Two wheels better
Quebec takes on an entirely new dimension on La Route Verte
It started raining the minute I pedalled out of the campsite around 7 a.m. Just a little rain, I thought. No big deal. An hour later, it was coming down so hard I felt like I was biking through a carwash with no exit. 11 a.m. rolled around and I still hadn’t touched my water bottles on account of how much water I was licking off my face. Every 10 minutes, or so, RVs and logging trucks stacked with tonnes of wet lumber whizzed by, catching me up in vicious crosswinds and spraying me with gravel and road debris. I could barely see. I was holler-singing the Spice Girls’ “Spice Up Your Life” to stay motivated, but I could barely hear myself over the din.
I was two-thirds of the way through a 16-day solo tour of the Gaspé Peninsula. Just me, my bike, four panniers and 900 kilometres of road. It was my first tour, and things had been going better than expected: I’d conquered grinding hills, fixed my own disc brakes, developed a sommelier’s palate for lobster poutine and still felt pretty sane, though some might’ve taken my loud, off-key, military-cadenced tributes to the Spice Girls as evidence to the contrary. Today, though? Today was terrible. By the time I rolled into the town of Paspébiac, population 3,198, I was pedalling every stroke under protest. I yearned for cheesecake, hot chicken sandwiches and milkshakes, but all I passed were car repair shops and bungalows. I was starting to think I might have to knock on someone’s door and charm a snack out of them when a Tim Hortons sign came into view. I switched to “We Are the Champions.” DONUTS! No matter how disgusting I felt: DONUTS!
I parked, dismounted, and pushed through the door, ready to make a dripping dash to the cash and out again. But then I heard clapping.
I recognized a few of the applauders from their motorcycle jackets. (How I envied their engines when they’d sped past me on the highway an hour ago!) They clapped me all the way up to the counter, where I ordered a soup, a sandwich, and three Boston cream donuts. Then the group of them hollered me over to their table. “Sit,” they said, slapping me on the back. “You must be having the greatest time!”
Though our engines were different, they know what I know: the best way to get “there” is always by bike.
That’s especially true in Quebec, which has an enviable network of designated roads, bike paths and trails that has grown to span 5,300 kilometres over 20 years. La Route Verte, as it’s called, crisscrosses 393 Quebec municipalities, from Val d’Or to Percé, Baie-Comeau to Sutton. Seventy-five per cent of Quebecers live in a town or city that’s on, or less than a kilometre from, La Route Verte.
To many cyclists, the Gaspé Peninsula is the crown jewel of La Route Verte: the terrain is varied and demanding, the shoulders are wide, the views are unrelentingly beautiful, and culture runs deep. I’d taken the train from Toronto to Rimouski and headed out from there, follow- ing Highway 132 along the north shore of the peninsula, past Matane and its famous shrimp, chasing St. Lawrence sunrises all the way to the edge of the Chic Choc mountains. That’s where the dizzying elevations hit, and they lasted until I rounded the tip to Gaspé and Percé, where I took a break to kayak through the Rocher Percé and tarry with northern gannets.
Onwards from Paspébiac, I’d roll along tapering terrain into Chaleur Bay, where the sand is red, the water’s warm, and the microbreweries are hopping, and then wind through the majestic Matapédia Valley, following the river upstream past the Battle of the Restigouche National Historic Site and dozens of salmon-fishing outposts until the St. Lawrence came back into view. All along, I was camping ocean-side for $30, eating seafood off the boat and falling hard for this salty piece of Earth.
There’s no feeling like waking up in the morning knowing all you have to do is pedal. The long hours in the saddle are filled with contradictions: you’re solitary, yet fully embraced. You feel invisible, yet you’re seen by all. You spend all day with your eyes on the road and its minutiae: butterflies, broken keys, lipstick tubes and shopping lists — the archeology of strangers’ lives — yet you’re deeply connected to the vast world around you. You’re tired yet energized, bored yet in thrall. The bike is the place where I feel most free: it’s where I understand myself best, and where I least feel the need to be understood.
The trip was such a thrill that I’m heading out again. The Route Verte turns 20 in 2015, and I’m celebrating by exploring a 700-plus-kilometre segment of the Bas Saint-Laurent and the Saguenay. I’ll visit the farming community of Kamouraska, spend a day kayaking in spectacular Parc du Bic, get a taste of Charlevoix’s culinary charms, and whale-watch in Tadoussac. I’ll end with a 256 km blueberryand cheese-laden loop around Lac St-Jean on the Véloroute des Bleuets, a.k.a. the Blueberry Bikeway.
As I was starting to plan for this trip, though, disappointing news arrived: late last year, the Quebec government cut the $2.8 million it dedicated annually to La Route Verte’s maintenance and development, reducing the total budget in half. Bike paths are open and municipalities are doing their best to keep shoulders clear and service up to par. Cycling groups are trying to ensure the route is able to continue, but sections of the route are at risk of closure if not maintained.
La Route Verte is so much more than just a collection of designated roadways: it’s a cultural, historic, environmental and artistic tribute to the province — a valuable educational tool that’s irreducible, irresistible and necessary.
It’s what drew me to it in the first place, and why I plan to keep biking La Route Verte until I’ve seen all 5,300 kilometres. At the finish line, I’ll expect more clapping — and maybe a parade. And, of course, for a very long life for one of the country’s best-kept secrets.