My pad for the night.

Short post after a very short ride today.  I considered making it to the ferry this afternoon another 50 k away, but instead I’m staying over at a friend’s brother’s cottage in Malbai.  It’s pretty much wildly beautiful with a view over Murray Bay, a refuge from the moody, brooding, dark St. Laurent.

The view from my balcony. Doesn

Well, poutine cometh and poutine leaveth.  It has clearly embraced the mantra leave no trace. I respect that. I spent most of the morning crop dusting the Quebecoise countryside.  I predict this year’s harvest to be quite abundant.  They can thank me later. I do this for free – as a thankful guest in this wild country.

A common scene as one guy has his face buried in his shirt thinking of one thing: survival.

I leave the boys on the front porch feeling that typical apprehension and pull of comfort.  Two nights is just enough time to get comfortable in a place, and I feel it for a mile or two.  But, as my GPS takes me through a part of town I’d never expected (I must have a setting called “take me through the ghetto” that I can’t get off), I’m feeling the joy of movement again.  Great time with the boys, but it’s time to move on…

Little bit of a funk yesterday but it’s amazing how that’s completely eliminated when you’re back on the road and moving through a new place and you find this long, narrow suspension bridge leading out to an island with one road ringing it with twisty curvy, topsy turvy road connecting small cottages and cafés along the way.  And you don’t even notice the cop behind you with lights flashing and sirens blaring.  Yes, full sirens.  You think only, shit, how long has he been back there?  Martin Sexton has been wailing away in my ear about women and wine never went too well made me say things I didn’t want to tell…  I don’t even know what the speed limit is.  50k?  40?  How fast was I going? 60? 70? 80?  Oh no.  He must really be pissed if he’s got his siren going!!  How will I get out of this one?  Well, at least I put a Quebec sticker above my Canada sticker.  To add to the situation, there is nowhere to pull over – it’s street and then tiny sidewalk – so I just slow down and move to the right trying to put on my best “I am trying so hard to comply with your wishes” face, when, to my surprise, he just zips around me.  Huh?  Now I can only think, how could there possibly be something worth sirens on an early Sunday morning on this island?  Is there a cat up a tree somewhere?  Ahh, and I’m off again, a bit slower… and wiser…

I also slow down to really take in this island off the coast of Quebec City.  It’s about 75 km around, and it’s the perfect diversion on a very short riding day.

One of the many...

The entire island is like Fish Creek in Door County except that the bars aren’t Wisconsin north woods / up nort bars.  They’re bistros and cafés and resto bars with terraces and views of the water and all aflower and color with the best beers and coffee and treats and happy no English smiles.

A quick rest on the bike upon arriving in Malbai.

Tonight should be interesting.  I’m attending a dinner party where jacket is required. I’d have a hard time pulling that off at home with my full wardrobe arsenal at my beck and call! I’m living out of three metal boxes.  The closest I have to this attire is torn jeans, a flannel that reeks of campfire a shirt that says fucklamode, and flip-flops.  Met one of the guests – he was in pink (again, I cannot make this up) corduroys and a sport coat – in the middle of the day.  I got the feeling that my simple existence was displeasing to him.  Should be fun!  Tomorrow will be a long day of riding and ferry’s and all that.  More pictures!