I know I know – it’s been forever and a day, and then some.  My apologies.    One of the problems with saying “I’m going to write a blog about cycling” is that it kind of puts you in a bit of a box.  A cycling box.  So, say – for example, you were to have a little ‘off’ and break your wrist and not be able to ride for a few weeks – you might run out of cycling things to talk about.  Especially if that happened on the edge of winter, for which you are unprepared and un-equipped.  And then had Christmas.

Enough excuses.  I have had no less than 1 person tell me it’s time to start writing again which means at least 1 person humours me by reading.   Besides – I have some cycling and tangentially-related cycling stuff to go on about now.

Santa was absolutely fantastic this year.  No…that’s not accurate.  My family – both the in- and out-laws took notice of my new cycling obsession and obliged me heartily.   Between riding jerseys, chamois shorts, socks, a tool bag, flat kit and gift cards (and much more), I’m entirely spoiled.  In addition to the great gear delivered on the season’s festivities, January 1^st rolled over my employer’s benefit program.

Ordinarily this would be of little excitement but yet again, I am spoiled and have a healthy “health and fitness” allowance which will reimburse me for purchases that can be deemed as promoting healthy living.  I took advantage of this and the aforementioned gift cards to gear up with some key items.

In order to maintain (and reduce) my rather successful Christmas Five (pounds if you must ask), I purchased a fluid trainer.  This is, in essence, an attachment for the Rescue Bike that converts it to a stationary bike.  It provides a healthy amount of resistance and I can easily break a sweat with it.  How is it to ride?   Capital B boring, but I’m not riding it for excitement.  If I want riding excitement, I need only hit the streets with my summer slicks and try to cross some of the polished-like-granite (and just as hard) ice that litters the streets.  A 45 minute ride was enough to leave me wheezing and soaked head to toe, despite the 4 degree temperature in the garage.

To go with my new torture device, I bought new shoes which of course required new pedals too.  I’m now a member of the locked-to-my-bike riders, feet firmly attached to the pedals so the next time I need to dip a foot down unexpectedly to maintain a wheels-up orientation, I will likely be unable to unclip quickly enough and can simply fall over and skid along, secure in the knowledge that my feet will remain firmly attached to my pedals throughout the slide   I am particularly looking forward to dispensing with the seemingly obligatory clipped-in-and-forgot-at-the-stoplight-so-have-fallen-and-can’t-get-up-next-to-a-bus-full-of-cheerleaders move.  Ironically, this type of shoe and pedal arrangement is termed “clipless” in spite of the large cleat that…clips into the pedal.

The Sidi shoes for EEE cyclists.

After much agonizing over the purchases – not wanting to squander the limited resources available, I picked up a pair of highly praised, Italian made shoes, the Sidi Dominator Mega through MEC. In so far as cycling shoe style goes, these are pretty tame, black with a couple of red and white accents.  Despite the aggressive tread (they’re mountain bike rather than road shoes), the cleat still protrudes below the tread which when combined with the inflexible sole, makes walking in them entertaining. With EEE feet, getting comfortable shoes is already a bit of a challenge.  Most of the shoe reviews I’d read revealed that generally speaking, cycling shoes fit narrow so finding one that fit my planks was a priority.    More than one reviewer noted extremely high mileage with these shoes as well – 50,000+km.  I’m guessing that wasn’t a single ride…

Crank Brother's Egg Beaters

The pedals I purchased to go with them are Crank Brothers’ venerable Eggbeaters, also picked up through MEC.  I admit – these weren’t my first choice for pedals.  I’ve been on the fence and wanted the option to ride without clipless shoes so had initially planned to buy a version that would permit either/or.  In the end I decided to go all the way and yet as I write this, I have no idea why.  I blame the merchandising people at MEC.  The Eggbeaters are well-regarded, light and pretty straight forward (thus bullet-proof).   You see them on everything including road bikes despite their mountain (mud) bias.  Being a vain weight-weenie, I didn’t choose the $60 version, I picked up the top of the line, series 11 titanium units.  Now, these have a weight limit for the rider of just 200 lbs (including pack if you’re riding with one) so at 205 I’ve got some work to do.  I’m certain the reduced weight of the $425 pedals will make me faster being 82 grams lighter.  82 grams.  That’s a portion of a pound.  0.18 pounds.  Totally worth the extra $365.

I kid.  An extra $365 would buy a boatload of cool gear, and I don’t have an extra $365 to spend on 82 grams and pedals that are too weak for my Clydesdale self.   I trust I’ll never have an extra $365 for that.

So a fluid trainer, pedals, shoes, a 4-litre Camelback pack (essential for long rides as 2 bottles just isn’t enough I discovered), a 2^nd squeeze bottle & bracket and a plethora of essential riding gear.  Completely and utterly spoiled by loved ones (and yes, Big Corp health plan) and it’s all healthy!  Friends and Family – thank you for supporting my obsession.  I – quite literally – couldn’t pull it off without you.

Racing to Nowhere

Next year, I’d like one of these please:

Oh.  My.  Deity!  The weather is miserable, my wrist is still broken and the dust on the Rescue Bike gets thicker every day.  I miss riding my bike.  I miss flexing my wrist.  I miss not freezing my face off when I’m outside for 3 minutes.

I had the good fortune to be able to pick up my eldest from school the other day.  Arriving late I parked 2 blocks away as the crush of pick-up parents and nannies had taken all of the available parking already.  I walked towards the school and connected with another father, significantly under-dressed making the same journey.  ”I should have worn a hat” he lamented as I jammed my toque down over my ears.  I nodded in agreement, glad I wasn’t him.  The wind from the north picked up as the gaggle of frozen tot-transporters stood shivering , each waiting for their charge to be set free of the sandstone smart-factory in which we were not permitted to seek cover.

By the time the boy was finally out in the parking lot with me, I was frozen.  He was not, dressed smartly in proper winter gear while I shivered with the -21C wind snaking it’s way down my neck and across my face.  I was miserable walking back to the car, but grateful just the same when we passed a bike locked to a nearby sign, snow jammed in the tread – evidence of it’s recent use.  This is not sane cycling weather.

This morning on the way to work, again with a -21C wind, I could not help but enjoy the warmth of my now-antique heated seat.  I saw a lone headlight bob past us on the bike path, a solitary figure, resolute in their smugness and madness.  I admire both admittedly – the willingness to cycle in miserable conditions purely to avoid driving says something about one’s martyrdom-factor.  It’s not quite smug as a Prius in oil country, but it’s up there.

It goes without saying that riding in a stiff headwind in freezing-was-several-big-ticks-above-temperatures requires a certain degree of madness whether your cycling is borne of a love for cycling itself, less-than-ideal economics or an unfortunate series of decisions behind the wheel that has resulted in a court-mandated vacation from driving.  Choosing to ride your bicycle in this weather is simply mad.

What I’ve noticed lately, particularly on my drive home is that a bicycle ride would be infinitely more pleasurable.  Sure, there were days when I was immeasurably happy to see the top of that last hill I had to climb, thankful I didn’t live any farther away or higher up. Hating the wind.  Yet as I float home in a sea of brake lights each night, the speedometer barely registering any velocity despite being on the (as in the, not one of the) primary north/south artery, I can’t help but succumb to the greener-grass syndrome.

Sure, I’d be freezing to death and I wouldn’t have this nice warm seat inside a nice wind-free car with a silk-voiced radio announcer telling me my drive home was going to take double-extra long today because someone couldn’t negotiate an off-ramp and everyone else wants to look at them now.  But I’d have something I can’t seem to achieve on the road.  Motion.

Okay, that’s obviously not pedantically, precisely, one-hundred percent accurate.  Clearly if I get into my car at point A and get out at point B, there’s been motion even if that motion took place entirely in first gear.  On the bike though, motion is obvious.  It’s visceral and tangible (and all to physical should you bump into something not in motion on your present vector).  It’s rewarding.  Your legs and lungs are burning with each crank of the pedals. You see and feel the world moving around you in response.  You are rewarded with the passing of each sub-conscious landmark, every rut and heave in its place, ticking off small accomplishments.

Back in the car you fiddle with the heat, the radio, the seat.  You’d like to check your email because your brain is entirely disengaged from the task at hand and is no longer capable of simply being but the constant crawl of the traffic around you precludes that.  The line of traffic, brake-lights bright, snakes over the hill and far away.  Each meter of movement is not progress but a taunt.  Speed up, coast down, up, down.  On and on it goes as the traffic whiplashes back and forth.

It’s enough to make you crave a headwind.

I made the mistake of going out Christmas shopping last Saturday – I’d be happy to tell you what I bought but on the off-hand chance my wife drops in before Christmas the surprise would be spoiled.  Huge volumes of traffic everywhere which inevitably results in people driving like complete idiots.  Case in point:  on the left-turn light, the rocket surgeon in front of me pulls a U-turn across 4 lanes of McLeod Trail to end up stuck almost parallel to where he was only now he’s stuck in south-bound traffic instead of north-bound.

I complete my left-turn now behind a new Volvo wagon.  Half way up the street he flicks his left turn signal on and I’m thinking this guy has another 200 meters to go before the parking lot entrance is there and start moving to the right lane so as not to get stuck behind a guy trying to turn left across 2 lanes of Christmas shopping traffic, into a mall.  The Volvo inexplicably dekes to the right, its left signal still flashing before snapping back to the left to make a U-turn.  I abort my right lane transition as it appears unnecessary with this new trajectory of his.

As he swings left and I curse his stupid left-right-left maneuver (what’s with that – why must people use a slow-motion Scandinavian flick when they’re making a turn?) I can’t help but notice he’s talking on a cell phone.  He can’t help but notice he’s pulled into the path of an on-coming truck so he slams on the binders.  I am officially following too close at this point having anticipated a successful U-turn on his part.  Collision is imminent and thanks to his left-right-left he’s actually taking up more of the lane than if he’d just been going straight.  In what is best described as a fluke and instinct, I wrench the wheel to the right, hard right, and miss the Volvo by a butterfly’s breath but am now heading for a curb at speed.  I snap the wheel back to the left and feel the front end push in the gravel along the curb before pulling us back into safe(ish) territory.

Disaster averted, my wrist explodes in agony having been twisted and bent against all warning feedback and at that moment I’m convinced I’ve broken it further.  It occurs to me at this moment that had I not avoided him, it would have been me with the ticket for following too close.  The Third Idiot.

It feels like a lifetime since I’ve been for a ride.  I haven’t looked at the Rescue Bike in weeks and this weekend’s dump of snow isn’t doing anything to help that.  I’m still very torn of course – ride through the snow when the opportunities present themselves, or forego the studded tires and winter wear in favour of a reliable and predictable stationary trainer.  The battle rages on.  My legs and lungs are dying for a ride.

I had my two-week follow up session with the hand specialist last week.  This time I was prepared – I knew where I was going, I knew where to find parking and I knew where to pay.  Arriving early this time I managed to be in the reception area a solid twenty minutes early.  Know what that means?  You get to listen to the cast saws buzzing away for twenty minutes.  The waiting room was all but empty by the time I was finally called in and given a new waiting spot.  I was privileged to better hear the screaming, buzzing cast saws from my new perch but seemed no closer to the actual doctor who could be seen pacing back and forth across the open room avoiding eye-contact with any of the waiting patients.

Finally – the doc is in my cube.  He pokes at my metacarpal V – the “in-the-palm-pinkie” bone – and gets a confused look on his face.  Now I’m confused – this is supposed to be fairly routine.  “How long ago did you break it?” he asks, a quizzical look on his face.  “3 weeks” I answer, “it was a nice Thursday afternoon the day before Remembrance Day”.  He hems and haws for a moment before loading up my X-rays and then he understands.  Metacarpal V was broken and healed untreated 16 or more years ago.  I’m here for my problematic pisiform.  Or my triquetral…whichever.

He picks up my hand again and starts prodding with remarkable accuracy now that he’s back on track.  Yep – that’s the spot the really hurts when you jab your fingertip in there, thanks for reminding me of that.  Now that I’m fully awake and tuned in he reminds me again with a slightly less painful jab and the caution “this will continue to hurt for a long time”.  I’m not sure if he means the immediate pain he’s just inflicted or my wrist in general but I nod in understanding lest he jab me again.  “Three more weeks and I’ll see you again, and then we should be done” he says as he gets up.

And that’s it.  The entire session lasted less than 3 minutes, drawn out to such lengths thanks only to the slow computer pulling up my X-rays.  An hour off of work, fighting traffic and paying for parking for just a 3 minute visit.  Hardly seems worth it.  On the other hand he did manage to induce both an endorphin rush as he jabbed my broken bits and the knowledge that all is well (but the pain is going to haunt you indefinitely).  I’ll take what I can get.

I am oh-so-tired of this splint however.  I know – millions of people around the world would love to have an inexpensive, removable prosthetic device in place of a cast.  It’s convenient in that you can remove it for cleaning, so you can shower, to just let your arm breathe – and for all that I’m genuinely grateful.  It just doesn’t fit comfortably except in one or two resting positions, it makes “mousing” difficult though I do have both left and right mice on my computers, it makes typing difficult and most annoyingly of all, it makes picking up my kids a carefully executed maneuver.  Still – better than a cast…but a cast would get me out of dishes more effectively.  What?  I’m just saying…