There is, between Tewkesbury and the Jacques-Cartier provincial park, a sandy ribbon. There’s Sept-Crans, the road that crosses the Seminary’s land, right at the top of the climb to St-Achillée. There’s the three branches in Ste-Brigitte-de-Laval. There’s Rang de l’Ours in Charlevoix, and all the roads that take you to the top of mount Shefford. There’s Jay. There’s that gas station in Virginie where hillbillies play cards. There’s that big hill when you come out of La Guadeloupe. And the Western festival just after that. There’s this deserted track between Scott and Beauceville, right alongside the Chaudière, the Gagnon farm in Vermont, where some famous columnist bought a piece of raw milk cheese that spent the rest of your ride in his saddlebag. There’s that stretch of road between the Pacific Coast and Santa Rosa which unfolds into a series of emerald-green ripples. There’s the San Diego snakes and the Lac St-Joseph deers, the ever-present dogs and suicidal squirrels, not far from the llama farm. There’s the wild boars of Aiguilles de Bavelle and the Corsican goats, not to mention the crazy taxis by the Seine. There’s a road leading to an old opium den, and the Along Bay and a forest in Japan that smells like pine and wet asphalt.
All these places that are both right there and at the end of the world. They are a map where every road you’ve ridden is a life line. This is your life.
Each is a solitary story, the story of road-based friendships who’ve all started with a common wanderlust that drew you out of your abode, to flee. But you always return. And leave again. And again. Always. #collectifparlee#patiosurf photo by @studio_guillaumedcyr