Andrew Day, nearly graduated from university, is cycling from Halifax to his home in Kingston, Ontario. His odyssey, we learn, is sparked by the death of his father from a rare disease, the end of a relationship with his Europe-bound girlfriend, and a desire to test the limits of his physical and mental endurance. Part Bildungsroman, part travel narrative, part Henry Milleresque tale of sexual exploration, Darryl Whetter’s debut novel weaves three separate journeys together under a single unifying theme: in various ways, one must both push and pull through life’s struggles.

Whetter employs an erudite, postmodern prose style throughout: “Compared to the tired bureaucrat of English, French is a richer language in the mouth, with its elastic vowels and chewy consonants. And topographically, Quebec is a mouth. The open throat of the St. Lawrence lolls among a varied set of craggy teeth.”

While the writing is fluid and lyrical, the intense subjectivity of the narrative and the barely likeable protagonist hold back what could have been a story with universal appeal. Andrew’s reflective musings at times resemble all too accurately those of a smugly self-righteous university student, and his disdain for all things related to consumerism (SUV drivers, meat eaters, dumb jocks, the obese) may alienate some readers.

Andrew’s history is revealed in fits and starts over more than a hundred brief, episodic chapters that alternate between the past and the ongoing cycling journey. It isn’t until the middle of the novel that the disparate stories of Andrew’s life gain a sense of cohesion, however. As a result, the first hundred pages of the book mimic the painful, halting beginning of a bike tour: only after one gains momentum and finds a rhythm does the pleasure of the journey begin.