I laid there in disbelief, stunned at what had just transpired.  It hadn’t happened particularly fast – I’d had time to digest the situation, a micro-second to challenge my conclusion and then it was all over.  Except the crying.  And the cursing.

This was not your ordinary adventure.  Careful planning over the past several moments had led to this remarkable trek I found myself engaged in.  I’d departed fully laden with enough food, liquids and clothing to survive anything the modern post-industrial highway interchange location might politely request of me over the course of the next five 9-hour periods.  I was prepared, I thought, for everything.  Except this.

It hadn’t always been the plan.  I was suffering the results of my injuries incurred during my brief stint as a professional soccer player in the tournament this weekend.  Mt. Pleasant U8, parents vs. kids – not exactly a walk in the Arts Club field (more of an amble really).  We’d firmly crushed the hopes and dreams of our progeny but not without paying the price.  Several of my team mates bore the marks of precious fluids spilled across them, arguably the unavoidable result of carrying ones morning coffee while relentlessly taunting children on the battlefield.  After repelling a particularly aggressive attack by the shorties, I discovered I’d twisted my knee leaving me with what I expect will be a permanent and disfiguring limp.

This twisted knee obviously meant my planned solo trek across the harsh and often unpredictable environs of freshly paved urban bicycle path was in jeopardy.  The family was clear in their attempts to stop me, “stop whining you sissy” and “just shut-up and go already” being the clearest indicators of their poorly masked concern.  It’s okay my lovelies – I know what you really meant.  In the words of a not-very-famous offspring of Walt Disney (the man, not the terrifying corporation) who’s name I’ve conveniently left out, It’s easy to make a decision when you know what your values are”.  Thus, with my sense of pointless purpose and commitment to ego-inflating clear, I began packing my things.

With the practiced stealth of a bull in a china shop, I snuck out a little more than an hour after sunrise.  My adventure would require traversing the violent and dangerous main roads around astoundingly polite and accommodating morning commuters – a challenge I prepared myself for by fussing about with my clipless pedals.  After no more than 3 lanes of hurtling steel stopped to allow me across unscathed, I shifted into high gear and found myself quickly pedaling out, a clear sign I need taller gearing.  It may have been slightly, or a lot, down hill.

Having survived the dangers of the urban road-fauna – bumps, splits and a pair of bus traps – I had only one left turn before the hazard-factor ramped up as I entered the pathway network.  Stymied by a red light, I waited, coiled with the force of a discarded pen spring, to pedal my way in to the awaiting hell.

Finally I was on the path.  I’d entered the dragon’s den of flawlessly smooth pavement, and was immediately crowded by the crush of the other commuter.  He was coming towards me, his face a mixture of surprise and confusion.  He looked shaken up, like he was trying to get his bearings, such is the nature of this perfidious pavement-beast.  As I sailed past him at high rate of speed that was definitely not above the posted limit of 20km/h, I heard the familiar click click of his clipless shoes latching into their pedals.

At first it didn’t register as anything, then that little flag – the one in the back of your mind that says hey!  something….well…something! – popped up and I paused (mentally of course as I wouldn’t stop doing for thinking) for a moment before everything came rushing all at once.  If he’s clipping in, that means he was unclipped and this is not a normal place to be unclipped added to the fact he appeared somewhat shaken up and a little stunned and there’s all this mud in front of…MUD!

I grabbed both binders as if they were made of flower petals and managed to scrub off enough speed to make the effort a complete waste of time.  There it was – a solid (by coverage, not consistency) layer of mud stretching the width of McKnight, across both lanes of the traitorous path.  As this was the precise location I’d managed to break my wrist at in November (with less mud I might add), I was not shocked at the presence of the mud, but by the volume.  I hadn’t anticipated having all escape cut off.

I dare not move as I coasted through the lubricous mass, thinking only of getting to the other side.  The back end, despite being perfectly upright, began to drift to the right and then, as with my stunned-rider-clipping-in conclusion, the ground suddenly rushed up to meet me.  With enthusiasm.  A poetic string of invectives escaped my lungs in a gentle bellow.

So it was that I found myself laying in the mud with, I presume, a much angrier version of the stunned rider look I’d just witnessed.  I am certain that he heard me fall and I will wonder for minutes to come why he didn’t try to warn me.  Perhaps he wanted to share the experience.

In truth, I’m thankful it wasn’t worse – a couple of scrapes and bruises, some more character for the Rescue Bike, nothing more.  I’d been chased and had chased followed enthusiastically other adventurers through that spot earlier this season.  It could have been a pull-up with real consequences.  Nobody wants to get a pedal in the kidney first thing Monday.  I’ve never said It’s just not Monday without being punctured by someone’s bicycle.  Hey Adam, can you stab me in the appendix with your drops? 

The first time it fooled me, I didn’t know better.  This time I have no excuse – shame on me.  Clearly the lesson is “find another route”.  You’ll excuse me now while I find the polysporin.

Unfortunately it’s an eating, drinking, sleeping machine.  Despite all the sweating, all the swearing and all the kilometers spent on the rescue bike, I’ve not managed to get back to my pre-hibernation weight.  Why?  As I look in the mirror, the answer is easy.  It’s your food stupid.

Oh sure, I could argue about slowing metabolism or sub-par hormone levels, environmental contamination and chemicals in my food, but I won’t.  It’s not true.  I’m not losing weight because I keep eating everything I work off.  Doughnut day?  Yeah.  Perhaps more aptly termed Multiple Doughnut Day.  I don’t have a sweet tooth, I have a sweet set of teeth.  The thin end of the sugary wedge is, I believe, an understatement.

I’m sure it doesn’t help that I can’t avoid going for Pho.  That spicy Vietnamese treat of spectacularly tasty goodness in a bowl almost as big as my head.  Adam is fairly convinced (while equally addicted) that it must be unhealthy – a common trait amongst my favourite tasty foods.  I believe he must be mistaken and will summarily dismiss any evidence to the contrary.  There is only one way to keep us from eating soup.

The bikes.  There are now enough people bicycle commuting to work at our location that the simple act of going for lunch hinges on finding someone who likes Vietnamese food, has a motorized transport method for multiple bodies and does not have something better to do with their lunch hour.  We’ve had to resort to taunts, peer pressure, cajoling, bribery and even asking politely.  For this reason I think we need a company-owned lunch car.  I don’t foresee any opposition to such a request from the company finance people.

My oldest doesn’t get out for nearly as many rides with his dad as he’d like to.  Inevitably the weather, schedules, mechanicals and plain old no conspire to keep his riding to a minimum.  I admit that part of it is my desire to go for a ride, which on the surface is what he asks to do.  If we can get it together and go, he only has one destination in mind – Nose Hill.  Why not?  It’s close, it’s got hills to climb and he likes it.

We are quite often trying to squeeze a ride in between work and supper.  If the weather is decent and it’s not too late, I try to sneak him out, picking him up at the end of the commute and making for the paths.  This doesn’t give us a lot of time, but half an hour is better than waiting for the weekend only to get rained out.  That is what I did today.

Last time out we rode out to the paths along 14th street, rode south to the highest peak, then coasted down until an intersection got in our way.  We looped around the ‘hood and headed back to the house.  This was my plan for today until he firmly expressed his desire to hit Nose Hill instead.  We made it 219 meters from the house before he asked if we could stop.

“My legs, they’re just so tired dad” he complained.  How are you going to get up Nose Hill?  “It’s okay, I’m ready”.  Mmhm.  Off we went.  Another 250 meters.  “Can we stop at the playground, I’m really tired”.  Hmmm…I looped around the playground until he was ready to go again.  Under the tunnel and immediately into the climb up Nose Hill.  I made it 30 feet before my inability to follow a track and my clipless pedals conspired to throw me in the dirt.  Why is it, when you really, really need to get your foot out in a hurry, the clips seem to jam?

No harm, no foul – a little tip over is all.  I looked back at the bottom of the hill to see my oldest in the same position, wrestling under his bike.  We re-mounted and pushed on.  Actually that’s a lie – we didn’t re-mount, we just pushed up to the next piece of level ground and started again.  Right down to low, low gear, I spun along barely moving, hoping he’d keep up with me.  It worked for a short distance before he found himself under the bike again.

He got up and started pushing it along while I pedaled away.  Despite my admonishment to ride his bike on our bike ride, he continued to push.  And push.  And push.  Ultimately he pushed it all the way to the very top.  While I am amused by such a course of action, I’m also deeply impressed.  When he quits trying to ride it, I think he’s being lazy, doesn’t want to try.  Then he pushes and pushes and pushes that cheap bike that weighs half of what he does (I really need to get him a better bike), to the top of the park.  That’s not lazy.  That’s determined.  Dedicated.  Dig-deep dedicated even.  I am proud.

You might think he’s pushing it up so he can fly down.  That’s what I thought.  Seems reasonable and worthwhile.  A reward for all that pushing.  You and I would be wrong.  No, instead of planting himself firmly and barreling down the hill risking life and limb, he cautiously makes his way along until…he stops, gets off, and walks the bike down.  I am now amused, proud and confused.  If he gets hurt out on the hills, it’s not going to be due to his recklessness.  He’s going to get run over by his fearless younger brother.

After an extended weekend without riding, I was fresh and ready to roll this morning, in so much as ready to roll means without any viable excuse not to.  I stay up too late and dread the alarm in the morning.  There’s an evil crow that lives in the tree outside my window that has decided four am is an ideal time to start cawing away thereby ensuring that if I’d managed a decent night’s sleep to that point, it was all over.

At any rate, up I got and out the door I went, perpetually later than I planned.  The ride in wasn’t noteworthy in any way – no records, no disasters, no new bruises though my front derailleur is acting up again.  This is a sure sign that I’m supposed to buy a new bike (and surely not a $75 derailleur repair) I’m convinced but we’ll see how that goes over with the rest of the family.

I pedaled along without working too hard – not quite lazy but no burning legs either.  I chased and caught a senior couple then another gentlemen who was clearly not interested in making time as he gingerly poked his way down the overpass bridge into Max Bell.  His calves suggested a high degree of capability and I suspect he could, if he so chose, rather embarrass me but he didn’t, nor did he try.  I bid him goodbye and did my best to “spin” the rest of the way into work but kept finding myself focused on riding the status quo.

I’d planned for some laid-back riding for the trip home, a more serious attempt to “spin” along without trying to prove anything.  I passed a handful of slower, relaxed riders as I listened to my chain rubbing the derailleur in a steady grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr  of metal on metal.  I couldn’t help but think of all the wasted energy contained within the noise – energy coming from me.  I did not stop to try and alleviate things.

It wasn’t long before someone more serious started looming in my mirror, his speed notably faster than my own.  I picked up the cadence a little and continued on.  He continued to close the gap and I up’d my cadence again.  I’m still spinning I said to no one who believed me, I haven’t shifted up yet, I’m not flat out.

At 16th Ave, we got piled up with someone who probably was “spinning” his way home.  No longer closing the gap, he was now immediately behind me as the two of us coasted along underneath the overpass, waiting for an opportunity to get back up to speed.  The path opened, I ding’d my bell and made a break for it.  Spinning was essentially an illusion at this point though I was still down a couple of gears and spinning a steady 100 rpm.  Still spinning.

For reasons I can only guess – say perhaps to taunt and torment me – he stayed behind me, not quite on my wheel, not going away.  I pushed harder, he followed and then there was another, behind him.  Three of us not dueling (can three people duel?) down the path as I struggled to maintain my self-delusion of spinning.  Finally, having played with me until he was bored, he pulled out to pass.  It was Moustachio!  We both grinned and then he was by me.

I caved.  No more pretense, no pretending.  It was on.  I ratcheted up a gear, then another and suddenly we I was all out, chasing Moustachio along the pathway.  He was giving no quarter and any slack on my part was quickly swallowed up by the third rider in our little troupe.  We chased down a fellow mountain bike rider who was doing his best to keep us at bay, a valiant but insufficient effort.  With Moustachio a solid 25 meters or better out front, the unrace came to an end when our paths diverted again.  I was spent, sweaty and sore.

I tried.  I really tried.  I tried to ignore him.  I tried to ignore the riders in front of me, begging to be chased down.  I tried to ignore them when they closed the gap and when he passed but I couldn’t.  I’m a weak man.  A weak man who enjoyed the hell out of the chase.