GNBR – The Great Northern Bikepacking Trip – Perspectives

The red line (the route) wanders across Canada and through three northern states of the USA as it travels from Victoria, BC, to St. John’s, Newfoundland. Map projections, which squish the upper part of the round earth into flat paper images, make Canada look bigger than it is. Still, Canada is the second-largest country in the world. The route is the longest bikepacking route on earth.

According to the Great Northern Bikepacking Route website:
By the numbers

• Distance: 13,616 kilometers
• Elevation Gain: 123,000 meters (mas o menos)
• % Unpaved: Roughly 85/15 percent dirt/pavement split
• Provinces: 10
• States: 3
• Status: EPIC

Route Difficulty
It’s nearly impossible to clearly state the difficulty of this route because of just how varied it is as you travel from one side of the continent to the next. There are demanding sections like those snippets of hike-a-bike and killer inclines and much less arduous parts such as smooth rail trails. Weather, fitness and speed of riding (sleep deprived or not) will also play a role in how demanding the route is. Overall, consider this a true adventure and one that will surely test you physically and mentally on more than one occasion.

On May 24th, I’m participating, with about 16 other people, in the Grand Depart from Beacon Hill Park in Victoria, BC. It will be the start of my riding the Great Northern Bikepacking Route. The route is big. Trying to ride the entire route non-stop is big. The possibility of not completing it as planned is high. Even after months of planning and preparation, every time I look at the route my butt puckers, but simultaneously I get excited:
As Johann Wolfgang von Goethe said,

“Dream no small dreams for they have no power to move the hearts of men.”

In 2018, my wife Gloria and I did our first bikepacking trip. Rather than do something small as a test case, we chose the Great Divide. We rode from Banff, Alberta, Canada, to the Mexico border, mainly traveling along, over, or on the continental divide. She rode an e-bike, but since e-bikes were relatively new, the battery I had specially built for her was so big she pulled it in a BOB trailer. We stayed in motels most of the nights, with my excuse being that she had to charge the battery. The truth is, I don’t like to camp. Those were two of, if not the best, months of my life. Few belongings, clear purpose, beautiful surroundings, and my best friend with me 24 hours/day.

No doubt, Gloria was a trooper in being willing to go with me. However, she also seemed to love being outside and together every day. The only thing she ever complained about – rarely and barely – was after about a 60-mile day, her butt would get sore. We had such a nice time together that we did bike tours every summer after 2018. During our 2021 tour of the northeast USA, she started having some trouble with her speech. After getting home and months of trying to figure out what was causing it, we were told she had ALS.

That day, and the day she died last fall, were the two worst days of my life. She’d been my love, best friend, confidant, and bike ride partner for 44 incredible years. She lived her last few years, despite ever-increasing disabilities, just as she lived all 68 years of her life: beautifully, powerfully, and always doing good. She never whined or complained while she suffered with one of the worst diseases on earth and knowing she would soon die. Gloria was out on a trail, albeit in a wheelchair, the day before she died. Being outside was part of how she worshipped God by enjoying His creations almost daily. And even though she couldn’t talk for the last one and a half years of her life, she blessed everyone with whom she came in contact.

I miss her every day and doubt that pain will ever completely go away. No, I’m not suicidal, and unlike 13% of Americans, I’m not taking an antidepressant. But it’s been rough, and I could easily go down a dark road. I prefer to follow the example of my wife and get up each morning, throw the curtains open, let the sun in, try to do some good, pedal, and thank God for my life and His incredible creations.

This ride will be a solo ride for me. There is something therapeutic for me to have only a few possessions, a clear purpose, and be outside pedalling mile after mile. One of my friends suggested I call it the “welcome to the union” ride. I’m unsure if he was joking or voted for Trump. He did grow up on a Native American Reservation, so he knows better than most Americans what it means to be assimilated into the union. A friend in Canada noted that while very few Canadians have firearms and are pretty friendly, it might be best not to wear a t-shirt with that slogan. Although I don’t expect to recover from the loss of Gloria, I’m leaning toward calling this my recovery ride.