Bullet Dodged?

Today's task was two-fold: the obvious one being to propel ourselves closer to the Atlantic; secondarily, although with the benefit of hindsight, probably primarily, was getting to a bike shop.

The latter has been true for quite some time.  Since time unknown — time has a different meaning on a trek like this — Susan's rear wheel has had a wobble that at some speeds resonates with the rear rack and panniers.  I figured the problem was that of adjusting spoke tension at the wobble, pulling it back into line.

The multi-tool in our kit has spoke wrenches.  Two of them.  Not three.  It needs three.  So I had to watch her bike doing the watusi and she had to put up with it, until we got to a bike shop.  Of which there have been precisely none that were a) open, and b) not wildly out of the way.

The first candidate was in Sarnia.  Open, practically next door to the hotel.  Did I remember to mention yesterday was Canada Day: 

The fireworks were a quarter mile from the hotel

And they opened too late today.  So, closed.

Fortunately, London has a bike shop nearish to our route, and open.  But as ride-ins, we had to get there soon enough to stand a chance at the work getting done while we waited.  

Complicating factors:  Long stage.  Wind deciding to not be our friend.

Those we knew about.  Susan getting a flat before we'd managed 10 miles?  Not so much.

Aside from the belligerent wind, nice weather and scenery along the way.

In Strathroy, a nice place for lunch and charging the steeds:

Where we were presented with something of a conundrum:  the long stage meant we needed more time to ensure the steeds would help us with the decidedly uncooperative wind.  But if we took more time, we risked arriving at the shop too late.

Despite everything, we got to Towheels in London not England but sure is trying to be, at 3:07 pm, just seven minutes later than planned.  We cut it fine, but not quite too fine.

Thankfully, their mechanics made time for us, as the wobble's root turned out to be a broken spoke (making the whole lack of the proper sized spoke wrench rather moot; bought a proper one, anyway).  I'm glad we hadn't spotted that earlier, bliss being downstream from ignorance.

While we waited at a not-British pub, but we could have been fooled:

Seventy-one miles, some very oddly shaped.  Now down to 610 remaining.  (Distance adjusted due updating distance from here to there.)