Tag Archives: cycling

Rescue Bike!

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Back in Please Dad I blathered on about how I found myself riding a bike in my late 30′s and introduced the Canadian Tire distributed Supercycle BurnerAL that got me started. That is the best thing that can be said of it.  That and it’s shiny…ish.   I logged 40km on it before it committed suicide, almost taking me with it.  Fine payback after replacing the tubes, cleaning it up, adjusting all the mechanisms and trying to bring it back from a state of neglect.  Perhaps it knew I was already looking for a replacement.

It was during one of my I’m working up to the commute distance rides when it happened.  Riding through the Max Bell area, I was coming down from the parking lot, standing up and pedaling hard.  It broke, according to the GPS, at the same moment I hit 30km/h and started to sit back down.  What broke?  Well the seat of course!  It was pure luck that it simply gave away the moment I touched it.  Had It happened while I was actually planted on it, things could have been rather disastrous.  The break happened right at the end of the tube gussets, in the weld zone.  A close inspection showed clear embrittlement of the tubes where they’d been up against the weld bead.  That’s just poor manufacturing.

For four days I jonesed without a bike, no outlet for my new-found passion. Thomas had recommended a cyclocross style bike – put simply a road bike designed for changing terrain – grass, gravel, pavement, mud, snow.  He’d found a couple of Canadian-made Devinci Tosca SL2s for co-workers and they confirmed they were pleased with their purchases. Being of marginal means, I found an older Tosca listed on Kijiji and sent of a text to the seller (do people actually talk on their phones anymore?).  It quickly became evident they were not a bicycle enthusiast, clear they had little idea what kind of bike it was, what model, year or even it’s size.  ”It’s orange” they said.  I asked if it was sized for a woman  - which is admittedly vague and totally  without standard – they were pretty sure it was a woman’s bike.  I responded that it was too bad as I was looking for one for me.  They were pretty sure it was sized for a man now.  I hemmed and hawed but couldn’t stand being without a ride so made a date to head over and have a look.

To get to the seller, I had to pass by a large pawn shop and thought “couldn’t hurt – who knows what might be in there”.  I headed straight for the little collection of bikes and found all manner of BMX and children’s bike, but nothing for me until <cue halo glow and angel choir> there it was.  Spit-polished (maybe not actual spit…then again maybe, this is the ‘hood we’re in) glossy black frame with sharp white decals.  A MEC brand, Chinookmodel mountain/hybrid style.  Disc brakes, suspension forks, twenty something speeds…Ich muss es Habin!!

Rescue Me...please!

I looked at it for a while, looked at the price, looked at the components.  I don’t know anything about components – I’m not sure what I thought I’d learn by looking at the derailleurs and the cranks.  I checked the MEC website to little avail – the Chinook was apparently no longer available (though it is again now) so not a lot of information available on it.  I did find a price – $850 retail.  About half the cost of a Tosca SL2 so maybe half the bike….but I’m a new rider and I can trade up next year using my employer’s generous $600 per year fitness credit and have this year’s credit to pay for this used one here…now…in front of me.

I got a clerk to free it from it’s zip-tied state and tried it on for fit.  Hmmm…fits nice.  Which is to say I didn’t feel cramped or like a child on his dad’s old 10-speed.  I had no idea if it fits.  I know I can ride it comfortable for good distances today so…maybe?  I’d pretty much made up my mind to buy it by this point so I sent Best Wife a message looking for a little SST – sober second thought.  Here I am supposed to be looking at a cyclocross being hawked by a seller with no clue and I’m about to buy this bike that Thomas didn’t recommend because I’m sucked in by the paint and my desire to have it right now.  Trace did her best but I was hell bent on leaving with it.  I must rescue it from this pawn shop!  I bought it without knowing whether I could even get it in the car.  As I tried to stuff it in unsuccessfully, a helpful patron pointed out the quick-locks on the wheels so in the trunk they went (the wheels, not the patron) with the frame wedged into the back seat.  Chain grease on the leather?  Bah – I don’t sit back there.

It was perhaps not the smartest buy and unquestionably impulsive.  I occasionally wonder if I should have bought the Tosca but I see it’s still for sale, months later.  I’ve added some new street slicks which are as the name implies, slick.  Any detour into the grass and particularly loose climbs are a lost cause but thus far I’m spending most of my time on the pavement.  I pulled over the $30 Plant Bike seat I’d put on the broken bike (before it was broken clearly) and added bar ends for want of somewhere else to put my hands, some variation in position.

With an official 1170km on it now, the Chinook has performed without complaint, it’s lone flaw being that it threw me off as I attempted to corner it like a moto-gp bike.  While still pedaling.  I suspect this is not a flaw so much as the cycling version of a PEBKAC error. All hail the Rescue Bike!

Skunked!

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I rode to work in a stiff 20km/h headwind this morning.  I blame Adam for this.  After poking my head outside, I sent Adam a text – “20km/h headwind,  did you ride?”  “Hell yes! Cold though” came the quick response.  I sighed and pulled on my stretchy pants, muttering under my breath.  I was going to ride either way I suspect – had Adam not ridden, I would have ridden in and rightfully gloated all day.  In the garage I gazed from the elk-skin leather motorcycle gauntlets to the rubber-palmed mechanic’s gloves weighing the merits of each.  I opted to try the mechanics gloves but with a twist – I put them on the wrong hands so the rubber-coated side faced out with the idea that at least they’d be wind-proof.  They may have been, however their ability to transfer heat from my hands to the wind passing over them was in no way diminished.  It was absolutely freezing and I’m not sure my thumbs have yet forgiven me.  I’m going to need to find a set of gloves for the morning.  And knee warmers.  All this cloudy, windy weather is doing nothing for my calf-tanning either.

In direct view from the hallways outside my office are three flags from the neighbour’s site.  Most days I try to avoid looking at them as I don’t want to see them whipping away to the south, indicating the painful ride that awaits me.  Today I couldn’t help as they were buffeted angrily about in a myriad of directions.  It wasn’t until early afternoon that it seemed to settle in exactly as it had been in the morning – which meant a gusting 25-30km/h tailwind for the ride home.  Finally – payback for the constant headwinds.

This combined with the omnipresent desire to go faster, especially if someone is front of me created the conditions for a fantastic ride home.  I sprinted away from the first stop light and continued to mash and hammer away for the better part of the ride.  Breaks in traffic appeared when I needed them and the path was all but deserted.  Not a single rabbit to be had but plenty of inspiration in the suffering.  I made it to the train crossing in what felt like record time, spinning through the gates and across the little bridge.  It’s maybe 50 meters due east until you start heading north again but the east component of the southeast wind was kicking up something fierce and I ran into a wall, suddenly grinding away in the middle of my middle ring.  I finally wheeled back north and began the mental prep for the grind up to the pedestrian bridge.  Get some speed going, keep it up until it’s almost time to shift down, then shift up a gear or two , stand up and pedal.

Once again, eyes on my front tire, mentally climbing a ladder and trying to stay on my side of the path.  The Quitter thundering through my head – “hey, you’ve ridden your heart out up to here, why not relax?  Man, there’s nobody fool enough to be out here anyway”.  We battled back and forth and for a Quitter he’s persistent.  I took a quick glance and was almost to the end – “come on, look how hard you’ve worked and you’re this far, just pack it in and sit down”.  Then, salvation in a shadow.

He didn’t announce himself but suddenly there was a shadow and then a wheel and then he was riding by me.  A mixture of feelings and a jumble of thoughts crashed through.  “Hey – another soul!  Wait, he’s passing me!  He’s working hard for it…but he’s still seated.  He’s got to be 20 years older than me…yeesh.  That bike is sure familiar.”  And then it dawned on me.  Dark metallic grey, matching fenders, but there were no panniers and no purple jacket.  My purple rabbit was in disguise!

I was ever so briefly in his draft before he pedaled away, working for every meter.  I pushed my way to the top and vowed to catch him.  A quick sprint to get some speed up, sit down and drop a gear to get the cadence up and mash away until it’s time to grab another gear, then top gear.  Despite this my rabbit hadn’t just dropped me.  Hadn’t just gapped me – he’d all but vanished.  As I finally hit 32nd and started heading west, he was crossing the golf course entrance and riding along the last stretch before disappearing down to the substation.

I continued my furious mashing, jumping the curb and hitting the last section of path as he disappeared down the hill.  I debated the route – follow him around the substation in the knowledge that short of his heart-attack I wasn’t going to catch him or, cheat and cut along the guard rail bordering 32nd catching him at the crosswalk detour still in effect.  “What hollow victory that would be” I thought and I chased him down the hill almost bailing into brush in the process.  I saw him slowing at the detour and thought I might be able to catch up with him if he’s held up by traffic but alas, not today.  My purple rabbit had passed me, dropped me and gapped me.  Skunked by a rabbit.

Arriving home I fumbled out the iPhone and stopped Strava’s ride timer.  It still felt fast but I shoved it back into my pocket while it churned away plotting and saving and uploading and doing whatever else it does while I let myself into the yard and put my bike away.  I’ve not had a chance to look at the results yet so let’s shall we?

  • Average Speed- 27.3 km/h
  • Peak Speed:- 59.6km/h
  • Door-to-door- 28:36

Yes!  Has me wondering though – if I’m prepared to put that much charge into chasing down a guy clearly my senior, what am I going to do when I get chicked?

I’m Warm! Or Numb?

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True to their predictions this morning’s departure temp was a balmy 5 degrees.  That’s not warm, unless the day before was sub-zero.  3 kilometres into my ride I was pondering the following: My legs were cold when I left the house and now they don’t feel cold.  Is that because they’re warm from the work or numb from the cold?  I touched my thigh but got no feedback as my hand was also frozen.  I still don’t know if I was numb or just had frozen hands but I’m leaning towards yes.

Thomas dropped by for a short visit this morning and commented on trying to find me on our morning commute.  His being on schedule (and faster by an order of magnitude) a coincident of our individual space/time continua would be…would be a coincidence.  Riding with Thomas a couple of times a week would be nice training though as my ego wouldn’t permit me to do anything less than fry myself trying to keep up.

My first morning commute took just shy of 42 minutes at an average speed of 20km/h. Today a typical fair-weather commute is 30 minutes-ish and I was over-joyed the first time I broke that 30-minute barrier.  Not having a new goal however has allowed for some degree of slacking.  As I’ve grown into a 30 minute commute, my efforts have slackened, my speed flattened out and my progress slowed to a virtual halt.  My 30 minute commute is starting to look more like a 31.

You know what I need?  I need daily rabbits, as evidenced by today’s superb commute home.  Still cold as all get out for a guy in shorts but my head was in the game. What to my wandering eye did appear?  Three riders together, 600 meters out.  I put my head down and started pushing, shifting up another gear and bringing my cadence up.  One Two One Two One Two no wait circlescirclescirclescirclescirclescircles oh this is stupid.  You can’t pace yourself into spinning circles.  I wasn’t making much progress though – they were slowly getting closer but my plans of catching them before the train crossing were slipping away.  The train crossing came and my rabbits still had 150 meters on me, and they’d just passed someone else.  Wait…what’s that?  It’s my purple rabbit!

He was so tantalizingly close!  I’m starting the climb from the crossing to the pedestrian overpass, my daily grinder.  I stand up, grab one more gear and stare at my front wheel, a long staircase in my mind.  I pump away, “up up up up up up” each time imagining another step.  I dare not look more than a couple of meters ahead of me for staring at the bridge is akin to looking Medusa in the face – all of your resolve and your will suddenly vanish as you realize you’re only half-way there on the little false flat.  ”Up up up up”, it seems to go on forever.  Maybe they’ll all head across the bridge and my chase will be over.

No.  Not today.  The four of them continued north and I continued to chase.  Mildly delirious I sat down and dropped a gear to give the legs a break but being slightly detached I spun madly away at a cadence that gave me the appearance of one suffering an epileptic seizure.  ”Gear stupid, grab another gear”, I shifted back up, went back to studying my knees and mashed on.

In my imagination I am a work of physical prowess, muscles all firing in a symphony of power and ability, bike and rider one with the universe as we blaze across the path.  A harmonious creature doing as it is designed to do.  The reality I’m told, is slightly different.  Weaving and wobbling all over the path, the mere concept of keeping my line, much less an ability to discern and then organize the required muscular responses to follow it are simply not happening.  I am foaming at the mouth, spittle splashed across my cheek and drool on my chin. Sweat is dripping down the inside of my glasses which you would think might inhibit my vision but I’m no longer processing at 30 frames per second and my world has become much narrower.  I am vaguely aware of my lower jaw coming unhinged and dropping away to open up the path to my lungs as I greedily inhale the air around me.    I let out a deep, gutteral growl akin to an angry squirrel.  Mice everywhere point and laugh.

Meter by meter I reel them all in.  A block before my route departs from the path I catch them, all four bunched up on the path.  I follow them down from 32nd around the power substation on freshly paved trail but there is no point in passing now and to do so would require an extraordinary act of obnoxious obtuseness I opt not to engage.

In reviewing the ride data at home, it seems I’ve set a new personal record for that grinding climb.  4 rabbits and a new PR – that’s a fine ride indeed.