As soon as we crossed the border, the swelling hills came alive with the sounds of sweat. Packs of bare-chested roller skiers dug deep to crest the next one. As we continued our drive north to the small town by the river with its bike path we saw more cyclists from thin-tired buffed athletes to flaccid occasional riders out for a Sunday spin navigate the next crest.

Nothing tops it off like a poutine.

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