Two Wheels on my Wagon by Paul Howard Page B

since Banff from the ‘ever-so-purty’ waitress. In cut-off denim shorts, she was a dead ringer for Daisy from the Dukes of Hazzard . I felt slightly incongruous in full waterproof overclothes – the only items I possessed that were ‘clean’ – but she smiled sweetly anyway. Swan Lake clearly had it all.
    I sat outside on the decking and watched the bar owner entertain his grandchildren and their friends with rides in his Model T Ford. Inside, a group of 20 or so locals had gathered for a wine tasting, something of a novelty in these parts. Snippets of conversation reached me through the saloon door. It was an education.
    â€˜The next wine I’m gonna move on to is a dry rosé, a kind of transition between white and red,’ said the sommelier. He pronounced rosé with such emphasis on the second syllable it came out like ‘row-zay’.
    This was clearly a surprise to at least one of his audience.
    â€˜Yes, ma’am, some people like their row-zays. If you go to Europe, the most popular wine is a dry row-zay, drunk as an early evening aperitif. The warmer it gets, the hotter it gets, the more people drink it.’
    I found myself nodding in agreement. He was warming to his task, explaining that the row-zay in question was made from Syrah grapes (pronounced ‘sea-ra’).
    â€˜It’s been pressed twice to make it nice and dry and it’s got a little bit of spice. It’s good with anything, water melon, white meats . . .’
    A double-bacon-cheese-burger-with-extra-fries-and-onion-rings was delivered to my table. As an accompaniment I chose not a ‘row-zay’ but a sweet Coca-Cola. Inside, things had moved on.
    â€˜Now, gang, we’re gonna move to the red side of the tasting. Some bottles of red can fetch up to $2,500.’
    He had scarcely finished this party piece before he was drowned out by a chorus of ‘holy cows’. It could have been my imagination, but the audience seemed to shuffle a bit closer in anticipation of sampling a treat.
    I finished my meal and walked back into the main bar.
    â€˜So how d’ya like the red, gang?’
    It had gone down well. One good ol’ boy was a particular fan.
    â€˜It tastes kinda like Victoria’s Secrets.’
    There was an eruption of laughter. The sommelier was the first to regain his composure.
    â€˜Good for you, man. I’m gonna use that myself.’
    I wasn’t sure this experience mirrored that imagined by the Tour Divide organisers for those foolish enough to participate in their race, but it was fine with me.

CHAPTER 9

    A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT
    DAY 6
    I was determined that those following my progress from home would have no excuse to accuse me of another lie-in. Abdicating paternal responsibilities in the noble name of adventure was one thing, I reasoned; doing so merely to catch up on nearly seven years of interrupted sleep was quite another. I conveniently overlooked the fact that the end result of my absence was exactly the same.
    I was equally determined to start early enough to have no excuses for not completing at least 100 miles by day’s end. Yesterday’s early stop might have temporarily saved my sanity, but not making a decent fist of getting to Mexico would cause longer-lasting psychological harm.
    By 5.20 a.m. I was back on the bike. Once again the morning was cold, though not quite freezing. The deserted main road led silently to the fire track, which in turn led back to yesterday’s green prison. The steely morning light of the sun’s weak rays filtered through a veil of high clouds and emphasised the feeling of incarceration. Or maybe being cast adrift at sea was a better metaphor, given the oceanic scale of the forests around me. Still, unlike Captain Bligh, at least it was voluntary. And I did know where I was planning to stop for lunch.
    I was also comforted, somewhat perversely, by more immediate obstacles, such as staving