I missed riding on Wednesday, caving in to my desire to not arrive at worked soaked.  As it turns out, Wednesday was a fairly safe day for riding, certainly nicer than some recent days and I could likely have ridden without any worry of getting wet.  But I didn’t.  Instead I watched while I sat motionless in traffic as the rest of the cycling commuters rode past on the pathways. I vowed I would ride today.

There was a 13km/h headwind this morning, overcast skies and I was greeted with a crisp 3 degrees, feels like 0 when I stepped outside.  I didn’t want to ride.  I didn’t feel the anticipation.  I eyed my car.  Sighing, I threw my helmet on and dragged the Rescue Bike off it’s perch in the garage and out into the chilly morning.

My legs started to complain immediately, my eyes watered from the cold and my mind wandered around aimlessly, not unlike my front wheel.  I tooled along at a reasonable (for me) speed until I came to my favourite part of the morning start – the bus trap hill.  The traffic at the bottom of the hill is generally non-existent to sporadic at this time of the morning, so taking advantage of the bus-only lane, I get to shoot downhill at 50km/h and if all goes to plan and there’s no traffic, I can carry a good deal of that speed with me for the next block.  Alas, while the traffic complied the cold headwind and recalcitrant legs quickly pushed my speed back down to normal.

I spotted the Lopsided Rider ahead, perhaps 3/4 of a kilometer in front of me.  I commanded my lungs and legs into wolf mode and began the chase.  This lasted all of 100 meters before my legs decided otherwise and I found myself not lollygagging but not exactly chasing either.  As was last time, I continued to see him but had to watch his lead grow steadily until our paths diverged at the river.  I was not having a good time.  I was not enjoying the sun-less sky or the oppressive, grey clouds hanging overhead.  Most of all I was not enjoying my ride.

I fought my way through Max Bell Hell, all but stopping to wait for a jogger in front of me before the path opened up for passing.  This meant losing the head of steam coming off the overpass and having to slog it uphill again.  I knew I was heading straight to work.  No detours, no extra mileage this morning.  Just…get me inside and off this thing.  Besides, I can’t feel my thumbs.  Again.

I pushed forward for lack of any options and slowly made my way along 26th street.  Half way through the stretch, something happened.  My legs finally gave up complaining, my lungs agreed to come on-board and the fast, twisty, down-hill drop to the canal presented itself.  I veered off the route to work and blasted down the hill with a giant grin, sweeping right then left then hard on the brakes to make the walking-speed entrance onto the canal path.

I looked at the time – not enough to get to Glenmore and back before work.  I pushed on, calculating where to turn around or make my exit to head back.  I lost my zoom.  The path, broken up by aggressive tree roots pounded away at us (the rescue bike and I), threatening to turn the ride back into a slog.  I pushed forward, wondering aloud why I was so slow this morning.

I kept slogging on, trying to find the right gear, the right position and trying to keep my hands from going numb.  I kept calculating the time (and hence distance) available and made the decision to ride it hard all the way to Glenmore.  I pushed on trying to keep my speed above 23km/h in the headwind.  Instead of stopping for a drink at the finish, I spun around and began the charge back up, anxious not to show up late.  With the wind at my back (ish), I quickly found a rhythm and some speed, settling in at a grin-inducing 30km/h.  I pushed hard, feeling the path traveling under us and the wind all but gone like the feeling in my thumbs.

I reached the entrance and turned to make the climb back up to 26th, dropping several gears and settling in at less than half the speed I’d just been doing.  In truth, I’m pleased with my progress on this particular hill.  It’s long enough that I can’t sprint up and there’s little relief – no flat spots.  That I can climb it without needing to stand and without falling over leaves me pleased if not a bit burnt by the time I get to the top.

So you can imagine my surprise and panic when, moments from the top, Chris suddenly appeared on my left, making better time up the hill and clearly passing me.  This was not cool.  I had to regain some capacity as he was about to outrun me.  He passed me, then turned onto the sidewalk, avoiding the morning traffic on 26th.  I didn’t.  I like this stretch.  Short of the downhill blasts, this is far and away my favourite stretch of the commute-route.

I rounded the corner onto the road and started pushing.  Click-mash-mash-mash-click, I started to build some speed.  From off to my right came a series of closely-spaced clicks as Chris did the same, shifting up quickly as he too built up speed.  I put my head down and willed all systems into panic mode.  Click into the big ring, click into the 7th ring.  I concentrated on pedaling the entire stroke – push, pull, lift, making squares rather than circles but keeping the cadence and the speed up.  I lost sight of Chris and pushed hard to make the intersection but lost to a red light.

With Chris coming up on the left sidewalk now, I made my way over to the corner to meet up.  He was not exhibiting the state of cardio distress I was feeling.  The light turned green and we picked our way across the road and began sprinting up the sidewalk, cutting through a parking lot before hitting the final 200 meters.  It was too late – I’d spent it all on the ride and trying to keep up with Chris.  I coasted into the parking lot.

That was just what the doctor ordered.  It was exactly what I’ve been needing.  A solid competition, a big, sustained effort.  That shook the cobwebs out of places I didn’t realize where there – I’d forgotten all about them in my quest for more mileage.  Thanks Chris!