I wake up Monday morning realizing that I did something amazing, and dumb, and possibly amazingly dumb, the day before: I rode 90 miles on a 90 pound bike! As I head into the auberge's common room for their $5 breakfast (coffee, bagels, nutella, and bananas -- yum!) I realize that I will not be able to ride back from Montreal to North Hero in a single day. That means that I need to plan on getting back to Montreal on Thursday night -- and lucky for me, the "Alternative Auberge" hostel where I'm staying has a vacancy for Thursday night. I tell them to expect me by 10pm that evening.
After dawdling as long as I think I can, I set back on the road. My day starts in Old Montreal, a neighborhood of close-packed streets and old (by North American standards) buildings. I'm reminded of what I once heard on a visit to England:
in America, 200 years is a long time; in Europe, 200 miles is a long distance.
One thing that I quickly discover is that Montreal is a cycling town on a scale that puts Philadelphia to shame. There are bike paths everywhere. Along several roads, there are three separate pieces of pavement: the road, the sidewalk, and the bike path. Similarly, the intersections have 3 different traffic lights: one for cars, one for pedestrians, and one for cyclists. There is a network of bicycle rental kiosks dotting the city. You can rent a bike for a small fee, ride it to your destination, and leave it at a kiosk there. These rental bikes were heavily used; I saw dozens of people using them to get around the city that morning.
Montreal is on an island in the St. Lawrence. The suburb of Laval is on the next island to the west, before getting back to the mainland. Which means that my morning had more bridge crossings in it. Once again, I couldn't find my way. On Sunday night, the bridge into Montreal was closed; on Monday morning, the bridge out of town was under construction. I followed detour signs past torn-up "Route Verte" signage near the bridge, and came to a sign directing cyclists to dismount and walk their bikes across the bridge to Laval.
So I did that. In Laval, there was more construction; but I managed to follow the bike path markings for a mile or so before I began to realize that something was fishy. Wasn't I supposed to be heading mostly north? Then, why did it feel like I was heading eastwards instead? And why did this bike path take me over the equivalent of an interstate highway -- when my Route Verte map showed the highway as being well to the east of the correct path? I then realized that I hadn't seen a Route Verte sign since getting to Laval.
Just because it's a bike path, doesn't mean it's the right path...
Time to backtrack. I found myself heading up a major roadway, 2 lanes in each direction, 50 mph speed limit, no shoulders, bristling with shops and strip malls on either side. The drivers there let me know that I was intruding on their turf in no uncertain terms! So much for following the main road for a few miles, until the Route Verte was shown to intersect it. I needed to head still further west, even though to get off the island I'd need to head east again later.
I finally found the RV. Here, it was a bike path along power lines, behind the back of industrial parks. No cars, though, so that was a relief. It felt cut off from the world.
Eventually, I crossed Laval and managed to successfully cross a bridge to Rosemere. Now the RV followed roads, twisting its way through busy downtowns. I made sure I had my GPS turned on as a backup, and I closely scanned the street signs, not wanting to get lost yet again. Lunch was had at a little sandwich shop that had the distinguishing feature of being halfway up a hill.
The rain started again just as the route straightened out in Blainville. Here, I started seeing signs for the P'tit Train du Nord, letting me know how many km I was away from its southern terminus. Unlike the RV signs, which appeared at turns, the PTdN signs came every kilometer -- reassuring me that I was indeed doing it right.
By the time I got to St. Jerome, I was tired. My original plan had called for me
to ride north along the trail from Saint Jerome, getting maybe 20 miles into the trail on Monday. But I'm pooped out from my 90 mile, 90 pound feat of the day before. Making it the 40 miles to St. Jerome is all I can manage, especially since I get lost on the way. I also realize that tackling the gravel end of the trail first is not something I'm up for. So I make a reservation for the shuttle van to take me to the far end of the trail the next morning -- and then spend the night at a chain hotel. With a private bath, and nice hot water to soak in. It's been a long time since I felt so worn out by a 40 mile trip. Why should it have taken from 10am to 5 pm to go 40 miles? Oh, right -- getting lost, 50 pounds of gear, and 90 miles the day before.
The soak in the tub felt wonderful.