hero

it has been a few weeks since that fateful thursday, and i've had time to mull it all over.

the usual thursday sufferfest at the hands of WattsUp computrainers had left me depleted, and thoroughly satisfied with my own exhaustion. i was getting stronger. things were getting harder. and the pain of it all only reaffirmed the goal: be willing. willing to make it hurt. willing to keep going when it does. willing to see it through to the finish. willing to exhaust.

i left the warehouse in a light drizzle, as so many days of april had smeared themselves across the forecast. it had been raining for over a month.

today's rain would be different.

as i turned the pedals and wished for the rain pants i had forgone in my sweaty haste to leave, the rain turned, and became something else. downpour would be an understatement. fat, pregnant drops of warm water cascaded in sheets from the sky. i pulled over to affix my lights, but neglected my rain jacket. it was just going to be wet.

accelerating out of the intersection, i met with lines of traffic, rough roads, and winds gusting to well over the freeway speed limit. the storm, sudden and lashing, was of biblical proportion. and i had not built an ark. the traffic and rough roads steered me to line between lanes, and i ground through the pedal strokes, working to maintain speed and direction in the whipping wind and slashing rain. i could mostly see. i could halfway pedal. and all of a sudden, the traffic accelerated.

now past the submerged creekbed of the right of the right lane, i would attempt to move back to my 'rightful' or 'proper' position on the road. i don't remember if i steered first and looked after, or if i looked as i steered, or if the wind was pushing me and my oxygen-deprived brain and spent legs were too slow in reacting, but all of a sudden that slow-moving city truck was right on me, and the horn sounded.

this is not the time to begin judgement of error or calculate one's reactions to the daily occurrences of traffic and urban cohabitation. sometimes we get along and sometimes we are too tightly packed and sometimes there is friction and the rain does nothing to lessen the rub.

i stuck out my finger and moved over anyway, furious with myself for going slowly and furious for reacting the way i had and furious with the wind for making me look stupid and furiously, furiously pedaling into a wall of rain.

the truck passed me then, around the bend, not with a wide berth but with one of consideration for all lanes of traffic, and i caught it and passed it one light later. two lights after that, "i had cooled my head and warmed my heart", and i waited. when the truck rolled up, i waved, the driver rolled down his window, and i told him i apologized for giving him the finger back there. my bad.

(no further explanation needed; i was just owning up to my own stupidity, and working to maintain positive relations between riders and drivers. he doesn't need to know about the wind or rain or that i'm just trying to get home and take my kids to daycare or that my legs are spent or that i stay up nights worrying about how my at-risk job working with at-risk kids is going to pay for said daycare. none of this is his fault. i shouldn't have ridden in front of his truck and then given him the finger about it.)

this part is what really gave me goosebumps.

after accepting my apology, the driver took it upon himself to speculate, and give me some advice. being proud, insecure, and embarrassed, i hate getting advice. regardless, he gave it to me, saying that i need to be more careful; that i don't want to die on my way to work; that i want to die being a hero, not riding my bike in the rain; that i should have a nice day.

it was the hero part that just about killed me.

the better way.

the best way to get around toronto is by bicycle.

this is a concept of which i have been advocate, proponent, and die hard idiot since it dawned on me a decade ago. i started my time in toronto in a shared residence room at U of T's whitney hall. a beautiful old building full of beautiful young people with high graduating averages and low alcohol tolerances. alas, what a difference an academic year can make...

but that's beside the [point].

the point: my consciousness of toronto was nucleic from the beginning, and only spread outward in atomic, then molecular, and finally viral awareness with the passage of time, the gaining of maturity, and the biannual event of moving. i hated moving. the two good things about moving: i got to discover a new part of the city and thereby come into a new perspective, and, i was forced to do away with a whole lot of unnecessary crap (figuratively and very literally). in four years, i moved from 'center of town' to 'way out in the east end'. i couldn't have done better. i got out of my shared room down the hall from gorgeous and previously-engaged women with whom i had to share the floor bathroom. i started to like my former roommate. i switched out of the ridiculousness of life sci./pre-med and got into things that really matter: visual arts and english. i stopped living on a victor ng lease (woah.). i built my own room, installed my own kitchen, lived under 11 1/2' ceilings, and rode my bike to and from school, a whopping 15 minute commute. it changed everything. school was just one part of a much bigger picture, and my bike was my means to all parts of that big picture.

riding was faster, more direct, more dependable, more efficient, cooler, cheaper, more environmentally friendly, and it made me happier. there is nothing that defragments my mind better than a good, solid ride home. 

the ride home today was only after two whole trips to the heart of downtown in what was (thankfully) not at all rush hour. i rode the subway. twice. i walked up and down steps and escalators and stood and sweated in my down jacket, hanging on for dear life to greasy rails and wondering just what that man put in his hair to give it that texture and aroma and how much of it will come off on the window against which he's sleeping before he slides far enough to wake up. the subway, apparently, is the better way. and it cost me more than my lunch to ride it today.

better.

vitamin d.

i need a sunburn.

toronto is a cold place to be, this time of year, and winter has come with tooth-chilling cold but zero snow. this means that it is still plenty good to ride a bike around the cracked and swollen streets, blistering one's face in the wind chill and forsaking the cool vented helmet for the windproof cap and goggles (and less vented, and much less cool helmet). it's just that it kinda sucks. and it's cool.

it's hard enough to get out and ride a bike when it's warm and beautiful and there are a million other things on the to-do list. it's quite another challenge to get dressed, get out, and ride when it's minus 20 celsius with the windchill when you're standing still, and there's just enough salt on the road to refrain from taking out the fancy bike. this means planning to ride on the not so fancy bike, and that's almost not even fun. wait, it's not fun at all. more bumps in the winter. more cracks in the road and in my knuckles. more rattling going through a harsh steel frame right to my frozen sits bones. more smiles frozen solid on my face underneath my fleece neck gaiter. and then - wait for it: at least as much time undressing as riding. it's like being in kindergarten again, but without the cookies.

it's also cool. 

in fact, it's f-ing freezing. but really, there is still that juvenile self-glorification (see: rapha) that results from subjecting oneself to unnecessary suffering, particularly when one is the only one subjecting oneself (everyone else opted for spin classes in full assos kits and running shoes). one begins to think: i am hardcore. i am practically enjoying myself. i love bikes. i am so fit. i can't feel my..anything. there is also that juvenile fascination/self-awareness upon return of experiencing the slow full-body thaw, inch par excruciating inch. winter hurts, even as it leaves the body.

yeah, so winter sucks in toronto for people who like riding fancy bikes up smooth hills past vineyards and orchards toward ecstasy-inducing goat milk gelato. winter also rocks. sometimes. some wheres. it's quiet, cold, crisp, and most certainly epic.

marshall.

the ride for karen is a century ride north of toronto that is put on each year as a fundraiser for camps for kids with cancer.

this is obviously a good cause.

traditionally, some of the members of my family participate in the NYC century put on by transportation alternatives, as an awareness-raiser for the cause of non-four-wheeled-transportation. this year, as time and money and a huge family ordeal schedule would have it, we opted for the ride for karen. thankfully, we did this early and managed to fundraise enough to make sure that the steep entry fee was waived in lieu of funds raised for the cause. long term plan. checklist. feels a little like teaching.

the day began finely enough with a hangover and some ibuprofen, then a drive to the middle of nowhere where parking is plentiful (except on century sunday) and the driveways are identical and many. we parked, registered, peed, and lined up at the start. modestly, we chose the slowest pace group, figuring we could always speed up, but would, more importantly, have a better chance of not getting dropped off the back. this was a fine decision. we rolled off, and my brother and i, having almost left with the wrong group, chased each other around like kids on bikes through the hideous suburb streets. we laughed and said stupid movie lines to each other, making fun of ourselves and having a blast. oh, and the ride had barely started so we had the energy to do this. bikes are fun, and we were giddy.

as soon as the marshall, lee (or maybe it's 'leigh'), showed up, all fun and games came to a screeching halt. we were told/ordered to ride in a two-by-two line, at the specified speed, in order 'for everyone to have a great day.' no getting out of formation. no chasing each other around like idiots. no tucking the hills to pick up any more than 25km/h of speed. no stopping other than at rest stops (there are two, at 50 and 100km). no whining. no having fun. enjoy the scenery. slow down. stop laughing...

a blast was certain to be had by all. my experiences of century riding are limited to those of the NYC century. no rules. few marshalls. fewer marshalls who knew the way. thousands of turns and lights and signs and intersections and cars and weirdos and helpful citizens. lots of fun. lots of laughter. lots of pain and suffering and deteriorated bum skin. lots of food. more volunteers. amazing rest stops. traffic. bike lanes. people and cars in the way. poorly marked routes. fun. fun. fun.

i made the mistake of trying to express my concern for this stick in the mud marshall, quietly, to the lady riding beside me. she was none too impressed. she insisted that despite her carbon bike and hours of hill repeats, the power-tripping marshall was her only hope of not getting dropped by irreverent assholes who just want to make their own rules and ride their own ride and 'have fun' or whatever. oops. this is the second time in a week i've made such a mistake. i should stop opening my mouth, particularly to complain about anything.

the ride was not going well. i had to pee. i hadn't yet sweat into my garments to the point where they become comfortable. i had to pee. i was in trouble with the lady. i wanted to rile against the marshall and all her rules. i felt like i was at school, in the principal's office, for something i didn't even do. i had to pee.

out of nowhere, the events of the day were changed immediately and definitively.

there was that stomach-sinking sound of a revolving tire, spewing its precious pneumatic contents into the air at the regular intervals of an easy 25km/h spin. hiss. hiss. hiss. hiss. hiss. i knew the sound, and looked up to see its victim. my brother. poor guy just got his bike tuned up yesterday (by yours truly), and was told that his tires were shit and old but might hold up for this ride. not 20km in, and he's blown the front one, a wear mark straight through the casing. 

i peed. 

after watering a nearby cornstalk, i assessed the situation, and was glad. we had lost the marshall and her rules and the group to which we had been so unassumingly assigned. i peed. and now we had an impromptu rest stop. this was going to be a great century. we started to get ready to rig some kind of solution, when we were told that the SAG wagon would still be coming by, and they would have tires. perfect. no mcguivre moves here boys, just a little SAG action and we'd be on our way. sure enough, a white van pulled up, slapped on an $80 tire, and left us to our own, repaired devices as it drove away to find the next rider in need. i love the SAG!

back on the rode, my brother, feeling bad that he had lost us the group and the 'pace' and the marshall and any time (this is not a race), took lead in the paceline and promptly dropped just about everyone. feeling responsible for the other relatives/riders i had invited to this thing, i fell back and did my best to pull them in a rag-tag paceline across some of the windiest and straightest and flattest road i've seen in a long time. this was the picture for the rest of the day. we met back up with all of our friends at the first rest stop, and at lunch, but were always dropped by higher-pace riders doing their thing. and i always hung back, feeling like i should 'help out' with the slower paceline.

ultimately, it was a great day and a great ride, but i learned some things, and i should write them down so that i don't forget.