervin has a great little vegan restaurant, at which virtually every cyclist stopped and inhaled muffins and coffee. If anyone missed this stop, I would be surprised. This is a story that would repeat itself several times. It was becoming evident that we were eating our way across the province, discovering many a great café, coffee shop, or bakery along the way.

Here is one of my favorite diatribes: Saskatchewan is not flat!!!!

Anyone who thinks it is really, really, really needs to get out of their vehicle and get on a bike.

By day 3, we had experienced that our province really does have some beautiful rolling hills, interspersed with valleys and rivers, trees and shrubs, and defiantly our share of wild flowers. The Canola was in full yellow bloom, with an occasional blue flax crop for contrast. Add hay fields, filled with sweet clover and alfalfa, with the farmers curse of thistles, both purple and yellow, under a blue sky dotted with clouds: It's a bit of prairie perfection. And I suppose it's an asthmatic's nightmare, but the scent of fresh cut hay or of pure wheat straw, still takes to back to childhood on a farm. I left Blaine Lake under slightly cloudy skies that were very intent upon becoming slightly rainy skies. I had been lucky so far, but others had experienced various degrees of rain, so obviously, I was due. But by time I reached Rosthern, I was under partially blue skies again. By time I arrived late into Wakaw, it was getting late, and I suppose I should have followed the lead of others who took the shuttle to the regional park located 11 km northeast of town. Undaunted, I was determined to ride into the park. Yes, this would be the stubborn streak that usually gets me in trouble. Another banana and granola bar, and I am on my way. Please bear with me; this is my Lance Armstrong Tour moment. Did I mention that it is uphill for 10.5 km followed by a sharp .5 km downhill into the campsite? Somewhere around km6, as I check my mirror, I see the first of the support vans coming, with Lou hanging out the window. Lou hanging out the window with a banana in his hand. With perfect pacing, the sag matched my speed, the handoff completed, then speed off into the campground to await my victorious arrival. Or least, that's how I remember it.

Day 5, ugghh. Ask anyone, uuuggghh!!! Beautiful day, mostly sunny, warmed up quicker than the previous days, no rain, beautiful rolling terrain, and no monster hills. But it was just a long and winding road, and long, and long. And did I mention long. Ask anyone. It just seemed like I was never going to make it to Humboldt, but I did. Hot shower, great supper, bought a cookbook (the local elementary school centennial project/fundraiser); life is good. Ready for tomorrow.

Day 6, destination Wadena. This should have been the ugly day, but it wasn't. The headwinds may have slowed me down, but it just seemed like a good day. Maybe it was the BIG art, or maybe it was St Peter's in Muenster, or maybe it was that the next town was only 11 km away. My musical moment in St. Peter's: ACome, All Ye Who Are Weary. I doubt that a road weary cyclist is what the composer had in mind, however it is a beautiful church with incredible acoustics. As for the BIG art: the Englefeld hog, Watson's Santa Claus, Quill Lake's Goose. It was not such a good day for Louise. She made contact with Tinus's bike and went down, hard. Fractured ankle, call the ambulance, direct to Saskatoon. We had entered the Homecoming celebration zone. Wadena had welcomed home it's very own Pamela Wallen and the festivities at the local arena were going strong, however the cyclists seemed to be enjoying a celebration of their own in front on Lou, Lou and Carol's camper. In the absence of a fire, the marshmallows had been replaced with a grand collection of highly nutritious power foods, er, junk food. Headed down the highway there was a homecoming parade in Buchanan and another set of celebrations in Canora. Canora really does have the best municipal water and had a darn fine set of fireworks.

Final day, downhill into Kamsack, uphill into the park. Having done this stretch numerous times each winter on a ski bus, I had never noticed how high the Duck Mountains really are. Ouch! Too close to quit now, I re-energized when I found the sag wagon perched on the side of the road. Fueled again, I headed to Manitoba border, celebrating with a quick dip in the lake, a burger and a shower.