For Brian, Chris, Drew, Ed, Ed, Barry, Ron, Steve and of course, my dad.

On the afternoon of October 20th, 2007 I was playing with my two kids in the family of our rented house in Calgary’s Mount Pleasant neighbourhood.  My parents called and what they had to say sent my head spinning.

Growing up in Hay River, my first paying job (age 11 or 12) was working for a man I’d met through my parent’s church.  Ed ran Hay River Disposals, the local garbage collection operation, and my job was to accompany Ed in the garbage truck on long-weekend holidays so that they didn’t fall behind the rest of the week and his guys still got their long weekend.  It was often cold and smelly and when it wasn’t it was hot and smelly.  I loved that job.  I was fascinated by the truck’s compactor, a big steel door that would scoop down and drag the load of trash up into it’s belly.  I liked being able to break and crush things with an oversized power tool.  Most of all, I liked Ed.  Ed was kind, friendly and open, always smiling.  Ed continued to be a man I looked up to.  A man I respected and admired and as I grew up and had a family of my own, he was someone that I wanted to introduce to my family.  I wanted him to know that despite everything, I’d turned out all right.  Well, maybe not all right, but not all wrong.

I didn’t get to do that.  My parents had called to pass on that my childhood mentor Ed had been murdered, one of two innocent bystanders killed in the Surrey 6 slaying.  Even today I can’t find the words to express the dichotomy of Ed being murdered in cold blood.

After returning from Ed’s funeral, I promised myself that I’d write a letter to a handful of the men that had helped to mould and shape me as a young man.  I wanted to tell these people that they’d had an impact and left an impression, that they mattered to me irrespective of the divergence of our lives.  Each of them, in their own way, as individual father figures backstopping the lessons of my own father with theirs.

That was 5 years ago.  I chickened out and lost my nerve.  Tonight, my parents called again.  “Drew died today” my mother sobbed, dad not able to get the words out.  I waited too long.

Gentlemen,

Though we have not spoken in many years, I want you to know.  Your presence in my life, some as far back as I can remember, was not trivial nor without legacy.  You have all left your individual, indelible marks.  You have given me a reference, a standard by which to measure and gauge my own actions.  Easily one of the most important tools in the toolbox of life.  When I think of what it means to be a man, it isn’t Hollywood that fills in the blanks, it is you.  Honesty, integrity, warmth, perseverance, hard-working, capable, reasoned, humorous, forgiving, inclusive, giving, caring…  A man’s man, father, husband.

Thank you.

Andrew

Friday afternoon I looked at the Rescue Bike sitting alone in the garage, then turned my back on it and continued about my day.  Saturday morning I looked outside then put my head back under the covers and went back to sleep until the screeching, thumping and banging that only the most delicate of 5-year-old girls can make finally forced me awake.  Sunday was in essence a repeat of Saturday, spent cleaning up the yard and chopping spongy wet wood which is not nearly as exciting as it sounds.  Again the Rescue Bike sat untouched.  Monday rolled around and still, still, I could not find the enthusiasm to throw on my helmet and go for a ride.

You’d think I would be excited to try out my new proper cycling stretchy pants or the new stretchy bibs which shall henceforth be known as my Shamu shorts.  The white on black colour scheme seemed like a good idea at the time as matches the Rescue Bike’s but once I’m stuffed into them I feel…whale-ish.  Not so much killer-whale as just whale.  On the up-side, they keep everything tucked in nicely – like cycling spanx.

Come Tuesday, I was officially out of excuses.  My legs had stopped aching, I was fully re-fueled (and then some), the weather was forecast to be nice and wonder-of-wonders, there was no wind to speak of.  Despite all this, I still dragged myself out of bed 30 minutes after the alarm first went off – which pleases Best Wife to no end I’m sure – dawdled through the shower and finally, finally was out the door more than an hour after the first alarm sounded.  Not exactly an enthusiastic start to the week.

The general lack of wind and warmer temps made for a fantastic ride and it wasn’t long before I was relaxed and happy to be back on the bike.  The ride was uneventful as I engaged George Washington Allston’s quote: The only competition worthy of a wise man is with himself.  This automatically makes me a wise man and precludes me from any defeat at the hands of others.  Win-Win if you ask me.  Which you haven’t.

At any rate, I was pleasantly surprised to see a consistent traveling velocity that I’d not seen a lot of this year thanks to the omni-present wind, the cold, dense air and forgetfulness.  Forgetfulness you ask?  Indeed.  I forgot what it felt like to apply oneself like that.  I’d been so busy clocking up distance that, with one or two exceptions, I didn’t ride out to the limit.  I haven’t yet had a day when I step off the bike wobbly and shaking, gasping for air in between litre-sized gulps of water.  I miss that kind of riding.

Sadly, the forecast was not what I would call entirely correct though it’s only my own wanton self-deception that would ever suggest a forecast would be.  The dark clouds of the morning gave way to darker clouds in the afternoon with an ugly black sheet of rain marching in.  I made the call of shame to a remarkably accommodating Best Wife and arranged for a warm and dry ride home.  Once more the Rescue Bike is alone on it’s perch and it appears that’s where it is to stay for a few days.  Rain today, rain tomorrow, rain Friday, Sunday and Monday. It seems one frigid, slushy snowstorm and it’s ruined me for riding in the rain.

Note to self:  Get your act together – it’s just water.

I have to be honest – I haven’t ridden a whole lot since Sunday.  After the big weekend push, I opted for a break from the saddle and drove to work.  There was a steady north wind that would have made for a nice morning tailwind but I was glad I wouldn’t be riding home in it.  Turns out I needn’t have worried as it had turned into one of those rare double-tailwind days.  Sigh…  I didn’t ride today either.  My left knee started giving me little warnings towards the end of Sunday’s last ride and again on Tuesday, but then I may have abused it a little both days.

I didn’t really feel like riding on Tuesday any more than I had on Monday, but I don’t wanna didn’t feel like a reasonable excuse.  I always feel better once I’m out there and save for almost freezing my toes off, I rarely regret going for a ride.  The start of my commute from home is always misleading as the first kilometer and and a half is essentially downhill.  It looks like this:

The secret to early morning speed - losing elevation.

No kidding the first few minutes feel like a piece of cake.  Effortless!  I’m a cycling god!  Then of course, what goes down, must come up and no matter how much I will it away, it’s there when I’m coming home.

Is there another route around this?

Actually, there is a route around it, that looks like this:

“But that doesn’t look so bad” I hear you saying.  How about we look at it in un-zoomed mode?

Just like how it feels

Yeah, there’s a way around my homeward climb – it’s 8 kilometers farther and it means a longer, higher climb.  That’s not an easier route.  It’s a much more painful, challenging route.  You know though, that big drop from the peak?  That’s serious fun.  Ordinarily an oxymoron perhaps – serious fun – but what better way to describe a ride that dumps you downhill hard enough that you can keep pace with the minivans and buses that crowd the road you’re on?  Speed = fun!  Buses and minivans driven by rushing, impatient non-cyclists that would like to crush you = serious business.  Serious fun!

Despite still  having a desire level of zero, I had an excellent day riding on Tuesday.  I chased down the elusive Purple Rabbit finally, only to find that she wasn’t he and thus wasn’t the Purple Rabbit.  Then I spotted another rabbit panting and spinning his way up the canal-to-26th hill which is short but sudden and looks like this:

Whoa! Who put that there?

That’s what it feels like too – you come rushing down from Max Bell, zip underneath 17th Ave and hit a cliff face that makes short work of your momentum.  I seem to have forgotten how to get up there quickly, but I was faster than the poor guy in front of me.  It’s a real killer ‘eh I offered as I passed the panting, sweating rider, before disappearing up the remaining climb.  I have to admit though, it felt good being the one riding away instead of wishing for a quick death.  Turns out the 1000km crush was good for something after all.

On the way home, I was on the receiving end.  Casually pedaling through Max Bell, not really wanting to be on the bike, I almost ran a passing rider off the path as she came from behind unannounced.  Whoah! Sorry ’bout that I blurted as she climbed past me.  On her BMX.  With her jeans and hoodie.  Followed by her friend.  What the?  What just happened here?  I’d just been double-chick’d and not by some fellow riders but a couple of high-school girls on BMXs.  With one gear.  I soon returned the favour as, while she may have been out-climbing me, she wasn’t interested in out-sprinting me – at least not nearly as interested as my ego was.

This put me at Memorial drive where there was enough cyclist traffic, I had to wait to get on the the northbound path.  A rider coming from downtown headed past and I pulled in to follow him.  It took less than 10 seconds for him to look over his shoulder and see me coming.  Then it was on.  Oh man, it’s so on!  Head down, legs steaming, lungs burning, sweat streaming down my face.  I’d close the gap and he’d open it back up.  I’d get within drafting distance and he’d power away, distancing me again.  On and on it went, from Memorial to McKight and finally Goddard Avenue where our paths, mercifully, diverged.  Looking over with a smile on my face, the mustachioed rabbit was smiling back, both of us acknowledging the impromptu race and a mutual respect for the efforts (at least that’s what I’m taking it as).

The chase awakened the dormant sprinting spirit from last year.  I’ve been so busy chasing distance that I haven’t been riding near my limits.  This year has been all double-distance commutes and how far can I go today rides.  Last year was almost entirely daily sprints, arriving at work (or home) breathless and spent, checking each ride against previous runs.  Perhaps this year we can find some balance.  Maybe some hills.  I have this overwhelming desire to ride the Highwood pass which I’d better do soon if I’m going to  while not getting run over as the road is closed to (vehicle) traffic until June 14th.

So…who’s up for a run over the Highwood Pass?  Anyone?  Anyone?  Bueller?  Bueller?  Mewha?  Hendry?  Cheater?