July 3,
2001
© Darrell Noakes
A week
ago Saturday, a southeast wind was blowing hot, humid air up from
the American south at 70 km/hr. To escape the wind, as much as the sweltering
heat, we ducked into every small town to nose around in drink coolers.
We were on our way to Rosthern, a quiet Mennonite community about halfway
between Saskatoon and Prince Albert. The campsite is located next to a
golf course outside of town. At times the campground becomes almost boisterous
with rowdy campers gathering to sing gospel songs while cupping mugs of
Ovaltine in their hands.
We pulled into the service station at Hague. I sauntered inside, selected
a drink, and came back outside to enjoy it on the sidewalk. A pickup truck
that had been refueling was entering the service road parallel to the
highway. I tilted my head back to take a long sip of cold juice. As I
lowered my head, I saw that large sheets of styrofoam that had been laid
in the back of the pickup truck were now whipped into the wind. One after
another, each sheet flipped upright and banged the cab of the truck, broke
into two jagged pieces, then lofted through the air, cartwheeled along
the access road toward town or tumbled through farm fields. The truck
had stopped after the first few pieces had taken to the air, and the driver
was out running in circles around the truck, waving his arms, unable to
decide whether to catch the pieces that were blowing away or stop new
sheets from taking off.
As I watched one of the Styrofoam pieces bouncing along the road, a flash
of yellow on the highway beyond caught my eye. A lone cyclist was making
his way through the wind, his feet spinning in front of him. The cyclist
turned onto the town access road, then coasted into the service station.
I recognized the bike, a Lightning P-38 recumbent. By now, everyone in
our group was standing on the sidewalk, watching the spectacle of the
flying Styrofoam. We exchanged greetings with the new cyclist. The Lightning
rider pointed to the door of the service station and said he'd be right
back.
A few minutes later, the Lightning rider joined us in front of the service
station. The wind was blowing in our faces and a large overhanging roof
provided shade. Outside, we could avoid the blue cloud of cigarette smoke
that choked the restaurant. The rider explained that he was on his way
down from Prince Albert. It was a fierce wind, he said. The rest of us
nodded. Out on the service road, the pickup driver had heaved a large
toolbox onto the two or three Styrofoam sheets that hadn't yet blown away.
Two men who had been at the service station were standing behind the truck,
one tugging at the brim of his Co-Op baseball cap, the other standing
with his hands on his hips.
As we four cyclists rested in the shade and inquired about one another's
bicycles, another two men arrived at the pickup truck on the service road.
In all, five men were staring into the bed of the truck as if gathered
at the funeral of an old friend.
The Lightning rider pointed up the road. A tight clot of brightly dressed
cyclists was pushing through the wind toward town. A few minutes later,
they had joined us at the service station. There were about a dozen of
them, some on racing bikes, a few on touring bikes, another on a Lightning.
We had crossed paths with the Prairie Randonneurs. They had left at dawn,
rode a different route to Prince Albert and were now returning to Saskatoon
along our route. By the time they got home, they would have covered at
least five times the distance we were planning to ride for the day. Their
bikes were light and spare, each carrying only the barest essentials to
complete the route as quickly as possible. In contrast, we tourists looked
like a band of hobos, our bikes laden with bulging fabric and protruding
hardware.
While we munched on snack food, the randonneurs squirted packets of goo
into their mouths, finished off their drinks then mounted their bikes.
The wind was still fierce and, with 60 km or more to their destination,
they had to get moving or risk losing their average speed. Sunset was
still many hours away. We were in no hurry, with only 20 km left to our
destination.
Out on the service road, the men, the pickup truck and the Styrofoam were
gone.
Borealis
Outdoor Adventure
Home
Page