From filter coffee in rural Canada to drip coffee in Los Angeles, we explored North America by bicycle via coffee.
We woke up early and scarpered from our illicit campsite in Fundy National Park, to start tackling the rest of the infamous hills. At least these would be less mentally tough than the ones we conquered at the end of a long day the night before. However, yesterday had been full of sunshine and blue skies with a cooling breeze — ideal weather for a tough ride. This morning was the exact opposite, as if we had been transported 6 months forward in time.
There was no visibility, and the thick grey fog that surrounded us clung damply onto our skin. Only our own breathing could be heard, which made the whole scene both beautiful and eerie. Each hill was a challenge and each downhill a reward, tinged with caution as brakes became moistened. It was tough but enjoyable as we admired the lush trees that are eponymous of New Brunswick, and kept our eyes keenly peeled for any hint of wildlife.
Then the rain started.
We crouched at the side of the road, barely able to see the trees five foot away, but certain we were completely alone without even a distant motor to be heard. Balancing the bikes against our hips and knees, we wriggled into our waterproofs. It’s an ordeal every time that frequently lasts as long as the rainstorm itself. Today that was not the case and the downpour just became heavier and heavier, daring us to give up and let ourselves be soaked through. But we persisted and got on our bikes again, heavy-hearted and weighed down by rain gear.
After demolishing the hills far quicker than expected, we turned onto a flatter road, aiming for civilisation. Before long, we arrived at the Timberland Motel, the only building for miles and unconnected to any township. We leaned our bikes against the huge oak tree overshadowing the main building and dragged ourselves inside: drenched, shivering, tired, over it.
‘It’ here being code for everything that comes with cycling in the rain — sodden feet, sweaty forearms, freezing extremities, the knowledge that any electronics or precious notebooks not quite in their proper place could be soaked and unusable. The splashes that come from your own wheels, taunting you with their heightened ferocity as you go faster, defying gravity to flick themselves up your trouser legs. The spray from any passing vehicle that whips its way up your sleeves, nestling amongst any material it can find to ensure your skin encounters not even a smidgen of warmth. The rain drops coming straight down and perpendicularly across that conspire to flood your collar and leak down every inch of your spine. The rolling drips that glide off the peak of your helmet, onto your nose, and into your eyes, forcing your eyelashes to work overtime at a job they are under-qualified for. And the sweat that pools and collects in the portable sauna that is your outerwear, dampening your armpits and cleavage.
All this to say that seeing an open motel with the possibility of a hot drink and roof, was to catch a glimpse of heaven.
We entered the foyer of the Timberland and although perplexed (most people encountering us throughout the whole trip greeted us with this emotion but in weather and places like this, it was especially palpable), the receptionist welcomed us in. We peeled off sodden layers and hung them on the coat rack. We dug out hoodies from the depths of our panniers, and sank into the couch with audible sighs. Either kindly or due to continued confusion, we were left to rest for a few minutes before a semi-whisper came from the reception desk behind us:
“uhh, would you guys, uh, like some coffee or something?”
The relief and joy on our faces were the expressions of cartoons and she laughed as we responded positively, in sync. When she brought us the steaming pot and two mugs, she did ask if we wanted to go into the dining room, but the sofa had started to mould to our butts by then and as much as we lack the social pride to care, we did not feel comfortable appearing amongst a middle-class retirees’ breakfast in musty cycling shorts.
The coffee itself was forgettable; the warmth it brought to our insides was pure perfection, but it was the remainder of our stay at the Timberland Motel that made sure this caffeine-stop made the list. Our mugs were wordlessly refilled and refilled and refilled. We used their chargers and wifi to keep an eye on the weather radar, and had the most wonderful conversations with curious patrons passing by. The owner even came out and we shared a conversation with him for far longer than one would expect he had time for. If we weren’t vegan, I am sure we could have enjoyed a breakfast on the house. As it was, we munched on Clif bars dunked in hot coffee, and as soon as the rain eased to a manageable pressure, we thanked everyone profusely and hopped on our way.
