(I try to limit my posts to 1000 words or less for fast reading.  Today’s post does not adhere to that principle.)

Adam wasn’t kidding when he said he was backing off to let his knee recover. Apart from the occasional commute and some trainer riding, he hasn’t put a lot of miles on. I was genuinely surprised, having expected to see him in full competition mode when I returned. Admittedly this made my task easier as I only had to focus on Alberto.

As of Friday morning, I had 233km left to finish the 1000 while Alberto was sitting with 324km. I was facing a new wrinkle in the plan as my Stumpy-riding father-in-law Geoff was arriving later in the day and was not bringing his bike. Hard to be a sociable son-in-law if I’m off riding by myself. Between his arrival and Mother’s day on Sunday, my plan was looking badly skewered.

As planned, I rode 28km in to work to notch up 795km. I couldn’t see how I was going to get this done without planting some bad seeds at home – something I’m not keen to do. Using the argument that I’d been on an airplane on company business until 10pm the night before, I pedaled out of the office at 2:30 giving me two and half hours of “me” time. I promptly put them to good use and made a few laps, chocking up another 50km before heading back to work to collect my things and head home. Alberto’s eyes bugged out with alarm at the sight of me standing there covered in sweat with a big grin on my face, with the knowledge that I’d been out for two hours putting on miles.

“I thought you had to be at home?!?” he said, as a look of horror spread across his face. Nope I answered, I got to do a bit of riding. “Give me your phone, I’m going to call your wife and tell her you’re not at work”. I nodded my head. Sure, she already knows. “You have to update your mileage” he demanded, which was a fair request given the competition. I dug out the marker and erased the morning’s number, pencilling in 842 with an admittedly huge smile. I was down to just 158km and I had yet to ride home.

Alberto sighed as he sank into his chair, “you…you just won’t stop”. I smiled. What did you think? I’m an old guy so I’m just going to hand it to you and make it easy”? “Well…yes” he laughed. No chance. You’re going to have to fight for it. “I’m going to finish this weekend” he said before heading out the door in disgust. I happily pedalled home for an excellent Friday total of 96km. The old plan was quickly being replaced by the new plan, which wasn’t a plan. Regardless, so far, so good. Alberto pounded out a respectable 55km before calling it a night leaving him with a 132km gap to make up and 270km to go.

Saturday morning I woke up early and was on the bike by 6:15, a quiet, sleeping house behind me. I rode off with no goal and no route. There were things to be done later in the day (like installing a bathroom fan – who lives in a house for 52 years and doesn’t install a bathroom fan?) so I couldn’t be gone all morning. Geoff would be waiting by the time I got home and Trace would be looking forward to a break from the kids. I decided on a 60km trip, figuring my route to work would make up 40km (20 each way), leaving the canal path to Chestermere the logical remaning 20.

The air was crisp but not freezing, the wind was blowing but not horrendous, I had a plan, food, water and the path to myself. I blasted off several kilometers at a better-than-expected pace. My legs complained vociferously, driving me to distraction until they finally went numb (or just shut off the pain signals) about 30 minutes in. This is another one of those tests of my will – of a willingness to push myself beyond my norms, to go that extra step, one more mile despite everything wanting to quit. This is what separates people who succeed at whatever they decide they’re going to, from those who feel like they tried and failed. The failure is not that you didn’t reach the goal, it’s that you stopped trying. Never. Stop. Trying.

At the 30km mark, I stopped for a refuel – a banana, a handful of jelly bellies and a long drink. I was struck by inspiration. My rest spot coincided with a road crossing where the city blocks off the path, leaving only a tight series of bends to get through before you can cross the road. I took my banana peel, laid it out nicely on the sandstone barrier and took a picture of it. I texted it to Alberto with the caption “bananas are my favourite riding food”, knowing that sooner or later that day, he would come across my environmentally-friendly “I was (already) here” graffiti.

Eco-friendly Graffiti

I was on my return trip, counting the meters as the big 900km loomed close. Along the canal, off the canal onto the detour, through the industrial area and almost back to the canal. 900! An unceremonious yet magical marker – just 100km left. I might finish this thing yet. Like a bad sitcom, there was Alberto riding towards me as I quietly cheered my little milestone, oblivious to my presence. I cycled towards him, waiting for that moment of recognition when he realized who I was. His eyebrows went up behind his sunglasses and his head went down. “Noooo” he moaned.

Seems my text didn’t go through so he didn’t know I was already lurking out there. We compared notes, he requested an updated mileage and he confirmed again that he would finish during the weekend. I knew the math already – 270km to ride, 40 hours in which to so it. Not impossible but unlikely. That’s a huge amount of cycling to do in such a short time, especially for a guy in gym shorts, a t-shirt and running shoes…on a mountain bike. I smiled, but I immediately abandoned my plan to finish by riding to work Monday morning.

I completed my ride with a not unreasonable 60km. It crossed my mind that I should keep going, get to 75, maybe 80…100. Knowing what and who was waiting at home, I put the Rescue Bike in the garage and spent the rest of the day with the family (if you call laying in a 46’C attic “with the family”).

Alberto continued to ride. And ride. And ride. He logged a 50km ride in the morning but I was doubtful that would be the only one. If nothing else, we’d made it clear to each other that neither of us was giving up. I checked just before going to bed and noted he’d logged another 110km. 160km in a day. That’s a pretty substantial bit of riding. He was down to 120km and he’d just shown he could pound that out, but he’d just done 160km. He’d need at least 6 hours to finish and some sleep but there was no longer any doubt about his finishing on Sunday. I needed to finish on Sunday before noon, somehow…

Something startled me out of my sleep at 3:30. I laid there trying to get back to sleep, but couldn’t stop thinking about getting my last 77km done. How on earth am I going to do this without alienating my wife and the father-in-law? How can I justify this unproductive and selfish use of time on Mother’s day? Is it possible to squeeze this in? I tossed and turned, not getting back to sleep. It occurred to me the solution to my problem was staring me in the face. I could ride now. Everyone else was sleeping and they wouldn’t notice me gone. I wouldn’t be taking away from Mother’s day and I could get 30, maybe 40km down before anyone crawled out of bed. I could be back and making breakfast before Trace was awake.

A debate ensued – the sane, rational side admonishing me to concede defeat right there . Riding at 4 in the morning for the sake of…well, riding was beyond foolish. Obsessive. Deranged. The emotional side was cunning however – this is not deranged, this is effective use of time. You’re not going to be sleeping anyway, might as well do something other than laying here thinking about doing something and doing nothing. This is wise. This is thoughtful. I wrestled until finally giving in to my obsession and was on the Rescue Bike by 4:20.

It’s dark at 4:00 and I’m poorly equipped for night riding. I strapped a couple of cheapie head-mounted lights on and headed off into the dark. I debated about the gentlemanliness of getting up at 4:00 in the morning, not because it was four in the morning but because it was at a time that was well out of the normal and expected. I was pushing the boundaries of the Gentlemen’s Wager, though large parts of it had devolved into outright competition already. Adam rides 35km so I ride 42km so Alberto rides 50km so I ride 56km. A steady progression from throwing rocks to arming the nukes. In for a penny…

I pedalled away, trying to get in as many miles as possible before the six o’clock pumpkin hour arrived and I’d need to be at home. I headed north into Nose Creek Park but in light of the demand for distance and not climbing, I turned around headed straight for the Bow river. I fought with the headlight as it tried to blind me, the glare off the helmet, the foggy glasses and the overall entertainment of trying to ride an unlit path at speed in relative darkness. More than once I heard a sudden scramble in the bushes as I went past, not knowing if it was a rabbit or coyote or something fearsome. I reached the Bow, spun around and headed back to Nose Creek, then back down and finally towards home. 45km. I had 32.7km remaining.

How bad would it be for me to be gone when Trace wakes up? How disappointed would she be if the kids got her out of bed because I was out chasing this stupid thing? What if I went out for just one more hour? What if I just finished this off right now? I’d be home by 7:30 – done before Alberto got out of bed. I struggled. The finish line was right there.

Sighing I put the Rescue Bike back on its perch and headed inside for a shower. There was someone in the bathroom already. Had I awakened her when I left? How mad was she going to be? Geoff emerged from the bathroom looking slightly groggy. “You heading out for a bit?” he asked. Oh… A little white lie is all it would take. Yeah, should be back by 7:30 or so. I stammered. I stared blankly. This is the chance – take it! Go! But it’s a Gentlemen’s Wager. Sigh. No, I replied, just getting back. Already been out for a little ride.

A shower to wash the salt off, some peanut butter, a banana, get the coffee going, get the kids making Mother’s day cards and drawing pictures. Keep everyone quiet. Geoff came back upstairs and joined me in a coffee as we talked mountain bikes and trail building and riding on Vancouver Island. Trace emerged from an all together too-short sleep-in only to find an empty coffee pot. I felt horribly guilty, knowing I was going to ask for her blessing to leave and finish my ride.

I waited for the coffee to have the requisite morning mood-lifting effect and it wasn’t long before the smile was back in her voice and on her face. I laid out the scenario. I’m “this close” to finishing – 33km. Alberto rode 160 kilometers yesterday and has 120 left today. He needs at least 6 hours to get that done, so I need to be done before 11. ”Make us breakfast and then you should go get it done” she smiled. I got to work.

My phone bonged, announcing an incoming text message – it was Alberto. “Are you done your kms yet?” I hesitated. Could he be done? No – don’t be foolish. Nope, but I will be in an hour. If nothing else, I’ve been honest and upfront when asked about the mileage – no bs. “I’m done” came the response, “I’ll post it in 20 minutes”. Nooooooooo….wait. No way. 120km? Bullshit. When? He’d have to have been up all night, after riding 160km. He’s messing with me. It’s not possible. ”I got up at 2:00. I’m all done”.

Like a sucker-punch to the guts. It was 8:45 in the morning, I was 33 kilometers from the finish and he’d beaten me. He’d overcome a 130km gap and absolutely pounded out 270-odd kilometers in 25 hours. He’d done it. My mind reeled. How did this happen?

I finished preparing the breakfast and shared the news. I’m still going to go and finish. What if he’s pulling my leg?  Geoff and I hashed out the numbers. 14 hours in the saddle, 6 or more in the dark. Possible. Unlikely but possible. This was all wrong.

I headed out to finish and had to fight to keep from doing it half-heartedly. I wondered if he was actually done. I wondered if he was buying time and trying to demoralize me. That would be rather ungentlemanly but who knows? 270km in a day? I rode hard. I rode harder. I pushed harder still. I stopped at the 1000km mark and notified Alberto and Adam – officially completed 1000km. I pointed the Rescue Bike for home and plodded on in.

The data was waiting for me when I got home. Strava spilled out the ugly details – a 2:00AM 100km run, a 7km run and a last-minute “oh shit!” .5km run when Strava reported a total distance of 999.7km. He’d finished at 10:20am. I’d finished at 11:00am. Minutes…

From a Gentlemen’s Wager to all-out warfare, riding in the middle of the night and putting huge miles on. I underestimated Alberto’s willingness to suffer and am genuinely impressed – 270km in a day is an enormous accomplishment. Job well done Alberto – you earned it.

The Yellow Jersey

That’s the end of the Race to 1000km, but the Gentlemen’s Wager isn’t over. There’s 2000km left and it’s (almost) anyone’s race. Just when you thought the suffering was over…

Addendum: This is being written on Tuesday’s flight but I will withhold publishing it until Monday.

I’ve spent the last few minutes looking at the current mileage for the top three contenders in this 1000km race and I’ve determined that I have only one opportunity to win this thing, assuming Alberto doesn’t ride 100km/day for the next 4 days and end it before I’m back in my own bed. I believe, perhaps incorrectly, that Adam will be cautious with his knee until he’s sorted it out. This does not remove him from consideration, rather it makes him more dangerous as he’s already shown a willingness to go out and put massive mileage down in a single day. To thwart this, it’s best to put this competition to bed as soon as possible before he feels confident enough to do so.

Alberto rides in fits and starts but you can see his growth over the past couple of weeks. He’s shown he’s capable of more than just a day or two of riding 60km and that he’ll push it out to at least 100km. He’s not hurt, he’s not sick and he has the freedom of time to ride as long and as often as he wants. That is a big threat.

So, in looking at the numbers, the history and the propensity of all the players to buckle down and get it done,  I need to have 1000km by the time I arrive at work Monday morning. This is a pretty massive challenge for me. 233km in 3 days and one morning. That’s an afternoon ride for a pro but I think it’s pretty clear I’m a marginal CAT 6 rider (and thus not a pro). It will take the support of my wife and kids, especially over Saturday and  Sunday, aka Mother’s Day. If I long-ride on Friday which should be no problem given my 3-day rest from riding, that knocks things down to 178km, give or take. My normal Monday morning is a 28km commute these days so that knocks it down to 150km over 2 days. Assuming an average speed of 20km/h, that’s 7.5 hours of riding (plus prep and maintenance). It doesn’t sound daunting to break it all down like that. Still looks that way.

So 4 hours per day, 2 in the morning and 2 in the evening on Saturday, 3 in the morning and 1 in the evening on Sunday. Going to want something fairly flat and easy to pedal, especially Sunday. Go only with the wind and schedule a pickup at the bottom. I’ll need to plan some courses with alternatives for wind direction. As I rambled about in an earlier post, ideally I’ll ride away from the house to the east and south but if the wind is coming from that direction, I’m going to need a backup plan.

This just might work.

2012.05.14 – It didn’t work that way at all. Chaos ensued, people went bananas and the plan went out the window (but that’s for tomorrow).

Present cruising speed is something on the order of 500 mph. Elevation: 35,000 feet. I am firmly belted in and enjoying the sensations of powerful acceleration, remarkable climbing and powered flight in general.  I’m also relishing the brief recess from our Gentlemen’s Wager. For the next three days I will be in a corporate classroom undergoing health-and-safety propaganda, which means I will be away from the Rescue Bike,  my well-worn route and the drive to ride just a few more kilometers each day.

I’d thought about surreptitiously bringing the bike with me and logging a few unexpected kilometers to keep from falling too far behind. This turns out to be a pricey proposition as the airlines find more ways to charge you for the privilege of flying. According to Westjet’s site, a bicycle is both oversized and overweight. Sort of amusing really when you figure riding a bicycle will generally alleviate you of those same symptoms. As such, transporting the Rescue Bike would have been an additional $200 plus the cost of some sort of packing device – yours for only $500 at your local bike seller.

One supposes they could have fabricated their own from a combination of coroplast and cardboard. Given the number of expect flights in my immediate future (near zero, much to my daughter’s relief), a box built from these sorts of things would likely be plenty sufficient and appropriately priced. Then I’d have to find some means to contain the fork oil in the event of an unexpected seal failure – perhaps by removing the forks and sealing them inside a plastic bag. Figure you could build the box and ship your bike round-trip for $250. I only have Tuesday and maybe Wednesday evenings (assuming no corporate dinner) available to ride – a couple of hours at best.   If we assume I know where I’m going and can ride from the hotel, at an average speed of 24km/h,  I might be able to squeeze in a total of 75km. If we have

Wednesday evening. $250 for 75km doesn’t seem like that smart a deal, that’s $3.33 per kilometer to ride my own bike. In Toronto.

Alas, it looks like I will lose my lead (at best), or fall terribly behind. This is, while not desired, not quite as bad as it might seem.  Adam is just now recovering from a knee issue that took him down for a few days, allowing me to build up a significant lead that would surely have been smaller (or non-existent) than the 214km it was yesterday. Chris is finally in the game posting good mileage gains daily though he won’t have much chance to relax if he’s  going to make an honest push for a podium position. Alberto, currently in the number two spot with (again yesterday) 589km, is in the best position to even the spread between us.  While he was 103km behind on Friday, he’d fallen another 75km to 178km at last mileage check despite a valiant 100+ km Sunday.

He’s firmly convinced of my lack of sanity and Best Wife shares his belief.  It’s called obsession she said to me with mixture of concern and amusement.  I can’t really argue too much. A normal and sane individual would not have pointed his bicycle into the driving rain and snow (especially one without appropriate gear for such an adventure). When I told Best Wife that I’d set my alarm for 5:00am so I could get a ride in before this morning’s flight, she rolled her eyes and shook her head. I was kidding of course. Sort of.