The Hungry Cyclist: Pedalling The Americas In Search Of The Perfect Meal. Tom Davies Kevill
on my wits. Under clear blue skies, surrounded by this dramatic new scenery, I rode confidently towards the mountain town of Banff.
Adding an uncomfortable coolness to my sweat-damp T-shirt, a chill wind whistled in my ears. As deep rumblings echoed in the distance, I looked ahead to the tops of the mountains that were enveloped in swirling white clouds. The sun was quickly obscured and without the picture-perfect backdrop of blue sky and bright sunshine the mountains took on a whole new character. The first few drops of rain fell on my arms and an explosion of lightning flashed behind the high ridges above me as I laboured up the last hill into Banff. I was losing a race against nature. From what I could hear, a storm was systematically moving from valley to valley, and as a blanket of black clouds unrolled above I knew I was next. I rode into one of Banff’s large campsites with the cold rain now pouring down my face and battled with the unpredictable gusts of wind to put my tent up quickly. Deafening claps of thunder clattered round the mountains and each time the lightning snapped every detail of the valley was illuminated in brilliant phosphorescent light. Frantic to unpack my bike, I threw my panniers inside my tent, hurled myself in behind them and pulled the zip.
Like the snug comfort of being beside a roaring fire in a small cottage on a winter’s day, rain beating against the windows, there is something strangely comforting about being in a tent during a storm. But this comfort soon turns to panic when your ‘cottage’ decides to blow away. My pathetic tent pegs put up no resistance to the gale-force winds that were now howling outside. My flysheet had torn away from the main body of the tent and, after transforming itself into an efficient mainsail, began dragging me around the campsite. Wrapped in a confusion of torn nylon, tent poles, sleeping bags, pots and pans and puncture repair kits, I tried desperately to locate the zip so that I could escape, but no sooner had I resigned myself to the storm’s power than I felt a strong hand grab at me through the wreckage.
‘You OK in there?’ came a cry from outside.
‘Not really,’ I bleated in distress.
I was pulled from the wreckage and, after salvaging what I could, was rushed by my rescuer into the nearby safety of a motor home, where the confused faces of a young family seated around a small table at a game of Pictionary looked me over.
‘We watched you come in. Didn’t think you’d make it through the storm with your tent pitched where it was. Done much camping, have you?’
‘Bits,’ I muttered, embarrassed that my camping show had provided some light entertainment. ‘I’ve cycled from New York,’ I added, in an attempt to improve my credentials.
‘Well, you’re welcome to dry up in here while this storm passes through. Some fudge?’
The mother offered me a plate of home-made peanut butter fudge from the middle of the table where the family were grouped around their game. The Wendlebows were a family from Vancouver Island on vacation in the Rockies. In the snug comfort of the motor home, Paul, Emily and Erik, the couple’s young children, eyed me up and down shyly.
Wrapped in a blanket, clutching a steaming cup of coffee and nibbling on a slab of fudge, I stared out of the steamed-up windows of the motor home and watched as the storm moved into the next valley. Suddenly downhearted in the midst of this comfortable family, I pondered my situation.
I had spent four months sleeping rough and cycling, and now the summer was coming to an end. I had almost crossed the continent but one last, seemingly insurmountable, hurdle remained, and after only a few days into the Rockies the weather had already got the better of me. My tent was in tatters and so was my morale. I imagined limping back into Heathrow and being met by a posse of friends and family offering polite congratulations.
‘You did so well to get so far.’
‘You should be really proud of yourself.’
‘What a shame about the weather.’
At this point it was very clear how totally under-prepared I was for my mountain crossing, and I had at least another month ahead of me until Vancouver. For the first time the thought of failure was very real. I felt a long way from the heroic continent-crossing cyclist I was claiming to be.
The sky cleared and before darkness fell I was able to recover what was left of my equipment, which had been liberally scattered around the campsite. My tent would need to be patched up, I had lost four tent pegs and my inflatable mattress no longer inflated. The Wendlebows kindly invited me to join them for supper and after a comforting evening of Pictionary, hot dogs and corn on the cob, I crawled back into my weather-beaten tent, curled up on my deflated mattress and slept.
In 1885 the completion of the Canadian-Pacific Railway finally linked the east and west coasts of Canada, allowing passengers to travel the 2,500 miles across the North American continent in relative comfort. Passing north of Lake Superior, the tracks traversed the Great Plains of Manitoba and Saskatchewan before snaking into and over the Rocky mountains. A remarkable feat of Victorian engineering, which cost the lives of countless Chinese labourers, the project was spearheaded by the charismatic William Cornelius Van Horne. A rising star of the new industrial age, Van Horne not only saw the railroad as fundamental to trade and commerce, he also saw the potential of the Rockies’ breathtaking scenery as a tourist attraction. ‘Since we can’t export the scenery—we shall have to import the tourists,’ was his entrepreneurial boast before starting work on a series of luxurious mountain resorts where the super-rich of this new industrial epoch could come and take in the clean air and enjoy the views. Van Horne’s vast chateau-style hotel, built on the convergence of the Spray and Bow rivers, was to be the jewel in the CPR’s crown. A towering testament to industrialism, the Banff Springs Hotel quickly became one of the world’s most prestigious getaways.
In bad weather, with its Gothic turrets and gables, it would have appeared like an impregnable cocktail of Psycho-meets-Colditz, but bathed in warm late-summer sunshine it was as reassuring as a Scottish baronial castle on the lid of a tin of Highland shortbread.
I pushed my bicycle up the long sweeping driveway, gazing at the towering façade with its backdrop of mountains. Then I walked into the imposing hotel lobby and, in my dirty shorts and worn-out shoes, I felt immediately and agonizingly under-dressed. Stone chimneypieces framed roaring fires, vast oil paintings of misty mountain scenery hung from the walls and the proud heads of deer and moose stared down at me with disdain. Colourful stained-glass windows lit up solid wood staircases and rich carpets, while busy staff scurried to attend to the well-to-do guests lucky enough to be staying here. I pulled off my bobble hat, revealing a shaggy head of unkempt hair, and approached the reception desk to enquire about brunch.
‘Certainly, sir. Do you have a reservation?’ drawled the concierge in a smooth Canadian accent.
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘Well, I’m afraid you need a reservation, sir, and we do have a dress code in the dining room. Resort casual.’
‘Resort casual?’
‘Yes, sir. Will that be all?’
A short ride back into town I found the nearest phone box and popped in a couple of quarters.
‘I’d like to make a reservation for brunch please.’…‘Today.’…‘Just one, I’m afraid.’…‘Eleven thirty? Perfect.’…‘Tom.’…‘Thank you.’
Back at the hotel’s front door a polite porter offered to keep an eye on my wheels, and after I explained that I planned to be inside for quite some time he offered me the valet service.
‘For a bicycle?’
‘Don’t see why not, sir.’ Handing me a smart brass token, he wheeled away my overloaded bike.
I hurtled through the lobby, past well-dressed guests enjoying their Sunday, and made a beeline for the Gents.
It was an opulent room with yellow marble basins, golden taps, tall mirrors and, amid a baffling range of towels and scented toiletries, I went to work. I trimmed my wayward beard, added a few well-needed blasts of deodorant, put on a