This was the pleasant, leisurely day. (The other days were pleasant, too, but I'm not sure how leisurely many of them turned out to be!) I rode back toward Vermont along the path I had meant to use on the way into Montreal. But first -- a ride back north along the trail, to a combination bike shop/cafe I had noticed on my first pass across the city.



At last! A place that had a Presta-friendly manual air pump, with a gauge! A place where I could replace the Kryptonite cable that went with my U-lock! ( I had left the cable behind at the campsite at Labelle, and the two other bike shops I stopped at -- Mont-Tremblant and Ste-Adele -- didn't have a replacement. It seems that the towns along the trail didn't see enough bike theft to understand why anyone would want to make sure the front tire AND the rear tire AND the frame were all secured to the U-lock.) I bought a tire tube, to replace the one I had used last the night before; and got to sip some darn good coffee while someone inflated my tires for me. (I had asked to just borrow the air pump, but they wouldn't hear of it.)


The bridge across the St. Lawrence was open this time, so I got to see the beautiful park at Ile Notre-Dame and ride my bike along what had been a NASCAR track just a few days before. How many cyclists do you know, Clyde, 'Theena, or otherwise, who can boast that they've ridden their bikes on a NASCAR track?



Retracing my steps from what had been a confused ride a few nights before, I found myself wishing that I had brought along a can of green spray paint to mark the turn that I had missed. Ah, well. At Chambly, I stopped to admire the view out across the lake, munching happily on an ice cream cone as I did. One benefit to a bike tour like this -- there are no guilty calories.



Then another afternoon on the canal path at Chambly before getting to St-Jean-sur-Richelieu in the late afternoon. I heard a roar of air as I rode into town, and looked up; there were hot air balloons just lifting off into the blue sky.



I had time to check in at that night's hotel, and then walk into town. My leg muscles were confused by this new request -- back&forth instead of around&around? -- but eventually, things worked out. Once back at the hotel, well-fed and sleepy, I had a moment to take stock of my situation. My arms were sunburnt from where my short-sleeved jerseys stopped to where my gloves started -- and tanned again from the second knuckle to the end. There were two distinct tan lines, one darker than the other, across my thighs -- one pair of cycling shorts is a few inches longer than the other. My right calf was covered with scrapes, presumably from the times I walked my bike only to have the pedal swing 'round and catch me in the leg. My feet had tiger stripes, tanning through the pattern of my cycling sandals. And what's this? A tick? Oh, Slartibartfarst....The newspaper continued to talk about "l'ouragan", in bigger print than before. I sprawled out on the hotel bed, knowing that the next day would be the last of my trip. 40 miles.