Due to a late start Thursday, I didn’t get the opportunity to chase down my purple rabbit as I assume he was already at work while I was late.  Perhaps Friday.

Kryptonite.  You evil thing, seeking to unhinge my success, subvert my path and bring me back from whence I’ve come.

When I started cycling, it was out of pure exhilaration and enjoyment.    Even now the anticipation of riding gets me excited be it my routine commute or my next great cycling adventure (read abandoning the family for hours of solo time).  Along the way I lost some weight.  And I kept losing so I started to pay attention.  I’ve managed to drop 25 pounds, 30 if you stop checking at the post-70km weigh-in but prudence dictated I put some fluids back (even if they were sneak-attack pickle juice fluids).

So now I’m hovering around my wedding weight – the weight I had before the road trip home to visit childhood friends and my parents before moving overseas.  The road trip where we left Hay River with more home-made cookies than any party of 12 needs.  The road trip where we sat in Best (new) Wife’s VW Rabbit and ate home-made cookies for 1000 miles.   Despite my efforts over the ensuing 11 years I never quite recovered and indeed fell further into the abyss.   From a gym-built 205 when we got married to a cookie-and-laziness-built 205, 210 then 215.  Since I’d first set foot in the gym a flabby 175 pounds, I dreamed about being 220 but not this kind of 220.  Then 225.  Then 230.  Urgh…  How do I stop this train?

If you’ve already done the math I don’t need to say I’m down to a cycling-built 205 again.  Just under actually.  I was here more than two weeks ago too but then an evil genius salesman dropped three boxes of Kryptonite on my desk.  I resisted at first but eventually I couldn’t help myself.  One peek in the box couldn’t hurt.  I might as well peek in the other boxes too – no point leaving them feeling left out.  I’ll just open them all up for everyone else.

iPhone photos make doughnuts look unappetizing...I wonder how I can work that.

At first it’s the smell.  Warm (how do they make a smell warm?) and intoxicating, the most powerful of its many weapons.  It begins to break down the brain’s defences and immediately you find yourself struggling, struggling, resistance waning, resolve melting like snow on a red-hot woodstove.  My willpower at the breaking point, I scanned the 36 doughnuts laid out in front of me and picked up a jam-filled dutchie.  And then a liquid-sugar glazed wonder of mouth-delight, a chocolate-covered crème-filled sensory overload and finally a tractor tire (cruller I believe they’re called…or rather crueller).   1120 calories.  That’s a full third (or more) of a reasonable food intake for a moderately active guy trying to lose weight.  You’d think that would be enough to guilt a guy into some culinary discipline once more but that’s not how I work – sometimes ya just  gotta hit the bottom first.

I don’t remember everything that I plowed into my piehole but I recall the last 2 inches of frozen yogurt in the bucket, more home-made cookies than I can count, extra servings of Best Wife’s unbelievably good cooking…I was a man on a mission of gluttony and excess.  By Monday morning I was a very, very solid 210.  Again.  I can’t begin to express the disappointment staring back at me from the mirror.  Thing is, I know this about me – one is too many (which also applies to my prolific ETOH consumption until 16 or 17 years ago).  One may be the thin end of the wedge but for me it also carries  a sledgehammer to drive that wedge to the breaking point.

Today being Thursday it is Doughnut Day at work, the source of my last implosion.  This time I re-directed the tasty treats into someone else’s office leaving mine uninfected.  I closed and locked my door, closed the blinds, put my earplugs up my nose and stared at my screen.  Okay that’s not quite true but I did consciously avoid them and I prevailed!  I escaped the day with nary a bite consumed and my dignity intact.  I should note that I was not the only doughnut abstainer.  Adam too was fighting the doughnut demons today and ordinarily I would take a moment to congratulate a man who’s successfully dropped more than 55 pounds this year….wait, I guess I just did.

For those in the know – Today is Thursday and you – well, you know.   Thanks for reading.

To chasing down rabbits and beating your Kryptonite!

I am like a dog with its prey drive wound to the top.  If it’s moving along my path, I am compelled to give chase.  I’m not delusional enough to think I’m fast, even amongst the morning commuter set but that doesn’t stop me.  My biggest challenger is always me but everyone else is motivation.  Everyone is a rabbit to be chased and caught, unless of course they drop me immediately which usually happens when I haven’t been stealthy enough for a sneak-attack.  Which is to say, I get to pass people because they don’t know we’re racing.

Tuesday morning I spied a purple MEC cycling jacket ahead of me, guesstimated to be 300 meters out.  I thought “I too have a purple MEC cycling coat thanks to Best Wife.  If When I catch you, I will make some pithy comment about our purple jackets and we will laugh and bond in a moment of cycling solidarity and purple-coatedness and then I will ride away”.  Or something like that.  I set to work reeling him in.

I caught him just north of the Memorial Drive overpass.   As I waited for a clear pass, I had the time to notice three things: he had fenders and panniers, he had rather well-defined calves and he didn’t appear to be putting in much effort.  Passing a rider with a laden bicycle is not nearly as rewarding but the muscled calves hinted at a possible fight.   I debated whether to pass for a moment as his pace was comfortable and it was nice resting in the draft.  Ego prevailed.  “Onyerlft” I called as I pulled out to pass, barely above a whisper as I was still in full mouth-breather mode and not capable of forming words.  The moment I began to speak, he telepathed his intention to pass the rider in front of him but I was already beside him. This is because I was already on the left and madly mashing the pedals before I managed to squeek out my hail.  I continued past the 2^nd rider and pulled back in, pedaling furiously to maintain my position for the remaining 100 meters before my route peeled off to the east.

I wondered how long I was going to be able to hold him off as I was riding at my limit and not going to be able to maintain the pace much longer.  To my great relief, he didn’t follow, instead heading west and the moment we had our backs to each other I dropped a couple of gears and tried to catch my breath.

This morning I spied the same purple jacket and was giddy at the thought of repeating yesterday’s last-minute pass.  Now I knew I wouldn’t have to fend my position so I could ride all out in pursuit.  Once again I began to reel him in and it looked like I might catch him again in the same place.  Today he was having none of it and once he realized I was on the hunt, he simply pedaled away.   Tomorrow I must be sneakier.

Along the same stretch of path but heading the other way, I got to play the rabbit.  I mashed and pushed and spun away furiously as I tried to stay ahead of the rider behind me.  He was never more than 5 meters behind me – not so close as to provoke things but not letting me get away.  I was pretty much spent by the time we hit the 16^th Ave train crossing which leads directly to what has traditionally been the most punishing section of my commute – the climb up to the pedestrian overpass.

I knew I was cooked and try as I might, I couldn’t maintain the pace out of the crossing.  He followed for a while until it was obvious I was not going to pick it up again.  As he passed me he said “sure glad I’m not out there”, nodding at the stopped traffic on Deerfoot, cheery smile on his face and nary a bead of sweat to be found.  I responded in the only fashion I could – “mmppthbaaaaa” – before returning to my pain cave of burning lungs and legs.   By the time I’d gone another 200 meters, he’d disappeared.

What about you?   Are you driven, almost without decision, to chase down the leading rider?  When you’re being reeled in, do you bait them and then drop them?  Do you set your lungs on fire to stay out front?  Is this poor path behaviour or simply men being men (which is not to say I wouldn’t chase down a female rider or try to fight one off, they just don’t seem to be interested in our silly games)?

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>

Through Calgary's industrial area and into the acreages