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.

When I started writing, it was ostensibly because I wanted to pass on my newbie experiences to the next budding Fredcyclist. The idea being I could answer some of those new-rider questions not with any authority, just the results of my own trial and error methods. It’s veered away from that and into a blather of this is what happened on my little commute today and that’s boring. Part of that detour off course is a result of this: I’m at a post-newb plateau.  I’ve learned the easiest stuff…maybe?

I’m not smart or learned by any means. My authority on matters cycling comprises the following nuggets: don’t pedal while leaning hard unless you enjoy pavement-surfing with your flesh; make sure you have air in your tires; ride as often as possible. On the other hand, here’s what I’ve learned:

• Yes, you do want stretchy pants with a chamois if you ride any distance unless you like friction burns on your most sensitive areas.
• “Slicks” or street tires on your mountain bike are definitely smoother and quieter but they were not the limiting factor in my quest for speed. The factor turned out to be me.
• Lube your chain or the squeaking and squawking will make you even more insane.
• Tires don’t hold air indefinitely – my 80psi slicks drop to 40 over a couple of weeks but make for a handy lie excuse reason you can tell yourself when you get Chicked.
• There may not be any car traffic on the bike paths, but a rear light will keep the rest of us from running you over in the dark because we are riding with
• The 3-LED headlight from MEC – makes an excellent targeting device for on-coming cars and may keep other riders from clipping you in the dark. Also serves as an excellent defense against establishing effective night-vision while simultaneously completely failing to illuminate anything far enough away to still avoid. Note to the city of Calgary – if you really loved cyclists, you’d fluoresce the yellow stripe in the middle of the path.
• If you insist on using a 1 million candle power strobe-light on your helmet while riding on the darkened bicycle path, I reserve the right to push you into the canal while claiming disorientation and blindness thanks to your head-mounted smugness device. Save it for the road where it’ll flash in everyone’s mirror after they’ve passed you and are no longer in a position to nudge you with a bumper.
• The colder it gets, the slower I go. I blame the increased air density and layers of clothing. It has nothing to do with laziness.

It was most definitely this increase in clothing layers and air density that turned me from rabbit to rabbit-chaser this morning. As is typical of my rides these days most of the path traffic is on-coming, which is good because my MEC night-vision-disruption light which as the name implies handily keeps my eyes from adjusting on the darkest sections of the path, combined with riding sans prescription glasses means I’m essentially navigating to work by muscle memory and feel. When I was kid with a big-block drum-brake hotrod, I learned all about over-driving your brakes – travelling faster than your brakes could stop you. I’m now over-driving my eyesight as, even at my reduced winter speed, there is little chance I will be able to avoid an unexpected obstacle.

Anyway – back to the engrossing tales of What I did on my commute this morning. I was passed, unexpectedly and totally off-guard by a high-cadence-pedaling rider whom I’ve seen once or twice before. My first instinct was to ignore the obvious Cat 6 race we were now in and continue as I was but as Dwernie noted last week it is not possible to simply ignore this challenge. I gave chase and didn’t lose any further ground until we got to the pedestrian bridge. I managed to maintain some semblance of speed but failed to stand and hammer when he did (note to self – stand and hammer is appropriate when in Cat 6 mode). By the time I’d reached the end of the bridge, he’d almost disappeared and our diverging routes put an end to the match. I was however given a small reward as I wound under 17th Ave and tried to run over a flagging rider making the climb up to 26th. I allowed myself a small degree of pride as I pedaled past him and he got off to start pushing. “At least I’m not pushing” I thought as I wobbled up the slope.

In recognition of the Cyclist’s Imperative to Chase Rabbits, I wish to congratulate Dwernie on his first blood. A successful pass and defense of position – job well done!  Way to represent Canadian Cat 6 riders abroad.

Dwernie

You don’t wear spandex do you
This seems to be the primary concern of my friends.  It’s almost as if they’re afraid of catching some heretofore unproven-but-suspected sickness that might render them powerless against showing up at the office Christmas party or the Friday-night poker game in head-to-toe spandex.   Ken, completely bonkers downhill racer, a man I’ve known since before either of us could shave and never noted as a conformist rolled his eyes “oh gawd, you’re not wearing those black spandex shorts are you?”, the disgust dripping from his words.

In truth, I don’t but that’s not because I’m unwilling…now.  When I was 40 pounds overweight (as opposed to the optimistic 10 I am now), you wouldn’t have been able to bribe me into them in public at any price.  I rode in my cargo shorts with the stealth chamois shorts hidden underneath.  I thought it was perfect but then single-digit temperatures arrived.

It didn’t take too many mornings in the almost-freezing air to figure out I needed something to cover my knees if nothing else.  Enter my first stretchy-pants – the MEC winter cycling tights.  When asked recently if I wear those shorts I replied “no – I have stretchy pants, like tights” just to watch the reaction.  As predicted, my friend reacted with horror, disapproval and disappointment.  You’d have thought I’d just told him I’d been having an affair with the neighbour’s poodle.

It’s not like I’m asking them to join me in my new-found clothing choices.  I’m comfortable in my choice of clothing – I don’t need someone else to validate it for me.  Yeesh – it’s not even like we’re riding together and they can’t handle being seen with a lycra-clad rider in the group.  Doesn’t matter though – switching back and forth between the cargo shorts and the stretchy-pants leaves no doubt – stretchy-pants rule and stretchy shorts are a foregone conclusion when the temperatures relent.

You’re not going to be one of those guys
Jason and I went for lunch recently and the topic of my riding came up…because I brought it up.  Jason, who doesn’t ride and hasn’t expressed an interest to (yet) has no problems with my stretchy-pants though he expressed some degree of relief that I wasn’t wearing them in the restaurant.  Jason was supportive and complimentary, arguably the most supportive of my small cadre of friends.  He came from a different angle.  “Are you going to ride this winter” he asked, to which  I replied with an enthusiastic maybe.  “I’d like to” I told him “but we’ll see how much I want to when there’s snow on the ground and no room in the lane”.

“Noooooooooooooooooooo” was the immediate response, his head shaking .  “Don’t be that guy!  Put the bike away and just drive a car like a normal human”.   Now, I could see if I was his courier or pizza delivery service how my desire to pedal through the winter might cause him some concern.  Luckily for both of us, I am neither of those.  So, what’s the issue?  We don’t work or live in the same quadrant of the city and virtually none of our respective commutes or general travel overlap…so what if I ride?  The reaction is almost reason enough and Jason is not alone in his disapproval of my plan.  Well, not really a plan so much as an idea.

Now these are all friends that have eaten my food, who have fed me and my family.  They’ve taken their weekends and evenings to move me – in the case of Ken, 3 times in a single 12 month period.  These guys aren’t peripheral or fair-weather friends – they’re the real deal and I’m lucky to have them.  So what is it about cycling that makes even your closest friends hang their heads, cluck their tongues and nod disapprovingly?  If I’d bought a motorcycle and we were talking about leather chaps or riding in the rain, there wouldn’t be any such reaction – unless I demonstrated my predilection for wearing the chaps without anything underneath them.  What is it about bicycles that puts everything on its head?

Ever since Best Wife surprised me with a Birthdayish celebration and gifted me a new set of MEC Roubaix stretchy pants, I’ve been anxious to try them out.  Unfortunately the weather has been unseasonably hot though I’m not in any way complaining.  Fortunately for me, fall is now officially upon us and Mother Nature has kindly delivered the required morning temperatures to make donning the stretchy pants appropriate.

Wednesday was my first ride and you know what?  I like them.  No really, I do.  It’s hard to put my finger right on it but the difference is nice.  How nice?    I might step up to stretchy shorts next summer and leave the cargo shorts and my modesty at home.  They feel…sleeker, like there’s less stuff going on.  I wouldn’t have guessed there was anything going on before but its absence is noticeable.  There’s less friction between my legs and the seat now, again – I wouldn’t have said there was any until it wasn’t there.  Subtle little things.  I need to adjust my seat again now – it’s no longer positioned just right with my new slippery pants.  I’d said to nobody in particular that I planned continue riding in my cargo and other non-stretchy shorts in pseudo defiance of the cyclistas who would proclaim my non-conforming attire an indicator of my ability and I would ride them off my wheel when I found them.  This has not happened.  To date, I’ve only been dropped almost exclusively by cargo wearers so perhaps the I can outride you in my work clothes while riding my grandfather’s cast-iron bike is way over-done anyway.  The stretchy thing is good – really it is.

Of course the overarching benefit of my great new stretchy pants is that they make me look good.  No, the real benefit is keeping my knees warm.  The last couple of 5°C rides were not entirely uncomfortable but caused me some level of concern just the same.  Given the importance of my knees in day to day life what was that?  uhm no…that’s not what I meant <ahem>.  Considering how dependant we are on functional knees, I am keenly aware of keeping them healthy and happy.  And warm.   So now I have nice warm knees, even when the temperature hits the (literal) freezing mark as it did this morning.

I didn’t think to bring along my cargos for the journey home so, as I did yesterday I rode home with my stretchy pants in the 18°C sunshine.  I would say this exceeds the comfortable temperature for these pants if you’re putting any effort into your ride.  By kilometre three I was debating whether I should doff them and go in my supposed-to-be-under-your-cargos chamois-equipped stretchy shorts – finish the ride in my shiny grey padded underwear.  In the end I opted not to traumatize fellow path users that way and rode home too hot.

This morning however I arrived to find work in full swing already and before I could get out of my stretchy pants and sweaty shirt I was on the phone and answering emails.  Or was I meeting with my team in an emergency huddle tackling some tough issues.  Maybe I was sitting with my feet on the desk talking to a co-worker about riding.  Regardless I was clearly very busy, too busy to follow the cardinal rule of chamois shorts – don’t stew in your sweaty pants.  Half an hour later I finally opened my clothing stash drawer and had one of those moments.  Hey…uhm…wait…ohhhhh…aw crap…and I have an off-site meeting…<sigh>.  I’d been Thomas’d!  You ever had one of those dreams where you show up at work and realize you aren’t wearing any pants?  It was like that only I wasn’t dreaming.  The drawer was as bare as a roadie’s calves save for a lone t-shirt – I’d forgotten my pants.

Go forth and spread the good word – when you arrive at work with nothing but stretchy pants (or their length-challenged brethren stretchy shorts) to wear, consider yourself Thomas’d.

PS – no, I did not subject my fellow meeting participants to the wonders of my stretchy pants, I did what any man would do – I asked Best Wife to rescue me.  Her Bestness knows no bounds.

My rather excellent route contains three kilometres of road with the rest on the bicycle path.  Due to the route reconstruction, the detour requires I cross the railroad tracks at the Trans Canada.  What are the chances that a train and I are going to be at the crossing at the same time?  100% today.  So with the wind gleefully in my face, I detoured off the path and climbed up to the 16th Ave overpass.  I didn’t shift soon enough and found myself out of cranking power a couple of meters from the top so hopped off to hike it up.  As I wheeled west along 16th, I couldn’t help but notice the last rail car disappear underneath me.

A lesser man might take this as a source of frustration if he were running late (notice a theme here?), into a freezing headwind and finding himself making an extraneous climb for no reason.  Know what though?  I was preoccupied with something else.  My little scramble up the hill carrying the bike was like floating.  It had been absolutely without effort, as though the slope wasn’t a slope and the bike carried itself.  Well that’s cool. I wondered if it had been a result of the headwind preload I’d been riding into.  The upside of climbing over the tracks is coming down the switchbacks on the other side – with the path to myself I rode down as fast as I dared, all my weight on the outside pedal as I leaned hard right then left then right again.  A wee reward for a wee climb.

Weather conditions for the ride home were equally miserable if marginally warmer (note to self – get some gloves).  I spotted a rabbit as I made the short climb up to Max Bell and not any old rabbit – a rabbit wearing a yellow jersey (Tour de France overall leader’s jersey colour).  How could I not chase?  As I was climbing out of Max Bell towards the overpass, he was disappearing on the west side.  This is perhaps my 2nd favourite section – a long gentle climb with a fast descent that, traffic permitting allows you to carry lots of speed as you cut the path and go up and over the dirt to the next path segment.  By the time I made the corner under the train bridge he was less than 10 meters ahead.  I reeled him in and passed him before the canal bridge.  I don’t care that his yellow jersey was in fact a yellow MEC jacket not unlike my purple one, nor that his fenders were rattling.  Or that he had loaded panniers.  I bid him a cheery nice day for a ride ‘eh  as I passed.  He looked absolutely miserable pedaling into the headwind.  I’d have smiled if I wasn’t already back in mouth-breather mode chasing down a runner.

This cold weather is playing with my resolve to ride as late and often as I can this winter.  The path is not one of those slated to be plowed during the winter which means I’d have to find a road route.  This does not fill my heart with anything but abject terror.  Calgary drivers are horrendous enough when you’re in another car.  On dry pavement.  On a sunny day.  Maybe I could ride the side roads to the path, shoulder the bike  and throw on a set of cross-country skis like some sort of bizarre biathalon/cyclocross mashup.  That sounds like something Thomas would do.  Whatever – I’m not quitting before Adam does.

Calling for 5 degrees tomorrow morning.  Might have to find some pants soon.