Last Saturday, Bruce and I (and a few friends) embarked on an epic journey. After raising over $18,000 for the Alberta Cancer Foundation, we were tasked with riding over 200 kilometres of Alberta foothills.
In the rain.
One might ask why a reasonably sane person would take part in such a ride. After all, the money has already been raised. It's not like the physical act of riding is going to save any lives, right? If we had stayed home and eaten chips all weekend, would anyone have even noticed?
All of these questions ran through my brain as I sat in our vehicle on Saturday morning, contemplating the wet conditions outside and the waiting bicycle leaning against the hood. Nonetheless, I wiggled into my chamois shorts, donned my "waterproof" gloves and "waterproof" jacket, and prepared to ride.
We were underway by 8:30 am and the rain was light. Unfortunately, the road was rough and muddy in places (I felt like an old-timey Tour de France racer, circa 1948) and I was shortly quite wet and splattered with muck. No matter, I was at least managing to keep up with Bruce as he wove amongst the throng of riders. The rain eventually let up and we rode in cool, overcast conditions between ~km 10 and 80.
My legs felt good. I was keeping my cadence high, as Selene Yaeger taught me, and I didn't start to feel uncomfortable in my shoulders and wrists until about 50 km in. This was also roughly the time when the team started to feel warm enough to remove our rain coats and show off our jerseys.
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| #fuckyoucancer |
This only lasted for 30 km, but it felt good!
We rode back into rain shortly after lunch and it persisted, in various intensities, for the remainder of the ride. The last 20 km were the wettest of the day, soaking my feet right through and obscuring my vision.
We had been told in the morning that the route on day one was 115 km, but this was a lie. I don't remember who told it, but the actual distance was 120 km, and let me tell you, those were the hardest 5 km of my life up to that point. We were riding through gentle rolling hills, and every time I crested a hill, I expected to see the camp laid out before me. This happened over and over and over, until I finally cruised down the big hill to Chain Lakes Provincial Park.
When you bike all day in the rain, you start to really look forward to getting to camp. You keep thinking about being warm and dry and getting the pressure off your crotch and how relaxed you'll finally feel. Imagine your disappointment to arrive to pouring rain, leaky tents, wet luggage, and more mud than should reasonably exist in the world.
I don't mean to be critical of the organizers of this charity event, but as a lifelong camper, I suspect that the planners had not done much camping. Even something as simple as laying down planks in the high-traffic areas (so that people didn't have to walk in the mud and wet) would have done a lot for rider morale. Rant done.
In terms of sleeping conditions, we were lucky to have not unrolled our bed before noticing the leak. We mopped up the water and Bruce (my hero) swiped an extra tarp to throw over the top. It poured rain until 1:30 in the morning, but we were probably some of the driest people in the place.
But morning did arrive, and it was time to leave the dry security of our tent and re-enter the mud pit. It was no longer raining, but none of our gear was even remotely dry. I think putting my relatively dry feet back into those wet, muddy bike shoes was one of the hardest parts of the entire weekend. We dropped off our bags, retrieved our bikes, scarfed down a waffle and a banana, and hit the road once again.
Day two was much more difficult. My legs were no longer fresh and the mud and wet had taken a psychological toll on me. Luckily, Bruce remained close by as we rode and I took advantage of the frequent snack stops to keep my motor running. We did eventually ride out of the rain, but it continued to threaten us all day long.
I knew I was going to make it when we hit the half-way mark. By this time, I was riding much slower than on day one, but Bruce was with me and I knew my heated seat was waiting at the finish line. Bruce literally pushed me up some of the longer hills, placing his hand on my back and pedaling for both of us so that I could have a break.
The sky really opened up during the last 20 km or so. Water was pelting out of the sky, stinging my back and arms through my soaked jacket. We knew we were close, though, and we really started to hammer on it. I switched into my big ring and we were passing people like crazy, whipping down the hills at 56 kph in the downpour. There were only 3 km left to go!
Then Bruce flatted. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He fixed it up quick and we were back on the road.
We crossed the finish line at 12:05 pm, after 223 km of riding.
223 km on a bike gives one a lot of time to think. I thought a lot about the similarities between this cycling journey and fighting cancer. You know when you start out that it's going to be a long haul. You have to conserve your energy when you can and go balls out when you have to. Sometimes you climb a huge hill only to find and even bigger one on the other side. You can feel demoralized at times by the monumental distance, but also encouraged by the strangers at the side of the road in the rain, shouting "YOU CAN DO THIS!" The support of friends and family can mean everything. And through it all, you only have two choices: keep fighting or stop.
And that's the worst part; no matter what, some people won't make it to the finish line. It's heartbreaking.
So, I'm glad I got out of the car, because maybe now I understand a little better.
Thank you for supporting me. I would never have made it without you.
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| www.conquercancer.ca |
