Oh, Canada!

The load in Norman was at York, who make big air industrial conditioners and the pick up wasn’t until midnight but even so They didn’t start loading until 1:30 and then, once they had loaded the trailer, from front to back, they realized they couldn’t fit the last one on and so they had to take something off. The something they had to take off was the thing in front and so they unloaded the whole thing and reloaded it finishing at 4:00am. I pulled out and went to sleep, I would strap it all down in the morning.
I did that and when I went out to get the bills there was some problem, and it was Saturday so the problem was taking even longer to figure out. Eventually it was figured out but it certainly took a while.
I took the load through Tulsa and stopped by the office to make sure all my paper work was in order to head into Canada. When you take a load into Canada one of the easiest ways to do it is a system called PARS. Pre authorized release system or something like that. Essentially you affix a bar code sticker to the bills and fax them to an independent broker at the border where you are going to cross. They work out the paper work, figure out who owes what in customs and inputs the info into the computer. When the trucker gets to the border they only need to scan the barcode, check out your id and, if everything checks out, on you go. It worked out that way this time and crossing the border was a piece of cake.
I crossed at Detroit-Windsor. Detroit is bad enough already but they have decided to rip up pretty much every mile of interstate downtown at the same time and this really makes the whole place feel like a post-apocalyptic mess. I crossed the Ambassador Bridge over the Detroit River (Detroit is French for “straits” and technically the river is a strait connecting Lake Huron to Lake Erie (via a not so great lake called Lake St. Clair.) and as I entered Windsor, Ontario an air of civility fell over then land. Don’t get me wrong I love America but Canada feels different and that difference feels like civility.
You must traverse some surface streets in Windsor before finding the 401, southern Ontario’s main highway that connects Windsor to Toronto and Montreal. It would be a long slog up this road to Quebec but it felt shorter because of the kilometers. When you are used to miles, kilometers fly by.
I stopped at a Pilot to get some food intrigued by how foreign candy wrappers that you are unused to appear. I got some potato chips that I remembered from the last time I was in Canada. They were just Ruffles but the flavour was “All Dressed” (or in French “Assaisonait” or “seasoned”) I don’t know what is on these but they are very tasty.
In Ontario all the signs are in English and then, just down the road is the same sign but in French. This seems like it would cost a lot (Quebec solves the problem by dropping the English altogether.) Some of these signs are humourous to me. Par Example: there are many signs that warn of the penalties for various traffic violations. They list the violation and the resultant fine and points on your license. In Canadian English they call these “Demerit Points” which is funny enough but the French is “Points d’inaptitude” which really cracks me up.
The highway through most of Ontario is pretty unremarkable, very flat at first (its just a lake away from Ohio, really not that exotic) then there’s Toronto, a big city, but not overwhelming, like Chicago. North of Toronto it gets pleasantly woodsy looking more like upstate New York which is, of course, right across the St. Lawrence. The Thousand Island area is evocative. You can never really see the river or the islands but the land hints at its beauty, and its mayonnaise, ketchup and relish mixture.
Crossing into Quebec changes little (but everything gets more French) I stopped at the centre de bienvenue (not actual what it is called) and was greeted with the traditional Quebecoise tourist welcome “Bonjour, Hi.” A charming French boy tried to help me find a carte bicyclette de Montreal but to no avail.
Turns out I didn’t need one. Montreal’s bike paths are ubiquitous and while not particularly well signed, they are extensive and not hard to figure out.
I had parked in Boucherville across the river from city proper behind a Shell station that seemed the only place to park around here. I hopped on my bike and headed toward Montreal. This would have been far enough to bike into the city but as it turns out the bike path from along the east bank of the river into Vieux Montreal is quite indirect. It heads south along the river for about 10 miles from the point where I joined the trail. At one point I got off the main path and headed toward a marina which was the head of one bike path who’s sign implied that the path continued all the way to Quebec City, 440 km northeast.
I found the proper path again and continued south (to the point that I knew I was south of the downtown). Finally the path crosses the river on the Pont Victoria onto a little island (Montreal itself is an island but this was a much more bitty island) and on this island is a park and at the north end of the park is an amusement park. The bike path goes north on this island for a couple miles before crossing onto the île de Montréal. At this point however you are on the far side of the port and so must go south a couple miles to get around the bottom of the port and then its back north again to get into the heart of Montréal. All told this ended up being over 15 miles (25 kilometers) and I was beginning to lose hope since I knew I had to get back somehow and trucking does not keep you in the shape I was a few years ago when biking 70 miles in a day was totally do-able.
But it was totally worth it. Old Montréal is incredible. Not Europe not America but a little of both and something altogether different. Big buildings built of a stone that looks like really nice concrete create windy canyons of streets lined with restaurants and galleries and in the dying light, as the yellow glow from the windows began to become apparent the whole scene was really something. Oh yeah, and it was Canada Day so the whole place was mobbed.
I wandered about in wide eyed amazement, pleased that this was the 2nd time in a week that I had been in awe of a place. Three countries in a week isn’t so bad, especially when your continent only has three countries.
The darkness closed in on the festivities and fireworks began to pop in the distance and I consulted the phone to try and find a way to get across the river without the 15 mile return trip. I headed up over the ridge out of old Montréal surprised to find a sprawling modern city just over the crest. I found the subway and headed down only to be shoed out by bilingual cops who informed me no bikes were allowed in the Metro on Canada Day.
What in the world was I going to do. I was exhausted. I was right beneath the Pont Jaques-Cartiers near the aromatically malty Molson Brewery. I looked up at the towering bridge. If I could cross this bridge I wouldn’t have to make the zigzags to cross the river cutting the trip in half. I had to head pretty far west to find the point at which the bridge began its rise above the streets but when I got there I found that there was in fact a bike lane, Quelle Chance! I had not encountered this bike lane earlier since the bridge makes an equally gradual descent on the east bank and I passed under it right on the river where it still towered high above me.
I tore across the bridge with inexplicable energy and then bombed down the other side stopping at a convenience store called “Couche Tard” of which I passed no fewer than 20 on my return through the suburban streets of Longuieul.
I got to the truck and ate my chicken salad sandwich and gulped water. Chicken Salad here seems to be a chicken and mayonnaise paste between slices of bread. It’s pretty tasty.
I slept like a baby and woke in the morning where I delivered the air conditioners to more brilliantly bilingual Quebecers. The receptionist greeted me with “Un livraison?” I knew what she was saying but even in my brief hesitation she switched to English. The air conditioners were unloaded quickly and I returned to the Shell station to see what would happen next.