By the time we reached the final ten kilometers, we were, to put it delicately, no longer in peak condition. It was 10 p.m. We’d been riding since six in the morning. Most of us had been up since four. I was sunburned, bruised, mildly concussed by heat, and radiating the unmistakable smell of someone who had eaten too many granola bars in a single day. And still, it felt good.

Michel arrives at the final control in Waterloo.

There’s a part of the route every ride in Waterloo seems to share, a stretch of road that tells you you’re almost home. For me, that’s the intersection of Katherine Street South, where Crowsfoot Road turns into Conestogo. I got a second wind there, which is saying something, because the first one had died quietly somewhere outside Hamilton about ten hours earlier. But there I was, flying down familiar tarmac. When I reached the finish, I stopped so suddenly that my Garmin triggered a crash detection alert out of sheer confusion.

Rolling hills down the escarpment

The day had started with smoke in the sky – Canadian prairie wildfires, hundreds of kilometres away, politely ruining the air quality – and a blissfully fast 120 km of tailwind and descent. Marc, Mike, Jim, Mark, and I rode loosely together throughout the day. We’d separate and reform like the rolling hills. Sometimes we talked, sometimes we didn’t. No one needed a reason.

I rode alone for most of that first stretch, happily introspective, the way you sometimes get early in a season when the legs haven’t quite remembered who they are, and the brain hasn’t yet remembered why we do this.

Michel arrives at the first control.

Then we turned northeast. Into the wind. And up. The temperature went up with us. There were trees, thankfully, and we stopped under several of them. At one point, Michael and I sat on a stone at the side of the road – two stone garden gnomes left out too long: flaking paint, haunted expressions, and the vague scent of overripe bananas – and swapped riding plans for the season. Later, Marc joined us for snacks in a patch of shade behind the Foodland in Rockwood, which sounds less picturesque than it was and felt more nourishing than it should have.

Mike enjoys a well earned snack and break in Rockwood

I fell, briefly. Gravel at an intersection near Hamilton. Too much speed, a small lapse in judgment. Road rash and a few bruises. Nothing serious. And before you worry too much – the bike’s okay. What surprised me most was how kind the drivers were. No honking, no anger. Just people waiting, calling out to make sure I was all right. You don’t always get that in Southern Ontario traffic. It was oddly touching.

We took turns being strong as we climbed through the afternoon. We stopped for dinner at a place called the Tipsy Fox, which sounds like a pub in a BBC drama but served food hot enough to make us reconsider riding at all afterward.

Michel and Michael find some shade at by the Tipsy Fox

Jim Mullenix enjoys a pasta dinner at the Tipsy Fox.

But ride we did. The sun was setting as we left the pub, and while we still had hills to climb, they felt more manageable – if not exactly welcome, at least no longer personal. We passed through a town called Hillsburgh, which felt a bit on the nose. As Marc helpfully pointed out, burgh can mean “hill” in German.

Somewhere between dinner and the finish, the road got familiar again. We were back in Fergus, territory we’d ridden through a dozen times, maybe more. The turns started feeling inevitable instead of infinite. We stopped counting hills and started recognizing landmarks. And then I saw Crowsfoot Road and knew we were home.

The next morning, I was sore, sunburned, and very aware of the gravel still lodged in my shin. I had a tan line that suggested I’d been dipped halfway into red paint and left to dry. But mostly, I felt content.

Randonneuring has this odd way of asking everything from you, and then, almost sheepishly, giving something back. Not a prize. Not a medal. Just a vague but persistent sense that you’re a little more human than you were yesterday. A little more tired. A little more grateful.

And besides, it was only the beginning. We’ve got Devil’s Week coming. London–Edinburgh–London for some. The Granite Anvil for others. Which is to say: we’ll do it again. Longer. Hotter. Hillier. Possibly with fewer dumpsters.

Right to left: Marc Deshaies, Jim Mullenix, and Michel Hébert