Cycling the Cabot Trail of Cape Breton ain't for sissies.  It may not even be for old men. It may even be that I’m old…

Part-way up this mountainside that has no visible end, I’m negotiating with myself to just make it to that next bend. Or maybe just to that next phone pole. Reminding myself that breaks don’t really help, it’s just as steep afterwards. I set my resolve to not stop until that next crest, then seconds later I find I have stopped, feet on the ground, bike teetering between quivering thighs. 

It feels weak in the mind, not body. Thighs aren’t unbearably burning, breath not last-gasping, salty-sweat not eye-burning. I just stop trying. Have I lost that mental toughness, that “Grit” that pushed 20-something me through the Rockies and across the prairies, up Kentucky coal-mining cutbacks, the Habitat for Humanity fundraising ride across the Kalahari desert? I used to bite onto my feathered-gold necklace, suck in two breaths through the nose for every one mouth exhale, stay in 2nd or 3rd gear so I mentally always had that final gear in reserve. Never stop mid-hill, and certainly never start questioning whether I will actually make it or not.

To be a little fair, this is mountain #2 of the day, and the idea of cruising down the other side then immediately climbing #3 is weighing heavily (turns out later I was wrong, I’ve already done the first two and this is the third and final). And I did start feeling sick at dinner last night (didn’t tell Sarah - she might have suggested skipping the ride!) and have been fighting burps and almost-vomit all day. But there’s always something, those are just excuses for weakness.

To be more fair, I am 58 years old and it’s okay to find this challenging. It’s okay that I let myself stop every few minutes - one time scaling down to a waterfall for a long shady break, another time jumping the safety barrier and dangling my legs over the cliff edge, and at the bottom laying prone on a picnic table for a sun-scorched nap. I’m 58, haven't ridden in a year, yet I do in the end cycle up and down all 3 mountains. I’m 58 and I have nothing to prove, just out here to enjoy and explore.

So after that final mountain, I remind myself to get back to enjoying rather than surviving the ride. I take a coastal detour recommended by a lovely old man that of course is much hillier than the main road, and just laugh at myself while enjoying spectacular views and hidden cove fishing villages. Find a shrimp penne dish that my stomach feels like it can handle (the only non-deepfried item on the menu). 

After 80 miles, a neighbour at Ingonish Beach Provincial Park wanders over from his big trailer as I set up my ultralight 1-man tent, and uses the word “fascinated” four times as he asks about my travel style. He doesn’t think any less of me that I chose to take a few breathers on the 15% grade, 1200 feet climb up North Mountain. After a quiet meditation and sunset swim in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, neither do I. I’m just grateful to have experienced this chunk of what Lonely Planet calls one of the top ten cycle routes in the world.