Author Archives: Andrew

WWTS*?

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It starts out innocently enough, a favour for others, a gesture of appreciation if you will.  Today being Thursday it is of course Doughnut Day.  Day of Sugary Carbohydrate Invasion.  The Thin End of the Sugary Wedge.

They look innocent...

Most days I shuffle these evil things off my desk and out of my office but today I was invincible – no need to move anything.  I subsequently paid the price for my arrogance.

It started with a Tim Bit – a doughnut hole marketing scheme and as it turns out, an even thinner wedge end.  It is food from the devil.  Evil.  The bite-sized bit lures you into thinking you can have just one but it is truly the gateway drug.  By the time the dust had settled, there was spittle and drool splattered about the place, my desk littered in doughnut-remnants, evidence of the carnage that had just ensued.  The look on my co-workers faces was a mixture of horror and disgust with a trace of admiration.  I won’t add to you, my dear reader’s discomfort by putting an exact number on the victims, it is enough to know it was sufficient to feed a house of aspiring runway models for a week.

Having not ridden for a week I was already enjoying an overwhelming sense of self-loathing before my hubris had been thoroughly vanquished by the devil’s food.  Full of easily-accessible sugary fuel and disdain for my activity level, I took advantage of today’s Chinook – the wind, not my bike – to get out for a ride before the sun went down.  I headed north along the canal path, a section I don’t often get to ride.  It’s been under construction most of the summer and eventually fell off my ride list which is funny because I don’t have a ride list.  From 32nd I headed for Nose Creek Park and its short, steep hills to try to erase some of the day’s earlier carnage that was settling into my waist.

I made it to McKnight before the universe reminded me I know naught about riding in general and less about riding in faux winter.  As I came out from under McKnight, in a gentle right-hand corner, I realized the shadow across the path was in fact a thin layer of wet mud.  Immediately after that realization I learned that it was in fact a thin layer of very slick mud.  The front end washed out and two things went through my head in quick succession:  WWTS and; oh man – these stretchy pants are almost new!  Luckily for me, the slick mud gave way to a skiff of gravel providing a relatively low-friction surface on which to smash my hip without the added insult of melting the lycra to my thigh.

Enter here but beware the trolls

Fall down here (the trolls did it)

Remarkably there was no damage to the stretchy pants and no damage to the bike save for more character on the previously-characterized bar end.  My pride was bruised but otherwise I seemed to have escaped unscathed.  My right hand hurt a bit as one might expect when it’s called into duty to save the elbow.  I straightened my bars and brushed some of the dirt off before I hopped back on to continue my ride.  Get-off or not I was going on a ride.

As I rode out to Nose Creek Park, I couldn’t help noticing that my wrist was in fact much more tender than having just suffered a slap-fest with the pavement.  Putting any weight on it was excruciating but I could pull, break and shift without any drama.  I pushed on determined to get a few kilometres in before the sun disappeared and made things more treacherous than I’d just discovered they were.  I didn’t get far before my wrist, the rapidly setting sun and an unexpected head-rush that affected my hearing <?!> made the decision to turn around a prudent one.

I cycled home nursing an increasingly tender wrist, wary of anything that looked like it might be shadow, mud, water, gravel…I’d lost some confidence in the stiction of my front tire.  As a made my back along the path I’d just travelled, my hearing returned to normal but my wrist did not.  I stopped to take a picture of the offending mud before I made the climb back up to Centre.  I passed another cyclist headed for the mud and tried to warn him as he went by “it’s slippery under McKnight!” though it probably sounded more like nonsensical gibberish.  I imagine him skipping across the same gravel thinking to himself “oh…that’s what that guy was yelling about”.

Upon arriving home nurse Tracey tended to my wrist with a combination of homeopathic  treatments.  I’m starting to think it may be in worse shape than first thought as it’s rather swollen and stiff.  We’ll see how bad it feels in the morning and if it’s worse I’ll get it looked at after the Remembrance Day service.  In the meantime I’m extremely pleased with the performance of my MEC Roubaix stretchy pants – no holes, no damage of any kind.

One skid, no flesh damage, no holes - perfect.

I also have a new appreciation for roadies who turn and flee at the slightest indication of imperfect road conditions.  It’s time to – at the very least – put on the knobbies.  Studded tires – you’re in my future.

 

 

 

 

*What Will Thomas Say?

It's just a flesh wound...isn't it?

Bleh

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Snow finally arrived and gave my grand winter-riding plans a dose of reality.  The reality is I need more gear if I’m going to ride across ice-covered pavement in minus 15C temperature for an hour each day.  Are my MEC Roubaix stretchypants warm?  Yes…for a while, but they’re not made for out and out winter and -10 seems to be the limit on their own.  Do I like my smooth street slicks?  Yes, but the traction they provide on the frozen puddles on a scale of 1 to 10 (10 being sticky, 1 not) is like Robert Downey Jr. – less than 0.  I need snowmobiling quality mitts to keep the brake lever fingers functional but bicycle controls are not designed for mitts.  And what about my water?  And that guy with his blinding, flashing helmet light?

So all the bravado and bluster came to naught at the first sign of ice-slicked roads.  Studded tires are widely available but highly-rated ones are $130 each.  While I have no doubt they’re worth every penny, I don’t have those pennies in my pocket, especially as we approach Christmas.  Same for the $200 aluminium-fiber Pearl iZumi tights

Pearl's Aluminium-containing winter tights modeled by someone who unexpectedly slipped off of both pedals.

Assos bib shorts make my arms spring out like I'm smuggling grapefruit in my armpits.

It goes without saying I can’t afford to stray over to the Assos line either.  Besides, I haven’t perfected my what you looking at Assos stance.

I believe this is my excuse to buy an indoor trainer.  Just need a few more pennies.

In the meantime, I’m going a bit nuts.  I’m bored out of my ever lovin’ mind.  None of my normal pursuits capture my attention.  Standing in a library surrounded by books – which are my 2nd most expensive habit – I’m bored.  Pick up my favourite technical manual – bored.  A programming book?  Meh.  A hardware guide…nope.  I look out at my car and a long list of suitable to-do tasks reels off in my mind.  I resolve to do none of them.  I head out to the garage anyway and stare at the disarray of completed-but-not-cleaned-up projects that took over during the summer and quickly leave lest I trip, fall, hit my head and die alone, hidden in the mess that was once my mechanical sanctuary.

Food has lost its flavour and it’s fun, I’m craving everything yet nothing scratches the itch.  Television?  Whatever.  A movie?  Bored.  I’m bored of the internet.  Of Facebook.  My email.  Work.  Play.  Sleep.  If it is true that only a boring person can be bored, I’ve become a very boring man indeed.

The Difference between You and I

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What is this human condition that requires we continue to divide ourselves into smaller and smaller groups, each more rigidly defined than the last, each delineation more flimsy and feeble and worthless until your chosen identity has as much substance as a 15 second Old Navy commercial.  It exists anywhere there’s a group of people and it doesn’t matter who they are or what they’re doing, they’re soon devolving into purists and hobbyists, brand-specific, style specific, usage-specific…

Easy examples: PC and MAC.  Within that group of people – consumers and self-identified nerds, within the nerds – hardware geeks and software geeks, within the software nerds – Linux, Unix and Windows and on and on it goes.  I used to believe this was an automotive thing – something within the genes of people who identify with a particular brand of fuel-burning people conveyors.  Ford vs. Chevrolet which led to more than one confrontation as I was growing up.  In Australia they break out into soccer fan-style brawls I’m told.

As I entered the world of cycling, cautiously dipping my toe in, my first foray into an actual bicycle shop was born of necessity.  In my enthusiasm to service the Rescue Bike, I’d taken apart the freewheel and spilled out dozens of tiny ball bearings which promptly bounced into the darkest recesses of my dimly-lit garage.  I’d disassembled things as far as I could, but wasn’t in a position to finish before I could put them back together again.  A forced visit to a bike shop with a concurrent admission that I had no idea what I was doing – I can’t express my enthusiasm.

I headed to Bow Cycle, wheel in the trunk and prepared for the inevitable looking-down-our-noses-at-you-because-you’re-not-one-of-us experience.  Such was not the case however – the two young mechanics working in the back were not only polite and friendly, they were genuinely helpful.  They finished the disassembly (at no charge), advised me on a wiser course of action (replace, not rebuild) and retrieved a new cassette (a whopping $11).  No condemnation, no subtle ridicule or snotty “that’s not from here” attitude.  It was singularly one of the best service visits I’ve ever had.

I went back to Bow Cycle to browse their bikes and each time was met by friendly and polite staff who were more than happy to help.  This experience was repeated on my visit to Road and to Calgary Cycle – friendly staff who were more than happy to entertain my foolish questions despite my obvious newbness.  These retail experiences shaped my perspective of the cycling world in a grossly erroneous fashion.

In much the same manner that sportbike riders and Harley riders look down their noses at each other, so too do cyclists.  Roadies, cyclocross, downhill, cross-country, commuter, urban and then subsets of each.  Dedicated roadies who count their grains of rice at each meal sneer at the paunch-carrying new rider who is in possession of a full carbon bicycle and team kit whizzier than most pro racers.  Downhill lunatics curse the cross-country masochists for having the temerity to ride up their hill while the cross-country folks don’t understand why the downhillers don’t give those climbing up the right-of-way (I tend to side with the climbers here – much easier to start going downhill again than to start climbing in the middle).  Cyclocross riders are serious about not taking themselves seriously and are disdainful of anyone who does.  Everyone snorts at the commuters, especially if you’re one of those guys who dares to commute in the winter thereby undermining all of the times they passed you like you were standing still during the summer.   Everyone is doing it wrong except you.

I no longer ponder why someone doesn’t acknowledge my passing nod or the occasional attempt at speech (generally rendered as nuhgumeh!).  I get it now – I’m doing it all wrong.