Last week I set out to ride the canal from Calgary to Lake Chestermere but sleeping and tight scheduling won out so I had to cut it short about 2/3rds of the way there.  I was relieved but deep down disappointed at not being able to complete the trip.  It was also apparent that a single 24oz bottle of water was unlikely to be sufficient water and the complete lack of food for a 70km ride was just plain foolish (though I admit to having enough calories stored around the midsection to circumnavigate the globe at least once).

Yesterday I stopped in at my favourite outdoor shop and picked up a couple tubes of Clif Shot Bloks (Cran-Razz and Lemon-Lime if you’re listening Santa) and a couple of their Clif Bars.  This morning I stole the water bottle cage from Best Wife’s bike and eldest son Jet’s water bottle thereby doubling my water carrying ability.  With my schedule open, the weather cooperating, 48oz of water and my pockets stuffed with Clif goodies I already had one foot out the door to start my challenge.  In the back of my mind I was worried about getting a mechanical on the route as it would be a long push to salvation.  “Should I carry a spare tube and gear?  But I don’t have a pump.  Or a means to carry anything.   What about some tools?”

Bing!   An incoming text message arrived from my friend Adam relaying his morning Chestermere journey success.  If you define success as an unrepairable flat and a 15km push home on the out-bound trip Adam was wilding successful.  I quickly offered to rescue Adam as a means to legitimately cancel my ride (“I think it’s just too late to go now what with it being lunch and all”) but he kindly refused with a cheery “no thanks – only a few more km to push”.   I headed to the garage and quickly found a stash of zip-ties, a spare tube and an old inflate-a-flat kit for a motorcycle.  (Zip-ties are magic, 2^nd only to duct tape…maybe.)  My bike now sports a spare tube and 2 little CO2 rockets.  And Best Wife’s bottle cage. 

The route I’d picked had all the hills in the first 10km and really, not much in the way of elevation change unless you count the 20 meter drop down from the house to main paths.  The rest of the route was not only essentially flat but, with the exception of secondary highway crossings it was all paved bicycle path.  I left the house around 11:00am with the sun burning off the last of the single-digit temps from last night and headed out. 

The bike paths have been under a constant state of repair and rebuilding all summer with nice paved detours to get you where you need to go.  This morning I noticed traffic on a section of path I’d not had a chance to ride as it’s been under construction since I started riding.  Unaware until I was well into it, some joker had removed the construction barrier so the cruise on fantastic root-free, fresh pavement ended about 500 meters in and turned into a muddy construction site.    I turned a lazy circle debating whether to try and pick my way through the mud and gravel on my slicks or turn back and go around the long way.    Laziness won out and I picked and poked a route through the site. 

 

Onto the path!

I reconnected at the Trans Canada overpass and shifted into travelling mode.  This stretch is part of my daily commute and one of my favourite bits – flat if suffering from a bit of construction-related damage but a nice stretch where you can just put your head down and pedal hard.  I followed the path south until it splits at the Bow and headed east up and over the Deerfoot, through the Max Bell maze of trails and finally up and over the canal caving to my laziness in avoiding the brief, steep climb from the path up to 26^th Ave. 

 From this point on it was a nice flat path (if you ignore the rather large, sharp-edged humps breaking through the pavement courtesy of the tree roots) all the way out to Chestermere.  I put my headphones in, turned up the music, put my head down and tried to focus on pedaling circles and maintaining cadence.  This is where the excuses started, which is to say this is where I started to pick at my performance.  In reality I was having a pretty good ride.  There was a 15km/h headwind so my speed wasn’t high but I had settled into a pretty good cadence and was starting to drip sweat on the top tube despite the cool temps.    

 

Rabbit Season

45 minutes in, I made the dodgy crossing at Glenmore and couldn’t resist sampling the Cool Mint Clif Bar calling from my pocket.  I wolfed it down  (note – bars are good when you’re at a rest stop – ever try mouth-breathing and chewing at the same time?), slugged back some water and dug in for what was to be my longest ride yet.  I spied a group of riders in full kit about kilometre and half in front of me.  “Odd…they must have just ducked in from somewhere as I’m surely not catching them”. 

Catching them or not, they became my rabbit to chase.  They continued to disappear and re-appear and we wound our way down the canal.  At one point it appeared they’d stopped all together and shortly after that I ran over the tattered barrier informing us that the path ahead was closed due to construction.   “A hollow victory to catch them if they’re not even moving” I thought, but plowed on and was rewarded to see they too had started moving again.  

I soon discovered what had stopped them.  The paved path had been ripped up at the 68^th street overpass and was now a mess of heavy equipment tracks, heaves and trenches threatening to suck you down.   An obstacle for a fragile road bike perhaps, but not my MEC rescue bike.  I flipped the front suspension lock-out off as I pedaled up and rode through the mess without any drama.   Ahead of me the team disappeared around the next bend.

I continued my pursuit, fuelled by the Clif bar, determination and a welcome change in direction that put the wind behind me.  Slowly but surely, pedal after pedal, I was reeling them in.  I could see now they’d split into two groups, 4 people tantalizingly close and 2 more riding another 500 meters in front of them.  In a pool of sweat and threatening to disgorge a lung, I finally caught up with them at the 84^th street crossing.   I hung back, recovering in their draft as I caught my breath and re-grouped.   I’d done it, I was about to pass them! 

 

A Hollow Victory

“On your left” I called and moved out to pass them.  They moved back into single file as I pulled around and the lone woman with the group apologized.   For what I’m not sure and as I pulled into the lead I looked over my shoulder and replied “no worries”. As I said that, I made eye contact with the leader and realized that the cycling “team” was not four riders but three.  The 4^th and leading the pack was in fact not in team gear and probably had 30 years on me.  These folks were shepherding  him along, not pushing, just out having a casual ride. “I didn’t think I was going to catch you” I said to him, but I decided at that moment I didn’t care – I was taking the success even if they were pushing him in a wheelchair.  

 

Round 2

I resolved to catch the 2 leaders out front and redoubled my efforts, alternating between repeating “ca-dence ca-dence ca-dence” an “1 2 3 4” (no – I have no idea why) as I tried to pedal circles and keep breathing.   I was right behind them by the next road crossing at Garden Road, only the highway between us.  I made my way across and into the Heather Glen Golf club path hot on their tail.  It was at this point they noticed a mountain bike threatening to over-take them. 

I won’t say I was deflated by what happened next, but it reinforced the reality of my present condition.  Within the space of 100 meters, they’d put considerable distance between us and by the time I’d gone another 500, they were nowhere to be seen.   As I didn’t see them again for the duration of my ride I determined they must have exploded in their efforts to escape me and were hiding in shame behind one of the bushes I’d passed.   

 

Success…now what

I continued to ride the canal path intending to stop and rest once it had turned from canal into Chestermere lake.  Anyone who’s ridden this path knows this is folly for the path simply stops and if one weren’t paying attention, you might find yourself doing an endo over someone’s back fence.  I followed the path out onto the road and cycled around in circles trying to decide what to do.  A moment ago I was a thousand miles from nowhere with only myself and the rabbits to chase, and the distant goal of the end of the canal.  Having found it, I wasn’t sure what to do, so I did what any self-respecting cycling enthusiast would do – I turned around and started pedaling home.

 I passed “the team” on their way in and smiled, knowing that it likely killed them to let some schmo in baggy shorts riding a mountain bike pass them.  I pedaled on until I found a nice spot with some prominent boulders to rest on and had a snack break.  Anxious to try my first Clif Shot Bloks, I broke open the Cran-Razz tube and popped one into my mouth.    Verdict?  Tasty, like a slightly over-sized gummy bear that shears easier if you bite it.  And not bear shaped.  I ate 2 more while pondering the foolishness of eating a series of soft, melt-in-your-mouth bite-sized chunks while soaking up the sun on the side of trail, and trying to choke down a rather chewy bar, mid-stride in full mouth-breather mode.  Note to self, next time Bloks while under steam, bars while resting.   Bars also require considerably more fluids to get down as all that mouth-breathing makes your piehole dry.

 Emptying my son’s bottle into mine (Why would you pour water from one bottle to a 2^nd if you’re carrying both anyway?   I use a CamelBak bottle with a “Jet Valve” that allows me to squeeze as much as I can drink without having to lick, suck, bite or otherwise fondle it and the top is a one-way valve so there’s no closing it – the perfect bottle), I mounted back up and continued the journey home.  I was now headed into the wind again but with a belly full of Shot Bloks and sloshing with water I was well prepared.  

 

 Strange Daze

What I was not prepared for was to be passed, rapidly, by what in my best guess was a homeless guy on a bike 3 sizes too large for him with everything he owned on his back.   I was already pedaling a decent cadence and the headwind stymied my attempts to shift up and catch him.  He soon disappeared and like the front runners from the morning, disappeared not to be seen again.  A gentlemen dressed in what can only be described as a Lycra tuxedo, complete with printed tie passed me going the other way riding what looked like a single-speed track bike.  There are strange beings out there.

 By the time I’d made it back to Calgary, I was noticeably tired and starting to flatten out.   My daily dose of hills seemed much larger than normal and I stopped at a Max Bell park bench for a final rest, consuming the last of the Bloks and the rest of my water.   I prepared to cycle home the last 10km wondering how far I’d actually gone and wondering if I’d be disappointed to see 60 or 65km instead of my desired 70 or 75.  I plotted out another 10km loop in my head “for good measure – an even 50 miles” but by the time I’d made it to the Trans Canada again I suspected there was no way I going to find an additional 10km.  Just the thought of the climb from Edmonton Trail to Centre street made me a whimper a little.

 

 Home again

I tackled my nemesis climb – a shallow, 1km climb along the Fox Hollow golf course.  It doesn’t look like much and really it’s not much yet it finds a way to get me every time.  A short, steep sprint climb like 6^th Street NE (~20m rise in 300-ish meters) I can ride over and over.   I’ve determined that climb length has a multiplier effect on the grade and therefore a 2 or 3% slope on a one kilometre climb is in fact akin to a 20% slope over half a kilometre.  Scientific fact.  Still – after 60+ kilometres of riding, I finished within 15 seconds of my best time for that segment.

 As I reached the home stretch, the last climbs up to Centre street, I turned my brain off and just pedaled 1, 2, 1, 2, 1, 2.   As I crested onto Centre I was greeted with a mercifully empty 4-lane crossing, thereby avoiding the complete stop/start process that would surely have been my un-doing.   I cycled the remaining 4 blocks to the house and a funny thing happened.    Instead of heading south to my house, I turned north and cycled around a few blocks until my legs threatened to simply stop functioning.  My intestines backed up their threat (with an inverse action strangely enough).  I pulled into the yard and shut down the Strava app.  3 hours of cycling time, 69 kilometres and change.  Win!  My longest ride to date and a long, long way from the 4 kilometres that almost killed me first time out.

Best Wife greeted me on the steps with a glass of indeterminate liquid which I greedily sucked down until it started turning my face inside out.   “Pickle juice!” she said, “just like you were talking about”.   No cramps!  Love – have you ever heard me talk about the Devinci Desperado Carbon SL? <wink wink nudge nudge>