Blizzards.  Massive dumps of snow.  Freezing temperatures.Ungodly winds.  Slogging it.  I retired the Rescue Bike at the end of September with the arrival of the Ridley X-Fire, promptly adding studs and lights so I could enjoy it through the winter.  I commuted consistently and enjoyed riding without an eye on speed or heart-rate (because it’s dark in the winter and I can’t read the Garmin).  I rode through everything nature had to offer and opted out only when the road conditions were impassable.  I had (almost) no limits.

Then March arrived.  Snowing, melting, freezing March.  From double-digit highs to double-digit lows almost back-to-back.  Chaotic, manic weather.  This wouldn’t be so bad if the paths weren’t built either on the side of, or at the bottom of snow-covered slopes.  Or if there wasn’t a big dump with many fresh, powdery inches that promptly melted, pooled and froze over.

I rode home on the 13th through puddles several inches deep and vowed that I would not ride the following day if the mercury dropped below freezing – and it did.  So I didn’t.  I stayed off the bike, annoyed at my earlier jacket-shredding fall and the unpredictable path conditions and used my time in the car to get big things, haul many things, go many places quickly.  Most of those things entailed getting parts, bits and tools for working on cars.  There’s a lesson there…

With no more errands to run and a week of glorious temperatures ahead of me, I hopped on the X-Fire this morning and headed out once more.  Stiff and sore from so much time off the bike and so much time laying under cars on the concrete floor, I was still glad to be back on two wheels.  The paths had shed some of their puddles and the going was easy aside from pedaling two weeks worth of cookie build-up.  Then it happened.

Nine kilometeres in, a short stretch of ice covering the path but a puddle I knew to be rather deep lurked underneath.  I approached tentatively and sure enough broke through the surface, getting bogged down.  Gingerly I slid the front wheel on to the grass and hobbled across.  Safe.  Pulled back on to the path, caught the last bit of shiny, polished and very slick ice and went down.  Hard.

Assuring a passing rider that I was fine, I picked myself up and noted that my brake lever had taken on an awkward angle inconsistent with it’s mounting point.  Because it was no longer attached to it’s mounting point.  Because there wasn’t one anymore.

Something’s missing here…

Great.  Wonderful.  That’s money.  Straighten the seat out, throw a leg over and discover the rear derailleur is pushed into the wheel’s spokes.  Awesome!  That’s just a bent hanger bracket though – we can deal with that with ease.  Unless of course I break it in half trying to pull the derailleur out of the wheel.  Not that I did that.  Yeah I did.

Ineffective derailleur mounting location.

While a more enthusiastic individual could have brought out the chain breaker and turned it it into a single speed, I opted to test the X-Fire’s flat-bottomed top tube, designed for those sections of the cyclocross race where it’s more prudent to carry it on your shoulder than ride it.  A one kilometer walk in stiff-bottomed cycling shoes is a lot farther than it sounds, though Adam tells me it’s not nearly as far as the 15km he pushed his bike.  Adam also provided the rescue pick-up at the Max Bell centre, keenly parked next to the City TV cameras so I could do the walk of shame in front of them.

The complete lack of traction provided by the Nokian studded front tire surprised me though I suppose it shouldn’t have.   I wasn’t carrying much speed when it washed out and put holes in my jacket either.  I’m thinking these are much more of a snow-stud than an ice stud.  Or maybe a grass stud.  Whatever – they’re not for Calgary’s March ice conditions.  Or perhaps the 2500km on them have worn them out.

So the X-Fire is with the fine folks at Ridley’s Cycle waiting for it’s new parts, which is fine.  I’m annoyed with March.  I’m tired of falling off the bike and really tired of wrecking things in the process.  Maybe I’ll put the knobbies back on the Rescue Bike and dust it off.  Or maybe I’ll just wait for March to go away.

I have attempted to ride through the winter this year with a reasonable amount of success.  The mileage hasn’t added up as quickly as the summer, the ride calendar showing big gaps during the coldest periods.  There’s little doubt that riding in the winter requires more effort – physical and mental.  The biggest mental effort comes off the bike, before the ride begins.  Ugh…-15…west wind…cold and windy…I don’t need to ride…it’s going to suck…I’ll be cold…  Trying to stay out of that self-defeating space is hard for me.  My solution is fairly straight forward –each evening, I lay out all my gear and get everything packed before I look at the forecast for the morning.  If it’s been especially cold, I make sure to have the extras within reach so there’s no messing about in the morning.  Get up, get the gear on, get the pack on, get out the door.  Prudence dictates that a proper look at the current and forecast conditions is done before departure – I don’t need to freeze to death in an attempt to prove how hardy I am – but I don’t have to think about anything and all the work is done.

Extra snow = extra training! For Free!

I have however discovered my personal riding hell, that thing most likely to keep me off the bike.  Hours after a good snowfall, traffic has trampled the fresh snow into semi-packed tracks and trails along the roads.  The snow is thick now, having been compressed by so much traffic, but it is not yet solid.  The weight of bike and rider is not enough to press through to get a solid purchase on the packed ice below but we will be pushed around by the varying consistencies of snow density and the icy ruts lurking beneath.  The wheels are travelling entirely separate routes from one another as the front end pushes and plows and slides around.  This is entertaining enough on flat, quiet roads but degenerates rapidly into abject terror on descents and mortal fear on busy streets.  Climbing becomes, quite literally, impossible as the tires, despite their studs, can find no traction to propel the bike through the thick snow and eventually my speed falls below that required to maintain a rubber-down orientation.  The last big snow included a perfectly-executed over-the-high-side shoulder roll, a vain attempt at climbing via the sporadically-shovelled sidewalks and a lot of bicycle carrying.  The paths were amazingly clear and plowed.  The roads?  Not so much.  

Semi-packed snow, ice-rut foundation, dense and super slick. My version of cycling hell.

So – the how.  How do I ride in when it’s snowing and blowing and cold out?

• The biggest thing is simply to do it.  Just get on the bike and ride, ignoring that voice screaming all sorts of objections.  Ignore people that use words like stupid or idiot.  That’s number one. 
• Layers – like any other outdoor winter activity, staying warm is all about the layers
  •      A light, thin Merino wool long-sleeve as a base
  •      Pearl Izumi Pro Thermal long-sleeve jersey
  •      Pearl Izumi Pro Softshell jacket
  •      My usual stretchy shorts or bibs
  •      MEC Roubaix tights to about -13C
  •      driWear Performance Thermal Pantsunder the Roubaix below -13C
  •      A toque (of course)
  •      Liner / glove combo when it’s -5C or warmer
  •      The venerable Lobster mitt below -5C
  •      Thick Smartwool or Wright winter running socks, whatever is clean…ish
  •      Northwave Celsius Arctic cycling shoes
  •      Clear glasses – spend most of the winter riding in the dark.

Northwaves, lobster mitts, goggles and come cleaning gear.

I was dubious of the Pearl’s ability to keep me warm in Calgary’s winter but it has continued to surprise me, time and again.  Those three items  – the Merino and two Pearl layers leave me sweating more days than not.  My own tendency is to ride hard so I might be warmer than someone riding a little more relaxed.  No question that my legs and hips get chilly when it’s really cold.  The Roubaix / driWear combination is just not enough to slow down the windchill effect.  I’ve got a pair of unlined GoreTex rain pants I’ll try over top the next time I can’t talk myself out of riding when it’s RBC – Really Bleedin’ Cold. The bike – what about the bike?  I’ve chosen to continue riding the Ridley through the winter though I’ve been told that’s unfair to the bike.  The folks that made it don’t think so:

@forgedcyclist And a nice place to ride your bike! How do you like the X-Fire with discs? *BV

— Ridley Bikes (@Ridley_Bikes) January 22, 2013

but I do expect that grime in the drivetrain will shorten its life.

Luckily – or not – I seem to be much slower in the winter so I rarely get onto the big ring – one less part to worry about changing in the spring.  I fully expect to replace the chain, rear sprocket and inner chainring but it’s not like I’m riding Dura-Ace or SRAM RED level components – the parts are relatively inexpensive.  I wash the bike regularly, more when the weather is back and forth between freezing and melting (which provides its own set of riding challenges).  It’s an opportunity to check the bike over for loose fasteners, damage, chips and so on.  It’s also a key piece of extending the life of the drivetrain – washing the grit out of it. For chain lubrication I’ve stayed the course with the usual red-top bottle of Teflon dry lube.  Dry attracts less grit and grime and keeps the overall drivetrain cleaner.  I scrub the chain down with a brush during its bath until I can handle it without getting dirty.  Add one drop of lube per roller, cycle it and let it sit until the next morning, then spend a minute or two back-pedalling the chain through a rag to remove the excess.  When it’s wet out, I’ll spray some all-in-one cleaner/ lube onto a rag and give the chain a wipe to keep the surface from rusting.   

Studs, but only in the center.

 I bought some Nokian IceSpeed studded tires which improved things dramatically but they are not a panacea – they do not replace dry pavement and slicks, nor do they replace common sense.  They have no studs on the sides, only the middle, so leaning into an icy turn will not go well.  I know this.  Otherwise, they provide a healthy amount of winter traction for the conditions I encounter most days, day-after big snow being the major exception.  That’s it – other than extra attention paid to the drivetrain and some studded tires, the bike is as-delivered.

There you have it – one man’s recipe for Winter Riding Success.  This is not a set of directions to tell you how you should approach riding through the winter.  Rather, this is how I managed it.  I’ve skipped out on some of the brutally cold days admittedly – I’m good down to -20C, with windchill to -30C but that’s it.  The admonishment you’re too old to develop character through athletic feats, a response received when trying to figure out how to ride the semi-packed snow, drove home the awareness that with an entire household depending on me to put food on the table, I don’t need to break my collar bone (or worse) trying to prove to myself how hard-core I am. 

I figure if I can do it, anyone can.  It takes more prep than going for a quick spin in the summer and getting past the mental obstructions thrown up takes some effort but really, it’s not that hard.  Layer up and get out there (or don’t – your call really).

The weather has been pleasantly mild with above-freezing highs during the day which has made the journey a little easier each day.  This is reflected in my ride time as it slowly climbs back towards summer speeds.  This however is impacted by my continued use of summer tires…because I am foolish, or in the words of Adam, stupid.  Actually I’m cheap and lazy.

It’s not that I haven’t purchased winter tires – I have, I just don’t have them.  I received an unexpected Amazon.com gift card recently and while normally I’d gleefully spend it on numerous books, I took advantage of their marketplace and ordered some studded winter tires.  Referring back to my previous statement espousing my Scottish ancestral stereotypical economic behaviour, I opted to go with the basic freight which means no actual tracking other than “it’s shipped” and “it’s arrived”.  So far I know they’ve been shipped and should arrive sometime between the summer and winter solstice of 2012.  Maybe.

Shortly after buying the X-Fire, I pulled off the very light, very quiet and very soft Clement PDX cyclocross tires and replaced them with heavier, noisier but more durable (and 1/4 the price) Kenda commuter tires.  The Clements are amazing and fast but the paved path was chewing them down in record time and at $40 a pop I figure I’ll save them for proper ‘cross riding.  The Kendas are not winter tires and don’t claim to be.  The tight tread packs with snow and their grip on ice is akin to my 3-year old’s grip of string theory.  This creates an adrenaline-fueled, butt-clenching commute.

The thing about an old, established neighbourhood with quiet streets is the combination of tall, mature trees and reduced traffic mean a lot of snow on the road.  My route happens to be downhill, in the dark, through just enough snow that it’s more of a relative-trajectory experience than a navigated one.  Both ends of the bike pick their own path and the complete lack of any meaningful traction means speed builds at a frightening pace.  I aim for the occasional patch of pavement where a judicious application of the brakes scrubs off some speed before we’re back on the ice and snow again.  An accidental yet liberal application of aerosol chain lube to the rear brake disc only adds to the excitement of it all.

The more sage among you might ask why don’t put the Clements back on – they look like they might work in the snow.  Laziness and Murphy’s law.  It’s a catch 22 actually.  I figure if I pull the wheels off the bike, pull the tires off the wheels, put the other tires back on and put the wheels back on the bike, I will get precisely one ride on them and the studded winter tires will show up, necessitating a repeat of the entire performance.  On the other hand, if I don’t change them, the tires will stay in postal limbo, arriving the day after I finally succumb to the lack of traction, fall down and break my other wrist thereby ending the season all together.  You see – I just don’t have a choice.

Remember, remember, the 10th of November

I’ve managed to avoid the “this piece of laser-guided, alien-inspired carbon-billet doo-daddery that weighs precisely 3 french fries less than your current one is a must-have at only $1500″ pseudo magazine articles however in my on-going dithering about a new bicycle, I’ve been scouring the internet endlessly.

The Stevens Carbon Team in all it’s Germanic perfection…without disc brakes sadly.

After 10 days of waiting, the you need to show more interest than going down there 3 times to tell them you’re interested before they’ll respond to you bike shop finally responded to my subsequent interest-expressing email with a very reasonable quote on a Stevens Carbon Team frame build.  It was good enough to pique my interest despite the lack of one of my key want features – disc brakes – but their so-low-pressure-sales-we-won’t-do-anything schtick eventually wore me down and I moved on.    Just as well, I want those disc brakes.  In my three previous interest-expressing trips, I’d expressed my desire for a Stevens Vapor – the only one with discs – but was eventually told via Guru Thomas that they wouldn’t order it because they didn’t want to get stuck with it.  I’m not going beg you to take my money…

Now disc brakes on bikes are the subject of all sorts of internet and bike-shop debate from the barely reasonable – they add weight to the utterly ridiculous – they’re too powerful and lots of inexperienced riders will crash after they lock up their front wheel while blazing down the mountain pass in the rain.  Yeesh.

In fairness, they are heavier – about 300 grams to go from cantilever to disc.  Less than a 2nd water bottle.  I’m not in the pro or amatuer or any peloton nor do I see the 300 grams of extra brake as a deal-braker when I’ve got an easy 3000 10,000 grams around my middle I could shed.  The latter argument – too much power – doesn’t warrant an actual rebuttal it’s so utterly cockamamy.

I would like to comment on another reason I’ve been given to avoid disc brakes – they’re not hydraulic.   Disc brakes come in two fashions – mechanical/cable operation or hydraulic operation.  If I was given the choice, I’d certainly pick hydraulic over cable.  At the moment there is precisely one manufacturer making a hydraulic brake system for road/’cross bikes (yet numerous for mountain, this due to the UCI – the cycling version of the FIA, only just approving discs for cyclocross bikes) and they’ve not released anything to the public yet, rather continuing to work with Colnago on their beautiful C59 road bike.  I’m not sure which would cost more however – the C59 or the divorce that would inevitably result subsequent to it’s purchase.

Mechanical/cable versions are very simple – pulling the brake lever pulls a cable.  The other end of the cable is attached to a lever that is attached, for the purposes of illustration, to a threaded ram.  Pulling on the cable pulls the lever which causes the ram to rotate, which causes it to move in towards the disc by virtue of the thread.   A brake pad is mounted to the end of the ram and thus when the ram is rotated inwards, it pushes the pad into contact with the disc.  Bicycle brake discs are thin (1.5mm or ~0.060″) and somewhat flexible so as the pad is pushed into it from one side, it flexes away from the pad and makes simultaneous contact with a pad on the opposite side, ultimately sandwiched between the two pads.  A spring on the ram rotates the pad/ram/lever assembly back out when the lever is released and the disc, now unstressed by the pad, returns to it’s previous position, no longer contacting the inside pad.

Absolutely simple and quite effective – certainly more effective, and more importantly impervious to the elements than any rim brakes currently available.  Granted, it’s subject to cable-related issues – stiction, cable stretch and jacket collapse among others.  These issues have existed since motorcycles were introduced as they’ve used, for a century or so, cables for operation of the clutch, throttle and even early drum brakes.  Mechanical brakes also require consistent maintenance as there is no automated means to compensate for pad and disc wear.  This takes all of 5 minutes every Sunday evening as I prep the Rescue Bike for another week of riding.  If I get around to it (the maintenance that is).

Hydraulic brakes function like scaled-down versions of motorcycle brakes.  Powerful, linear, exceptional and capable of both tremendous stopping power and remarkable modulation.  Using the principle of Pascal’s law, they use fluid under pressure in place of a cable and a piston (or pistons) in place of the ram.  The spring is replaced by a deformable D-ring seal – the D shape of the seal allows the piston to slide out while deforming slightly as the piston, under pressure from the fluid, pushes towards the disc.  That seal deformation in combination with subtle piston-chamber design pulls the piston away from the pad (and thus disc) when the brake lever is released.  Hydraulic discs are more refined than mechanical to be sure – you don’t have to adjust them for wear – the action of the D-rings seals and piston motion serve to automatically adjust position every time they’re used though a dirty or poorly maintained setup will drag the pads on the disc.  They’re powerful, far more so than mechanical and infinitely more than rim brakes.  Their single drawback (in my eyes – I don’t care much about weight or being too powerful after all) is the brake fluid.  When it’s clean and bled properly, there’s no issue but air in the system can be a nightmare to get out.  This isn’t a use issue of course, just maintenance related.  Take care of them and they’ll take care of you.

So if a rider wants to step into a road or cyclocross bike, wants disc brakes and wasn’t born into a family of investment bankers, the choice today remains mechanical/cable.  Amusingly, those that would advise me to fore-go the mechanical discs because they’re only cable, not hydraulic somehow miss entirely that the rim brakes they’re admonishing us to stick with are – yup – cable operated.

In the event you’re confused by the cyclocross reference, see here.  An insanity originating in Belgium it involves pavement, mud, grass, snow perhaps, steep climbs,cow bells and barriers that require you to carry your bike.  The course is unrideable by design – but it’s spawned the ultimate do-everything bike.

I started off last year avoiding the bike if it even looked like it might rain.  This wasn’t so much a fear of rain as an excuse to take the day off.  The introduction of our Gentlemen’s Wager (first to 1000km) rewarded riding in the rain, doubly so when my competition wouldn’t.  While I wouldn’t say I embrace riding in the rain, I wasn’t letting it stop me.

Tuesday afternoon, I rode home in a rain that had me sloshing about within the first two kilometers.  It was a miserable ride with miserable rain and a miserable headwind.  I did not enjoy the ride as one might infer and I vowed no more riding in the rain until I was properly outfitted.  That arbitrarily limiting statement stood three days before it became a challenge.  A challenge to which I quickly succumbed.

Ordinarily one might think of failing a challenge to be failure.  In this scenario I think failing to live up to the statement I’m not riding in the rain is in fact the preferred course of action.  I am, after all, not made of a water-soluble exterior (at least not while I’m still moving and breathing), and the gear that I have keeps me reasonably warm.  Or so I thought.

It started innocently enough.  A check of the forecast this morning showed a light rain turning to snow as the day wore on.  The radar map showed a large green (IE rain) mass heading from the west but the timing showed the worst of it arriving about the time I was due back.  I questioned my wisdom as I geared up, stuffing my pockets with enough road fuel for a 3-hour trip, strapping on my sort-of water proof Gore-Tex pants and my not-water-proof riding jacket but forged ahead with my ride.

The relative lack of puddles and the dry spots around parked vehicles suggested a lack of significant precipitation.  The wavering trees confirmed the presence of the 33km/h NW wind.  Did I forget to mention that bit?  Oh – yes, in addition to the precipitation, there was a wee wind.

The geographical location of home base presents some logistical issues when faced with a north westerly wind.  We are higher than the primary north/south pathway system, which lies to the east.  We go down to the path and up to home.  Heading south on the path is, with a handful of exceptions fairly flat – easy pedaling – and as such, my desired direction.  However, while it would be a fast and easy trip south, it would mean the entire return journey faced into the aforementioned wind.  Not appealing.

Head west or north from home base and you’re climbing.  It’s not huge elevation nor is it killer-steep.  It’s a long, steady slog up the hills and today, into the wind.  I opted to tackle the hills and the wind first, riding north and west as far as I could before heading home both downhill and with a tailwind.  Excellent plan.

I don’t often ride in the northwest as I have no destination there.  This means I’m not overly familiar with the path system or even the road network.  I can’t keep track of which trail or boulevard is going which way.  While the City of Calgary has done a commendable job signing the bike routes on the roads, there are some gaps and I could not for the life of me figure out how to get over – or if I wanted to – Beddington Trail while staying on the path.  It didn’t help that with the overcast skies and the lack of streets or avenues (so one might be able to figure out what direction he was pedaling), I had no idea what direction the road  was going.  I knew I wanted to go north, but I no longer knew where North was.  I headed down dead-ended bike paths, back-tracked up hills and generally confused myself a great deal.

I could have used my gadget to look at a map, find my position on it and then reference the fantastic City of Calgary Pathway and Bikeways app to figure out how to get where I wanted to go.  I didn’t do that.  I didn’t do that because that’s not what I do, apparently.

The precipitation was no longer a drizzle.  It was a full-on rain but I’d thwarted it with careful seam preparation and thick winters sock over my double-layer winter running socks, a gift from Best Wife.  While I was pretty sure parts of me were getting wet, I was still warm save for my face so I ploughed on trying to find a way over to Nose Creek park from the north side of whatever that road it s that runs east-west (that’d be Beddington Trail for future reference).  I continued to twist and turn until I crossed a pedestrian bridge over a multi-lane road (success!) and began heading east.

The quick blasts downhill stung my face with rain turning to something more solid and there was standing water on the flat sections now.  Slogging along up a long hill, I caught sight of another Porsche parked in someone’s driveway and thought to myself – what a strange coincidence, two convertible Porsches back into their…wait a minute… nooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!  Ah damn!  I was not going east.  I had not crossed the right road.  I was going in circles.

I pulled under the cover of the Husky gas pumps and ate a Honey Stinger waffle while I pondered my next move.  I had no idea where I was, how I got there or where I should be going.  I’d been riding for an hour and was no longer warm and dry, my feet squishing around in wet socks.  I picked a road at random and followed it until it turned into something I recognized and then followed that.  Slowly I picked my way back to Centre Street and Beddington something-or-other where I knew I’d find my path north.

Slowly I ground up the hill into the driving rain and headwind, knowing that some downhill salvation was waiting on the other side.  I was cold, wet and fully insane in my determination to get where I was going.  I pedaled down the hill to the underpass which would feed me into Nose Creek Park but stopped short.  Do I really want to do this?  I could turn around right now, slog it up this hill and then coast downhill almost all the way home.  Home, where it’s warm and dry and I can climb into a hot shower.

That’s the thing with insanity.  It’s insane.  I pedaled north, fighting with my clipless pedal that was refusing to clip (making it remarkably slippery as wet metal on metal tends to be).  I started talking to my pedal out loud which should have been a sign.  Finally clipped in, I rode into the deserted park and headed east.  The rain left large puddles on the trail and the drivetrain sprayed water up the back of my right leg until it finally found a way past the Gore-Tex, dripping it’s icy self down the back of my formerly dry calf.  I did not smile.

I chose the easy route out of the park, anxious to head for home, having accomplished my crazy, pointless mission.  The north wind was pushing me furiously and I found myself in the top of the big ring, making my first real speed of the day.  I checked my mileage and the time, thought about the consequences of going past my turn and decided to push for the river.  My gloves were soaked through, frozen fingers and frozen toes a constant distraction.  I rode on averaging 30km/h over the next 10km all the while the return trip looming in my mind.

I stopped under the Memorial Drive overpass, common sense finally trumping the enjoyment of speed.  I snarfed down a Clif bar with shockingly numb hands, making a futile attempt to hide from the wind behind a bridge pillar.  I could no longer ignore the pain coming from my wet toes and my fingers were all but non-functional they were so cold.  The rain had long turned to a heavy wet snow making a less-than-stellar ride that much more arduous.  I stuffed the empty wrapper in my jersey pocket and turned around for home.

The ride home was exactly as you might think.  A freezing, driving slush/rain, a fierce headwind and a Rescue Bike that was beginning to malfunction.  I couldn’t determine whether it was my inability to feel my fingers that was hampering the bike, or if it was the bike rebelling against the conditions.  I stared at a spot a few feet in front of the tire, shifted into the middle of the middle ring and tried not to think about my frozen appendages.

Half way up the bus trap hill, I determined that in addition to my own lack of digit-functionality, the Rescue Bike was indeed sick.  I tried to shift into the granny ring so I could sit and pedal slowly up the hill but it wouldn’t shift.  This is most distressing when you have already made the mental leap to a lower gear and it is the first time in memory I debated getting off and pushing rather than risk falling over with my feet frozen to their pedals.

I made it to the top of the hill and, knowing the rest of the climb that was waiting for me, I persuaded the chain onto the granny ring and climbed the last kilometer home.  I managed to get the Rescue Bike up onto it’s perch before making a bee-line for a hot shower.  My fingers howled in protest but my feet made no complaint at all, at first.  Without warning, my toes started signalling that they’d been run over by a truck, smashed with a hammer and stubbed against a table at running speed.  The pain was enormous.  I was paying the price for ignoring them when they signaled their increasing displeasure and finally their resignation during the ride.  Despite growing up and spending my I don’t need a toque just because it’s -30C years in a place that has an average winter temperature of -30 degrees, I don’t believe my toes have ever been that cold – they’ve certainly never shared their anger with such clarity before.  It was an excruciating 5 or 6 minutes before they started to calm down.

It’s now 12 hours since I embarked on my frozen adventure and I’ve recovered nicely.  My muddy clothes have all been washed and hang-drying in anticipation of another outing.  If it wasn’t for scheduling conflicts, I would be gearing up for a 2nd round as we speak.  Clearly I haven’t learned anything.

Do you see what happens when you say never?  It’s makes you crazy.

Attending the funeral in the middle of the morning meant some time off work.  This translated to an extra half-hour on the bike in what has to be some of the coldest weather I’ve ridden yet.  The ride started out at 4 degrees and slowly dropped to 2 before climbing back up again by the end of the ride.  I know it’s just the end of April (as I write) and we’re just as likely to see snow as sun but I could use a few days of warm morning riding.

The biggest drawback to the cold temperature is the requirement for gloves to keep my hands from going numb with cold.  Of course thanks to a combination of hand position, seating position, bike size and good old fashioned biology, when I ride with gloves, my hands go to sleep instead – especially my thumbs.  There are two pads on the heel of your hand and the nerves run between them.  Using a padded (read “insulated) glove and positioning myself the way I do means that padding puts pressure on the nerves and the next thing you know I’m shifting gears instead of gripping the bars.  It’s rather annoying and occasionally problematic but it beats the typical cycling gripe (you know, the seat-related one that’s not a problem with your seat).

I managed to put on just shy of 50 kilometers this morning and found all sorts of new ways to torture myself with hills.  Newsflash – the only way I can avoid riding up hill to get home is to start out climbing up hill towards Nose Hill park.  The problem with doing that is it doesn’t get me anywhere near work and rather obviously – I’m still climbing hills.  In fairness to my progress, climbing hills is – I was going to say getting easier, but that’s misleading – getting less death-like.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say something ridiculous like I pulled out all the stops (ridiculous because I didn’t pull out all the stops – I stopped often and am stopped now) or even I gave it everything I have, because I haven’t done that either – I’m still quite spoiled in fact.  I did however learn one very important thing this weekend – if I don’t do it (it being whatever it is I’m doing) first thing in the morning, it probably isn’t going to get done and that (the not getting done bit) will make me short-tempered and agitated and pure pleasure to be around.

As I tried to catch up to Adam and Alberto, I’ve ridden as many miles as I could get away with without putting a strain on things at home.  I’ve been getting out a few minutes earlier in the morning and riding a few minutes longer in the evenings while keeping the home-front semi-stable.  This weekend I managed a 2 solid rides and an outing with the eldest for a bonus 7km (A quick topic-drift here – the eldest was amazing this weekend, pushing his Canadian Tire 40-pound bike up the steep, grass face to the top of Nose Hill because he wanted to ride around up there.  That’s determination.)

All of the effort was rewarded with a jump from 3rd to 1st place this (Monday) morning.  I leapt up to 473km.  Adam, thankfully, took the weekend off, I suspect to put some competition back into the competition, so is sitting at a solid 456km (as of 9:00 am) with Alberto, despite a huge 80+km effort on the weekend, sliding into 3rd, 150km behind 1st.  In fairness to him, he rides exclusively in the evening and I see he’s put up another 47km ride tonight so as long as I don’t ride for two more days (and he continues), he’ll almost be caught up.  Of course Adam will have continued riding so all that means is we’ll both be well behind him.  So – I’m afraid I’m going to have to keep riding.  Chris is having trouble with his electronic gadgets so updates are manual – I have no idea where he’s at now but he was a solid 115km on Friday.  Late entry Johan the Accountant was sitting at 110km and Jon the Safety Dude a solid 0.

By this time next week, this is anybody’s game however there’s a really big problem lurking.  Despite my attempts at having Adam shipped away on business for a few days, it is I who is heading off for 3 days next week.  That’s 3 days without riding.  That could put Alberto 50km in front of me (and Adam 105km if all he does is commute!).  I need a strategy.

I should take this opportunity to say I believe I am crushing all comers on the elevation race.  The First to 10,000 meters that I instituted last week – seems I neglected to directly inform (though I must say it was published publicly, accessible from pretty much anywhere in the world…) the rest.  They think it’s cheating, I think it’s clearly and obviously not.  And I’m winning. 

Not only must I rouse myself from a too-short sleep in a perfectly warm bed in a silent house, I must do it in the knowledge that the house is cold, it’s cold outside and I get to fight a headwind all the way to work.  I’m unprepared mentally and want nothing more than to crawl back under the covers for another hour.  So I do.  Or rather, I try.  For the next 30 minutes my ego successfully forces me awake by reminding me that Adam will have ridden this morning despite the wind and chill.  I’m pretty sure Adam would have ridden with one foot chewed off by a cougar this morning, furiously pumping along with one cleated foot – and making good time of it too.  Such is the nature of my esteemed co-worker and co-rider.

Ego won.  I dragged my sorry self out of bed, cursing everything and everyone and my ego for good measure.  I crawled into the shower and fought back against Ego telling myself I might be up, I might be in the shower, I may have all the stretchy-gear in the bathroom with me, but I haven’t said I’m going to ride.  I rode.  Ego won again.

I was just over a click (a kilometer for those not versed in Canadian slang) into my ride when I tried to adjust my Fredly mirror and realized it wasn’t there, nor was my helmet.  Safety said go back and get the helmet but Lazy ignored it and pushed on.   It was a poorly played move on Lazy’s part as I’m certain that upon arriving at the homestead, Prudence and Lazy would have teamed up, pointing out the late hour and the certainty of being late for work and I would have driven.  Lazily.  As it turned out, too lazy to turn around  meant riding into a headwind for the next 35-ish minutes, getting passed and watching others drift further and further from my reach.

Gone is the rabbit-hunting Cat-6 predator of last summer.  In its place sits a doughnut-fattened gelatinous blob masquerading as a rider.  With each rotation of the pedals I cursed the doughnuts, the chocolates, the cake, the jelly belly beans, the second and third helpings.  I cursed my slothfulness and my remarkable ability to find an excuse to avoid the fluid trainer all winter.  I cursed the cigars I’d so anxiously saved to smoke in my new heated garage.  I cursed  the wind, the cold, my frozen head.  Then I ran out of things to complain about. Not that I’d let that stop me.

The constant awareness that this moment, this unpleasantness (for we can’t really call it suffering in the broader scheme of things), the burning legs, the lungs that feel four sizes too small – that working through and around and over, this is what creates success.  It’s a metaphor for life.  Taking the car and driving to work gets me to the same destination in less time, but at what price?

I arrived at work a mixture of sweating and freezing, out of breath and out of steam.  I felt ill.  I had a headache.  I wanted a nap.  Actually I always want a nap, that’s not new.  I want a nap right now in fact.

Calgary’s wind has a rather nasty habit of switching directions late in the afternoon.  A headwind in the morning often spins into a headwind for the ride home – I find this unfair.  The wind it turns out, is entirely indifferent to my judgement of it’s fairness or lack thereof.  Occasionally however it works in your favour – a tailwind in the morning and another at night.  Or, like today, you have a headwind in the morning and tailwind at night.  And oh, what a tailwind it was!  30km/h push from the south.  That’s what I’m talking about!

It struck me on my flight home this afternoon that when we have a headwind and we’re working exceptionally hard to maintain a pace, it is a grinder wearing at the psyche, a bully pushing you around.  Turn it around and throw the same effort level into your cycling and suddenly you are FLYING!  You pedal furiously, you’re sweating like mad and your air speed is the same.  But the sensation is not the same at all.  This is rewarding.  This is exhilarating.  We are hard-wired for ground-speed ladies and gentlemen.

So it was in this glorious wind-assisted cycling daydream that I was rudely awakened by the arrival of what is now known as the Sherpa climb.  Playtime was over and it was time to pay.  Up, up, up we go getting slower by the meter.  My legs are burning, my lungs are burning and I’m a little dizzy at the end of the first rise.  I pedal on, now with a crosswind towards the next section.  I roll up to the stop sign, clip out with my left foot, fail to get my right foot unclipped and immediately begin falling to the right.

There is a flurry of activity in my brain as pain centers begin to register the incoming signals.  We’ve got early reports of gravel damage to the right hand but nothing in the region of the previous break.  Confirmed surface damage to the right knee, extent unknown.  Hold up!  Incoming from the right sit-bone vicinity…sounds like there’s going to be some swelling there.  Pride reports major damage!

I watched my little black bell, or rather pieces of the little black bell bounce out beside me before I finished the roll onto my back.  I laid there for a moment, an embarrassed smile on my face as if to tell the cars whizzing by on Centre Street that while my pride had gone into hiding, I was in fact fine.  In reality, I was laying there thinking Damn!  They got me.  That’s what I get for thinking I beat the clips without paying my dues.  Pride goeth before a fall.  Literally.

I must give props again to the rather amazing ability of my MEC stretchy pants to withstand the abuse I dish out.  In the fall fall that broke my wrist and bruised up my right side, the pants came out with nary a scrape.  I am pleased to report that while my flesh suffered a reasonable scrape and exposed some of the tender stuff lurking beneath the skin, my stretchy pants are no worse for wear after today’s spring fall.

I think I’m going to go have that nap.

My visit to the hand surgeon on Wednesday was fairly uneventful.  I have a bone “flake” – thereby giving credence to the notion that I’m flaky.  This is not any old flake however – it’s a flake from the pisiform bone, complete with tendons still attached.  Or something like that.  The terminology used by the doctor escaped me to be fair, right up until this: “it will take a long time for the pain to go away”.

He poked and prodded my wrist, confirming the conclusion he’d already drawn looking at the X-ray.  He was kind enough to run through things a couple of time though – No pain here?  No.  No pain here?  No.  No pain here?  No.  Some pain here correct?  Yes.  And highest pain here.  The last one was more of a statement than a question.  This was good as the bolt of lightning shooting through my wrist, arm and brain at that moment obscured any more eloquent answer than “mmpphaarrrrgh”.  He seemed to take that as agreement though.

“A cast for 6 weeks is what we normally do” he proclaimed, “but if you’ll promise to be faithful and wear it all the time, we’ll put you in a splint instead”.  I nodded in agreement as he still had his thumb dangerously close to my flaky pisiform.  He ushered me off to the splint lab, spoke briefly with the tech, promised to come back with a card so I could make an appointment for a follow-up in two weeks.  He left and never returned with his promised card which left me a little disappointed.  Not to mention that after showing me how painful my wrist was and telling me I’d be suffering pain long into the future, there was no discussion about pain management.  Thankfully I had several  percs left from my trip to the emergency room.

The splint process was quick and painless but not fully covered under Alberta Health.  Half way through the process she remembers “oh yeah, the splint isn’t covered – you’ll have to pay for it”.  At $21 it didn’t exactly break the bank but it still caught me by surprise.  At any rate, the emergency room splint  was in fact more comfortable and more rigid but lacked the ability to be removed and re-installed.  It was also large enough to make typing a single-hand + single finger affair.  My new plastic splint makes my hand and arm sweat and is woefully uncomfortable but it has two advantages – I can remove it to wash it (and me) and it allows the use of most of my typing fingers.  There’s a catch though – because it’s all plastic and removable, it doesn’t really prevent me from doing the dishes any longer.  Ah well – was a nice break while I had it.

The Plastic Splint

In truth it feels pretty good these days.  I spent a couple of hours cleaning the kitchen and mopping the floor and that left me hurting a little, but not nearly as bad as earlier this week.  I’m no longer driven to distraction most of the time which means I can be at work and actually do something productive.  At least in theory.

I snuck out to the garage last night to grab some tools while hacking a KVM switch and took a moment to gaze wistfully at the Rescue Bike.  Of course I thought immediately about going for a ride.  I swung my leg over and grabbed hold of the bars, checking the fit of the splint to the grip.  Unfortunately (or fortunately depending on your perspective) the absolutely freezing, miserable wind and snow made that  a wholly uncomfortable proposition and I quickly returned to the warmth of my basement.  Not without a firmly planted seed.  Must get some studded tires first.  And I bet I could ameliorate any of the more serious fitment issues with an application of my heat-gun and some patience…

This picture makes me imagine I have a neck brace too for some reason. Weird.

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 32^nd 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?

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 2^nd 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.