Conquering the territory

We are in Lotbinière, at the summit of Mont-Radar. The sun is not shining, it is burning the earth, giving us the impression of driving with a forge above our heads, pouring molten metal everywhere. The light, a violent white, radiates across the dusty, rocky roads, lending them sometimes unreal hues of yellow verging on orange, as if we were on Tatooine.

Except that there is the forest, lush and verdant. The meadows stretch out and undulate like a melody of happiness."The hills are alive...,"as Maria sings. The hills breathe, the landscape becoming vibrant due to the optical illusion produced by the intense heat. Too much greenery for the famous desert planet.

I'm thinking of those that we hear over and over again, but which are no less true, since clichés are also full of truth. I'm talking about the possibility of riding in peace, away from traffic and surrounded by nature. The idea of adventure, too, which is at the heart of these events that often take us to the unexplored reaches of regions that, for my part, I usually know only superficially.

But there is also an aspect of this sport that I would describe as political: our reappropriation of territory.

This country that is ours

Gravel bikes owe much of their popularity to the fact that they significantly change the way we ride. Once we leave the paved roads behind, we inevitably stray from our usual habits and familiar surroundings. The riding experience is also transformed, making use of different techniques and group dynamics. Finally able to reclaim the road, we ride side by side, without fear of cars, which play a supporting role and travel at speeds that allow for a healthy and enjoyable sharing of the back roads.

But there's something else.

Because through this practice, we are also reclaiming a territory that has long been reserved for hunters, fishermen, and motorized activity enthusiasts.

It struck me as I took in the landscape from the top of Mont-Radar. Then in the surrounding forests and fields. I was walking through an area that belongs to us. Our country, our land, which I rediscovered with a sense of wonder similar to what I feel when I drive through France, Spain, or the United States.

A feeling of being at the end of the world, just an hour's drive from home. Local exoticism. The feeling of being alone, since we hardly ever meet anyone, and of being immersed in the landscape allows us to reconnect with generations of explorers and pioneers, to honor their hard work, and also to meet people who live a reality so different from mine that the contrast is similar to what I experience as a tourist in other countries.

At the end of the rows, we discover isolated cottages, clusters of small houses where we can imagine communities of vacationers or people living on the fringes of towns and villages. We come across sugar shacks in the middle of nowhere. Pastures where indolent animals graze, the only living creatures in sight. At the edge of a stream, an old man emerges from a pickup truck that looks even older than its owner, fishing rod in hand. Amused by our presence or the pleasure of teasing the fish, his beard lights up with a sincere smile. In every corner, the roofs of half-collapsed barns bend under the weight of our ignorance of agricultural heritage.

Adventure. Solitude. A sense of freedom. A new way of riding. All this would be enough to make us want to ride along deserted roads that civilization seems to barely touch. But the idea of reclaiming our land adds an extra dimension to the experience. It's as if, by riding in these remote areas that belong to us, we are honoring, in our own way, these expanses that are our wealth and that we too often ignore.