Spring is in the air. Though as anyone who’s lived in Calgary for more than a few months knows, Snow in June is not just an album from the Northern Pikes. One need be wary this time of year as sneak-attack snow storms await the unprepared. This of course has nothing to do with today.

Maybe it does. Unprepared. That adequately describes me on this auspicious day, the formal First Commute Ride of 2012. After losing the “First to Ride” bragging rights on Friday to a nameless cheater who lives less than a km from work, I could think of no logical reason to drive rather than ride. Sun, no snow, no rain, clear paths. At the very least, I couldn’t allow Adam to make a proper cycling commute while I continued to lumber around in the oversize truck. This is how I found myself on my bicycle in the minus-2-but-feels-like-minus-6 air this morning. Ego. Stupid ego.

As you know (and if you didn’t, you’re about to), we celebrated a much-anticipated abode-change earlier this year. I have espoused on all the great and wonderful things but have neglected, purposefully, to address the impact on my morning (and evening) ride. We are slightly farther away, which I believed to be a positive thing at first. A few more kilometers each day would do me good. Maybe not a few, just two as it turns out. But that’s two each way.

What had really haunted me until this morning however was not the distance – that would be unnoticed by the end of the first week. Nor was it the route – despite living on the west side of 4^th street, and having to cross both 4^th and Centre thoroughfares before hitting the trails. No, it was elevation. What should have been a joyful and exuberant ride out this morning was tainted, nay over-whelmed, with the knowledge that I was facing certain cardiac arrest on the trip home.

I don’t know what the elevation change is from Edmonton Trail to this portion of 4^th street, but I have it on good authority that in the days before autos ruled the landscape, there was a Sherpa camp at the intersection of what is now McKnight Boulevard and Edmonton Trail. My lungs accurately telegraphed the lack of oxygen at the ever-increasing height as I wheezed and wobbled my way up to dizzying heights. At least I was dizzy when I arrived at home. Home of course has a steep driveway with a meter and half of elevation rise, just to drive home the point that three four four and half months of not riding has somehow not strengthened my cardio like it should have. You’d think given all that rest it would be raring to go. The same could be said for my legs.

Let’s not leave out the worst offender though – my mind… After a long downhill start which gave me plenty of time to dread the return run, I managed a kilometre before the first complaints started. Oh man, this is hard – you should rest on that bench over there. No? Have you forgotten about that big climb just up there? It’s not a climb. Sure it is you’re going to end up flailing about face-down in the middle of path, feet still clipped to your fancy new pedals because you’ve run out of steam. Geez man, no, no I won’t. Will. And you’ll get run over while you’re lying there. Shut up.

This went on for the duration of the ride out, despite being proven wrong time and again. I did not fall down, I did not get off and push, I did not get run over. I didn’t even get passed but that’s more a testament to my willingness to ride in sub-zero (yet snowless) weather while the rest are warm in their cars. I did see a handful of riders going the other way including one rider with a headlight on either side of his helmet. I couldn’t help but think of a cartoonish hammerhead shark.

Hell, it seems, was waiting to ambush me on the ride home. My punishment for the following infractions: not riding the trainer religiously; not fighting the good anti-doughnut fight; eating everything within reach; indulging in a couple of cigars; gaining back half the weight I lost and other infractions generalized under the heading of slothfulness? A stiff headwind and the knowledge that, when I was all but home, the last kilometre and a half were up-hill. Sure, as I discovered, there were flat patches, but there is no free lunch. For every meter of flat road, there must necessarily be a meter now steeper waiting ahead. I’m not certain I would have made it without an involuntary pavement inspection or two had it not been for those brief flat spots. Though, if I may continue my self-pitying and moaning, there was a stiff headwind there too. I was as it turns out, wholly unprepared.

As I hobbled into the garage with the Rescue Bike, it was only this thought that kept both tires from being accidently spiked with a rusty nail maliciously: it gets better. Wait…no…that’s not what I thought. I thought what kind of excuse can I come up with so I don’t have to endure this again tomorrow. Heh. That’s not a very good pep talk is it?

In truth, there are two things that continue to keep me riding. The first is the knowledge that growth – mental or physical – requires effort. Positive change requires effort. Push past the burning muscles, ignore the oh man, that’s it – that’s all the effort I’ve got in me commentary (it’s a lie). The rewards are there for the having, I just need to, in the words of my father, buckle down son. Sage advice.

The second is the knowledge that hiding out there, waiting, plotting, scheming, are evil bankers bent on world domina….wait…wrong blog. Hidden amongst the days of summer are the cycling equivalents of the perfect wave. Perfect paths, negligible traffic, dead calm (or even a stiff tail wind), full energy stores, full water bottles and a clear head. It’s like a needle in the vein. Just. One. More.

*To my surprise and glee I couldn’t help but notice Adam’s 4-wheeled conveyance in its normal spot as I entered the parking lot this morning. I hereby claim victory in the First Cycling Commute that Requires more than 4 Complete Revolutions of the Tires category. Huzzah!

Much has happened since I alluded -but didn’t elaborate – to some significant changes on the horizon. Life has raced forward st breakneck speed threatening to overwhelm us.

The unexpected conversation was career-related. An opportunity to run my own plant again but with an international twist. It would have us going overseas on another expat adventure, kids and dog in tow. Who’d have thought we’d end up in Dubai. Again.

The problem of course – we’ve just bought a house, and at the time of discussion, possession was still weeks away. March 16th in fact. “Well…commute for a few weeks then” was the solution. We’d long said we wanted another expat posting, an opportunity to expose the kids to life, culture and perspectives different than theirs and their friends.  We started making plans, altering schedules, investigating schools and neighbourhoods.  We contacted “pet relocation specialists” and international movers.  Then it all stopped.  Corporate policy changes put everything on hold, our lives included.

We received an unexpected yet most welcome call from our exceptional realtor Lance Berrington.  Our possession date had moved up by more than a month.  As I write this, we are firmly ensconced in our place.  Our place.  Sure, things are scattered all over the place, I can’t find anything, there’s chaos in the kitchen where master electrician Trent Ellwood is bringing things up to code, my new garage is full of non-garage things as we yank out 40-year old basement carpets and try to figure out where it’s all going to go.  We’ve been so busy since we took possession we’ve hardly had time to enjoy it.

So busy.  So distracted.  It started with an infection.  A lingering infection that required antibiotics.  Then, as we scrambled about wondering about Dubai and worrying about the new house, we noticed the weight loss.  We attributed it to the chaos and stress the house was under as we floated around in no-man’s land packing for an unknown destination.  We felt certain that things would go back to normal once we settled…somewhere.  They haven’t.

Uneaten dinners, failing eyesight and finally the discovery of a lump changed everything.  The stunning growth of the lump in the space of 24 hours pushed alarm into panic.  The professionals confirmed our worst fears.  Our beloved Suka, house-monster, child-minder, food-vacuum, squirrel chaser and slobber-mouth extraordinaire has advanced, aggressive cancer.  She will not see her 8th birthday.  She may not see March.

I’m heartbroken.  Her last visit to the vet was so unsettling, so unpleasant for her, we’re not going to subject her to any more.  There will be no surgery and no chemo just lots of treats, lots of love and a general license to get away with murder.  When she’s no longer happy, we’ll help her move on.

When she was at the vet for the infection in November, we had a “general health” blood test done.  There was a voicemail on the phone telling us that the test showed nothing untoward, some high white blood cells counts but she’s fighting an infection.  Overall shes in good health.  This was the news we’d expected.  However – I wanted more for my $200 blood test than a 20 second voicemail so one day in late January I stopped by the vet’s office an picked up a copy of the results. I didn’t expect to glean anything from it, I just wanted something for my money.

I sat down and read the 4 or 5 pages at the kitchen table.  Columns of acronyms I couldn’t deduce matched to little graphs showing where the test levels landed.  Some high, some low, mostly normal.  The vet had only mentioned her creatine being “on the high side of normal” which, after her lecture against feeding Suka a raw food diet, was expected.  There were far more little red dots in the graphs, little “outside normal” results than she’d noted but I’m not a vet nor a doctor.  Finally I came to the lab summary.  High white cell count, oversized, mal-formed.  These were words I understood.  And then the summary.  “As you know, these results are consistent with a diagnosis of leukemia”.  I read it again.  And again.

I emailed the vet a restrained, albeit somewhat brusque query about the lab notes and the vet’s “in good health” message.  They responded quickly.  They stood by their diagnosis – it’s rare, she doesn’t have it, she’s fine, my favourite – this is what happens when a patient gets hold of the lab results.  They did offer to test her again, for a fee.  How…accommodating.

I wanted them to be right.  I willed them to be right.  I prayed they were right and I denied what was happening in front of me until it was no longer possible.  The speed at which it’s progressed is staggering.

Cancer.  I didn’t see that coming.

By the pricking of my thumb breaking of my wrist, something interesting is in our midst.  Just when you think you know what’s going on, the universe throws you a sliding curve ball.    ”An unexpected conversation may lead to big changes” was surely the horoscope of the day.  More to come as things develop (or don’t).

I’ve been able to spend some quality time with the fluid trainer lately which is long overdue. Well, riding the trainer isn’t overdue, riding the Rescue Bike is.  I feel sluggish and out of shape, barely recognizing the face staring back in the morning mirror.  Too many sweets, too many indulgences, not enough sleep.  So goes (went) the holidays.

Time with the trainer also means time with some of the new gear, notably the new shoes, pedals and best of all, the new warm jersey.  On my first hard session, I neglected to put on the chamois shorts and went with just the stretchy pants.  This was a mistake made painfully clear around the 30 minute mark.  That chamois may not be particularly thick, but it’s very effective.  Chamois shorts – don’t leave home without ‘em.

The long-sleeve, lined jersey is a life-saver these days.  Granted, the garage hasn’t been freezing, at least not technically, but at 4 degrees one finds a short-sleeve top a bit wanting even after a solid workout.  I finished my hour-long ride last night, drenched from head to waist despite the chilly environment.  This made me wonder just how bad it would be to have a mechanical breakdown half-way to work in mid-winter.  Or half-way to anywhere.  Hot, sweaty, not making any more heat and not wearing enough clothing to be standing there fiddling with frozen bicycle bits.  I suppose a couple of those chemical heat packs would be in order for winter riding, just in case.

Of course, having gone on about all the new gear, there’s another angle to this riding obsession.  With nothing but a basic bicycle, some worn-out running shoes and a pair of cargo shorts, I fell in love with riding.  I didn’t need a fancy bike or clipless shoes and pedals (that have clips…and with which you “clip in”…) or Power Ranger stretchy outfits.  Riding, in and of itself.  Pushing yourself beyond.  Fighting the burning legs and pushing on, ignoring the voice that wants you to believe you can’t.

This (and Purple Rabbits) is, for me, the essence of riding.  I find it distracting to pick up a cycling magazine only to be bombarded with the marketing that tells me I need lighter wheels and a more compliant yet stiff frame, $1000 rain gear and $100 gloves and $85 carbon fibre drink holders.  You don’t need all that.  Cycling is just you and the bike, nothing more, nothing less.

Leave the expensive gear to the pros – where it might actually matter – and the Joes with fat wallets and an abundance of time to play pro.  Ignore the magazines – their sole purpose is to part you from your hard-earned money.  Buy a solid bike, then  ride it.  It’s just that easy.  And oh so rewarding.