Woodnewton XC Ocup #1…a race of perseverance!

Pink Ribbon Bike Bling

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” is how the saying goes and it’s what I tell myself most days.  My life has been a series of stacked hurdles since cancer and chemotherapy.  As a result, it makes my days of wellness as unpredictable as spring weather.

Muscle pain and weakness along with migraines blah blah blah…is part of my life, the majority of days.  No complaints though…I am alive and will always fight to make the best of it.  However, this uncertainty of what the next day will bring means not all events are an option and if I choose to participate, it’s a guarantee to be a real character builder!

I was going into the Woodnewton Ocup feeling like I’d been in a boxing match and was obviously, not the winner!  I get tired of feeling like crap and letting the pain control my days so I went to the race to try my best.  Woodnewton is a fantastic venue, near Uxbridge, Ontario and the race is held by Superfly Racing which guarantee’s a coarse that will never disappoint.

My warm-up was a good indication that my body went on vacation and only my brain was at the race.  Going into the line-up and watching the clock count down to the start was like being a kid in school waiting for the 3 o’clock bell to ring.  After what felt like an eternity, the horn finally sounded and the adventure to “when will I crack, had begun.”

Getting ready to start!

Within a minute of the sprint out of the gate, my gas tank blew up.  I was seeing stars and my lungs were about to spontaneously combust.  Slowing the pace down, one by one the women passed me and I couldn’t do anything about it.  ”Ride to finish Jany, just ride to finish,” I told myself.  Blending in with a few riders near the back, I set my sights for doing what I could.  After all, it’s never over until you cross the finish line and anything can happen.

With quite a bit of climbing in the early part of the course, my legs were slow and heavy.  Invisible ankle weights made every pedal stroke an effort in perseverance.  Looking ahead, many of the women were long gone and the few that were left, I enjoyed watching their speed ascending the mole hills that were mountains for me.  Shortly after, a dear friend and competitor, Nathalie encountered a mechanical. Having to ride past her was painful.  As a competitor, we can’t stop and help and I really wanted to help.

Coming into the feed zone!

Finishing the first lap and passing through the feed zone, I could hear my husband Steven reminding me how strong I am.  My heart broke hearing those words and my eyes became blurry from the tears.  He has sacrificed many days to be at races with me and I realized his 100% support needed 100% return.  I was losing myself to my pain and it was time to fight back.

The second lap was one pedal stroke at a time.  Waves of relief, yet momentary, were great reminders of what it is like to be pain free and float like a feather in the wind.  Adrenaline can do that! The second lap seemed to pass more quickly (not according to the results, but it felt faster). Hitting the feed zone with one more lap to go, I saw my friend Andrea (former competitor) and her huge smile.  She knew I was in pain and shouted out, “one more lap Jany, you can do this!”  Then I saw Steven hoping to pass me a new bottle to drink.  I hadn’t even touched my original bottle and just shook my head “no!”  As I rounded the bend and he was out of sight, I could still hear his voice and positive words.

Robyn Duke (2nd place finisher) and Andrea!

The last lap was turning into more than a struggle.  I needed someone to chase to keep me focused.  I put Steven’s image in front of me on the hills.  Chasing him gave me the kick in the butt I needed, even if he was imaginary.

Pain has a voice that screams its desire to win.  It is the grim reaper that puts out his hand and tells you to walk with him.  In my world, there is no walking allowed…not with my bike or with my life, so I kept pedalling.

The suffering of the hills was complete and the remaining, swooping to rocky single track was left.  Knowing the area well, I let the bike fly and do what came naturally.  There wasn’t much pedalling required until the sprint at the finish.  ”Ride smart and finish,” I told myself.

Coming into the home stretch, Steven’s voice echoed from the crowd.  It was the push I needed to put what I had left into the final sprint.  My legs buckled after I crossed the line.  It took me a moment to compose myself.  Steven managed to find me through the crowd and I had to hold him tightly.  The resilience that it takes to stand beside me and watch me push myself to such extremes is a quality that is priceless.  I could never repay him for his dedication but I can show my appreciation by always trying to be my very best.

Lori Kofman (3rd place!!!)

I came in 5th out of 13 which is absolutely astonishing.  It was a finish far beyond expectations.  To top it off, I was ecstatic to find out my Erace Cancer Cycling teammates Lori Kofman, her husband Peter, Shannon Ford-Smith and Rob Sule all made it to the podium.  I was particularly happy for Lori, who had a tough season last year with early injuries.  She has worked hard to get back to racing and she royally kicked my ass at this race…I am so proud of her.

In reading this, you may be thinking…am I pushing myself too hard, or why would I put myself through so much pain…for what?  Well, the answer is complex but a quick look at who I am…I am living my life to the fullest even when it hurts.  I’ve already got a hole punched in my “ticket of life” and I’ll be sure to do as much as I can before that ticket runs out.  There is also the “pain that hurts” and “pain that is hurting me.”  If I ever felt that I was causing serious injury to myself, I would stop (well maybe…just not in Sudbury)!  Otherwise, pain is just that…pain.  Pushing my threshold helps me continuously discover that my well of fortitude to endure is deeper than imagined.  I am driven to show people what is possible, when you’re willing to try.  Lastly, even if “we are strictly racing for Cliff Bars,” as I often say to riders filled with nerves at the starting line…I push myself to find the best part of me which is never found in comfort.

Homage to Ice….snow, wind, freezing temps and pristine trails!

Round 14 of snow squalls…pre-race!

Another late post…but it’s a story to tell.  Hopefully it’s the last race in the white stuff for a while!  Homage to Ice is a mountain bike race held by Substance Projects, in Mansfield, Ontario.  Mansfield is a great place full of sand, hills and endless single track.  It also holds one of the earliest mountain bike events of the year.  With a 25 km and 50 km distance (two laps of 25 km), it’s guaranteed to be an eye opener, and for many, the first mountain bike ride of the season.

Let’s not forget it’s also spring in Canada! That means anything can happen.  Last year had ultra dry conditions. This year…well it was shaping up to be a mixed bag of everything in one day.

Heading up to the race course (2 hour drive) blatantly exposed what you don’t want to see when heading to a race; snow squalls, then sunshine, followed by another snow squall, then storm clouds, all with crosswinds strong enough to relocate my van on the road.  That beautiful white stuff that we’re happy to see at Christmas time was collecting on the hillsides (in April) and the temps were never going to be anything but frigid!  A good day for mountain biking if you live in Canada!

Getting ready for the race was a repeat mode from the drive.  Blustery winds tipped bikes over that were resting against cars.  The countryside was barely visible with the pelting snow that also mimicked acupuncture needles on any exposed skin.  People ran for cover in their cars as their bikes lay unattended and at the mercy of the elements. Conditions were not ideal!

Thumbs up to racing!
Photographer – Jennifer Crake

I tried to do a quick warm up down the road even wearing my down jacket, but the force of the wind almost blew me over. My face, even covered with a buff, froze.  My lips resembled a visit to the dentist…stiff and incapable of forming words.  Even my teeth hurt after attempting to breathe open-mouthed.  I was starting to wonder if I had jumped through a worm hole and landed in Siberia! Retreating to an inner trail, hints of snow revealed that winter wasn’t over yet and the trees were bending like toothpicks against the forces of nature.

Everyone stood shivering as we waited at the start line hearing the rules of the race.  It was evident…mountain bikers are a little twisted.  Regardless of the conditions, we all got in our cars, drove quite a distance to stand in the freezing cold and were psyched about grinding our way through potentially snow-covered trails.

The start is what it has always been…a lung burner with a long, painful climb that guarantees to make a few implode.  I stayed mid-pack and kept a moderate pace knowing there was 50 km of racing and blowing it in the 1st kilometre would mean 49 km of suffering.  The pace didn’t matter, my lungs still burned from the cold and the phlegm bots were forming in my throat.

The trails went up and down, twisted and turned, over and around logs.  Sandy double-track connected all the single track.  Areas of elevation revealed lightly snow-covered hills with hints of spring green poking through.  Throughout every section of pine forest the scenery was surreal…rusty-pine-needle coloured snaking trail, curving through snow-covered terrain.  It was a magazine cover picture that was distracting enough to almost hit a tree.

My Opus Fhast…stealth bomber!

Feeling great in the first lap even though my husband and I did a five hour road ride with 50 km/hr winds the previous day, I was enjoying my fitness.  Holding 2nd place, I just kept reminding myself to keep it together.  Shortly after, I was going into my 2nd lap and saw Linda Shin (an incredible racer and endurance queen) off in the sidelines…she had a mechanical and was out of the race.  ”Holy Sh*t!  I’m in first,” went flying through my head.  With no one in sight behind me, I was psyched.

The kilometres kept ticking away as I wove through the picturesque trails.  Then, without warning, daggers stabbed my thighs.  Full-on cramping and my legs were trying to retreat to somewhere in my upper body.  Trying to ease on my pedalling, I used one leg at a time and tried to keep moving.  The pain was intense.  Tears welled up in my eyes and I felt anger.  ”Keep pedalling or stop…but stop crying,” I told myself.  My pace had turned to a crawl and it wasn’t long before I caught sight of two women.

They eventually caught up and I let them pass.  It was survival mode and my goal became finishing.  With 10 km to go, there was still a lot of riding and it’s never over until you cross the finish line.

The cramping came and went in waves…consequences of a big ride before a race.  I knew it but I didn’t care.  I went for a big ride with my husband and we shared a lot of quality time together and no race would take the place of that.

No end to the weather!

Looking forward to a bit of reprieve from the winding trails, there lay a wide-open section…a place of easy riding and an opportunity to hydrate.  Well no…things had changed!  The wind gusts were enough to tip a tractor trailer and I was tilting sideways as the piercing snow, sandblasted my face.  There was no letting go of the handlebar even with one hand. I had choice words for that moment but I’ll leave them out for sensitive readers!

Finally reaching the sublime, frosted forest it wasn’t long before the finish line so I did what I could and pedalled to the end.  Dismounting my bike was a bit of a task and I rode to the fence to gain support for fear of my legs cramping and tipping over in front of all those that finished before me.

Waiting for the results…I had no idea until the podium calls were made…3rd place in Open Women.  I raced all age groups for women and managed to podium.  Redeeming myself from my onset of food poisoning at the same race last year…it was shocking to hear my name.  King Beer and a cow bell for a prize was definitely worth the trip.  Substance Projects holds very family friendly, fun events that brings people together, enables everyone to enjoy a day out on their bikes and a chance to push themselves. I did all that, enjoyed it and I am looking forward to next year.

Bike for Mike…makes all things right!

It’s truly inspiring to see the power of a family to take a tragic situation and make something truly positive happen for many others.  This is the Chamberlain family and their heartfelt creation…Bike for Mike.  I’ll tell you a bit more about the event…but first…about Mike and his family.

Mike was their son.  A thriving young man who loved to cycle, travelled the world and was driven to make Hamilton a better place for cyclists.  Mike also suffered from mental illness and this illness eventually took its toll about 3 years ago.

The Chamberlain family had experienced a great loss.  Even with their grief, they were driven to keep Mike’s spirit and his pursuit of cycling for good health, alive!  You see, Mike loved to cycle because he found happiness there.  As a result, the Chamberlains were determined to help others find happiness and good health on a bicycle by starting the Bike for Mike ride and charity.  An incredible event for anyone who loves to ride a bicycle.

The 3rd year for the event, is coming soon…May 5th.  You can check out all the details at Bike for Mike.  I had the privilege of volunteering, on behalf of Freewheel Cycle, at the bike ride last year and will be doing so this year as well.  This event is only one part of the Chamberlain’s mission.  Another part is to raise funds from the Bike for Mike so that every child in Hamilton has a bike to ride.

I was ecstatic to be given the chance to help out while the Chamberlains gave approximately 200 brand new bikes to families at the Holy Name of Jesus  school in downtown Hamilton.  Mike would be so proud!  The bikes had been assembled with the help of Freewheel Cycle and a collection of volunteers recruited through Domestique-Café Cyclo Sportif.

As I stood in the gymnasium, staring at the fleet of bicycles for little tots to adults, it was evident how motivated the Chamberlains are in making the lives of others better, one bicycle at a time.

The families began to arrive and the energy in the room changed rapidly.  Christmas morning had arrived early in a house full of children.  Their eyes flew wide open at the sight of the bikes, trying to catch a glance at which one might be theirs.  Little hands tugging at their gentle giants, parents arms jerked and jolted from the present-induced mania.  Their little fingers pointed to a distant bike as they jumped and squirmed to be set free to wander through the mechanized jungle!

The room settled and became silent when a heartfelt speech was given by Mark Chamberlain (Mike’s dad).  Mark had three rules before the bikes would be released: ride the bikes, maintain the bikes and show the Hamilton councillors that it is necessary to provide safer roads for all users.  Healthier, happier children lead to a better community.  It was followed with a blessing of the bikes and the soon-to-be recipients.

Soon after, the kids were let loose and in search of their new toy.  Organized chaos…I felt like Santa’s helper.  My purpose was to ensure their helmets and bikes were fitted properly before they left.

‘A Perfect Fit’ – Photographer – Simon Wilson

Every moment with every child made me feel alive.  Seeing their smiles and hearing “thank you Miss JJ,” made me want to cry.  I had a purpose that evening, a simple one, but it was powerful for me.  I had to pinch myself to make sure that this wasn’t just a fantastic dream.  The Chamberlain family was bringing so much joy to so many and they were giving me a gift as well…a chance to share myself and help them in their mission.

‘A Happy Family’
Photographer – Simon Wilson

It didn’t take long before the room was practically empty.  Kids and parents were fitted on their new two-wheeled gifts and had retreated to their homes.  I have no doubt bedtime was going to be delayed for many, as children begged to have just a few more minutes to ride their new vehicle of freedom.

Leaving the gym, I felt changed.  I saw the power of the heart and how a few people, wrapped in hurt, managed to find the strength to take the pain and paint something beautiful.  It was an honour to be a part of something so incredibly magical.

Tour of Bronte – Tour of gravel!

Tour of Bronte venue

The Tour of Bronte is a road race…yes, I said it…a road race.  And yes, I did it!  You would think that after my Good Friday Race experience, one was enough.  If you know me, you know I like to back up my suffering experiences, just to ensure that it wasn’t just a fluke the first time around.  It wasn’t a fluke!  Road racing is mental torture, makes me grind my teeth and is truly terrifying! When you throw in gravel, it goes to proportions beyond sadistic.

I’d been hearing things about the Tour of Bronte, some good and some sketchy.  The good parts; it was flat, a closed course (meaning no cars), 8 km loop done multiple times and it was basically local being situated just in Oakville.  The sketch parts; 50% gravel, lots of twists and turns, a gauntlet of massive potholes  and it was a mass group start…women went out with the men leading to approximately 100 riders blasting out of the start in what I now know is never neutral!

My racing numbers…proof of registration!

In my semi-comatose state of Saturday morning, after three days of hard riding already, I decided what the hell, I’ll try the race regardless of its pitfalls.  The only way I can learn is by trying.  So I packed up my bike, my lady bug helmet cover and off I went to the race.

The temps were cold, the wind was blowing enough to create a bad hair day and it became clear that it was gravel galore when I drove into the park.  Trying to warm up was beyond uncomfortable.  Sporting all things warm including my down jacket, it was amazing how my lady bug helmet cover was still not met with approval from some clad in ultra-lycra apparel.  Accustomed  to the disdain from not conforming…I warmed up with the comfort of goose down and bunny-hopped potholes to remind myself I’m a mountain biker.

Lining up at the start…well I lined up at the back of the start.  Fully aware of the skills of those that do this thing often, I was not about to interfere in their performance.  I happily placed myself, almost in sweep mode, embracing the human free space.

The horn sounded and the start felt like a slingshot.  Everyone propelled forward at breakneck speed and I was still stuck to the slingshot.  Catching up, it wasn’t long before the group scrunched up like a squished pop can as an entire lane of riders, 10 abreast, tried to squeeze to two riders wide onto gravel.  Dust was flying everywhere as the racers entered the world of all things not paved and far from smooth.  Hanging on the back, I sucked in their dust leftovers and could barely see the mass of experienced riders getting further and further away.

It didn’t take long before the ‘swarm’ of lycra was long gone and a bunch of us struggling bugs were hap-hazardly placed on the course.  Each turn on the marble rolling, loose gravel was pure terror for me and best done alone. I felt my back tire slide out taking a corner too quickly and my eyes flew open wide.  ”Nah uh, hell no,” flew through my head.  Instant pictures of me lying bloodied in the shape of a pretzel from crashing on a corner filled my brain.  The imagination is very cruel and quick to serve that cruelty in times of unrealistic fear!   Checking my speed, I knew that the gravel had to be a place of calm and control.  No evasive actions, no bravado.  If I had to slow down so a change of shorts wasn’t necessary…best to do so!

It wasn’t long before I came upon two other women.  They were working together and pace-lining in order to make it easier on both of them.  They offered for me to join in and I was more than happy to try it out.  I’ve never pace-lined before and I was impressed at the amount of energy saved by such a quick rotation.

The race turned out to be more like 70% gravel and 30% road!  I discovered that cornering on gravel with others made me grind my teeth and my spatial awareness was super magnified.  The universe works amazing things when terror is the first feeling and somehow I managed to be at the back of the pack for most of my least favourite sections.

We continued to pace-line for four laps and I was incredibly appreciative of their willingness to tolerate me.  Our work together quickly came to a halt when I slowed down ever so slightly to have a nibble…I don’t do nibble and gravel well, so I waited for the road portion.  A couple of more laps to go, I knew if I didn’t consume some sustenance, my stomach would start eating into my back and only bad things come from that!  The women kept their groove on and I was quickly dropped from the group and on my own.

Missing the energy savings from the dynamic duo, I tried to bridge the gap.  I pushed, grunted, drooled and pushed some more.  I couldn’t get back to them although they seemed like they were spitting distance away.  I was the turtle chasing the hares.  Racing alone, against the wind, eventually the gap grew larger and larger. I then lost sight of them in the dust-laden abyss.  Being alone was becoming a familiar theme for me in road racing.  Accepting my solitary place in the world, I did what I do best; put my head down and took the suffering like a trooper.

Going into the last lap, ahead of me, an ambulance was leaving the course.  With no sirens sounding or lights flashing, I wasn’t sure if they were transporting some poor soul that lost it on the gravel deathtraps or it just happen to be cruising in the area for fun!  Just the visual of the vehicle was a quick reminder, I didn’t want to be one of the gurney users (I’ve been there, done that, under different circumstances).  With one lap left, I was going to play a good hand and play it smart.  Following the lines I learned to get through the pothole gauntlet, I reached the comfort of the final stretch of concrete bliss.

Hollywood must have brought their wind machines and were doing a remake on the movie ‘Twister’!  At least that is what it felt like riding solo.  I tried to stand up and pedal to use some different muscles…what a bad idea!  I felt like a flag whipping in the wind!   The high-powered, no this is not a breeze, was relentless and was going in one direction…straight at me.  Positioning into my drops was as aerodynamic as I could get. Even though it helped, ever so slightly, it still felt like I was pulling a sled of people on pavement.

Nearing the finish, a group of riders were quickly approaching from behind…I was being lapped by the pros.  They had done one full lap more than me and we were about to cross the finish line together.  Suddenly, there was a sound that was so very wrong.  It was either a tire blowing out or a tire rubbing another tire.  A seriously loud, ‘bbbbzzzzzzzz” happened somewhere behind me.  It was followed with the sound of ‘things’  hitting the ground.  I didn’t know what the ‘other things’ were but I was certain that it didn’t end well.   There was no ability to stop and see what had happened since drastic manoeuvres could create more carnage. My brain has enough ability to create visuals without the actual visuals!   Crossing the finish line, I had no idea how many riders went down, or how badly they were hurt. There was definitely skin loss and bike donations and I was sure to find out soon enough.

Within minutes of being at the car, the news was travelling….two riders had crashed sprinting to the end.  Fortunately the DNA donations to the pavement gods had been minimal as they were launched into the grassy island.  The bike donations were, however, great!  Cracked frames led to broken smiles.

This wasn’t the only crash during the race.  The ambulance I mentioned earlier did have a gurney visitor.  A group of riders became a mangled mess on a gravel turn.  One rider was making a trip to an emergency room while the others involved in the crash, although not needing hospital care had raspberry-red evidence of skin-meeting-gravel consequences.  There was also the grim reality that their aerodynamic, carbon sweetness was now a cracked mess.  Bank accounts were going to suffer to replace these prized and broken possessions.

‘Rubber Side Dow’n art piece…how much I love to ride trails!

I had survived the Tour of Bronte gravelfest finishing 13th overall in the women.   Completely satisfied with my result,  I was ecstatic that I had evaded being carnage for another one.  I left the race venue having learned a lot more about road racing and who I am as a racer and a person.  I love to race…mountain bikes!  I love to try hard!  I have no problem being a workhorse.  I do not like when the risks outweigh the benefits. I am also happy that I am secure enough within myself to let go of my ego and ‘ride to ride another day!’

Another new race done!  Another lesson learned!  Do I have any regrets…NONE!  Will I do another one…I’ve learned to never say never!

Paris to Ancaster! Mud, Mayhem and Magic!

Ah, the long-awaited Paris to Ancaster race.  An event full of mud, mayhem and magic.  Celebrating its 20th anniversary, the goal is to race 60 km from Paris, Ontario to Ancaster, Ontario.  Known for its epic nature, there is a blend of rail trail, farm lanes, mud slides, gravel roads, soggy grass, horse poop and the occasional paved road.  There is also the Canadian spring weather…anything can happen!

After this snowy winter, the spring thaw was leaving its mark…soggy, squishy everything.  Weeks before the race there was a lot of talk flittering about that the conditions would be grim.  Even in dry conditions in previous years, there was always mud…very deep mud! Mud powerful enough to stop your bike dead in its tracks and suck your shoes from your feet if you dared to step down.   This year did not disappoint.  The week leading up to the event, Mother Nature donated over 100 mm of rain.  As Monday turned to Friday and the rains were still coming, the local chatter changed from enthusiasm to fear!

My new look! Dressing in the daylight!

I’ve been really excited about doing this race since I now had a real cyclocross bike to use.  An ultra-light stealth bomber that would help me fly on everything but the mud, I was certain I could give the Road Runner a run for his money! Last year, using my mountain bike I excelled in all the cyclocross bike eating mud and turned into a station wagon against porsches when it hit the pavement. There was no matching cyclocross speed even with delusions of grandeur. Not this year!  This year I planned on ripping it on the roads and leaving flames for tracks.

My excitement came to a rapid halt when a bout of food poisoning or some sort of horrific stomach plague hammered me during a road ride on the Monday.  In my efforts to make it home, I resembled Linda Blair from the Exorcist on several occasions.  It wasn’t pretty but it was a testament to my resilience. The remaining part of the week lead to losing 7 lbs, no bike rides and uncertainty that racing was possible.

Race day came with blue skies, crisp temps and a hint of snow.  Feeling a bit better, I decided I’d give the race a go.  The registration was paid so I figured attempting to do it was at least a good start!  If I had to bail I would and it would be the only time dropping out would be acceptable!

The Stealth Bomber!

Steven prepped my new, cut through air machine, although not much had to be done.  It had never experienced dirt before, only the dust from our neighbourhood street!  That was clearly evident with the blinding rays shooting like laser beams from any metallic parts that caught the sun.  It was being propelled from its factory-fresh, pristine appearance into a place where there was no return.  The glowing, snowy white bar-tape and seat would become a permanent beige.  The gears would go from being silent and buttery smooth to a vibrating, jaw-clenching sound of dry metal-on-metal mashing between 20 grit sand paper!

Erace Cancer kit….beautiful!

Sporting my new Erace Cancer Cycling Team kit, I felt decked out!  I usually look like I got dressed in the dark so this was an improvement for me.  To top off my well-dressed cyclist look, I added my Lady Bug helmet attire!

Mass start mayhem!

Another mass start with approximately 400 riders is not what I call a good time.  Like a herd of cattle being shuffled through a narrow opening, it became just shy of a stampede when the horn sounded.  Making it out of the gate and the gauntlet had begun.  Riders were dodging wheel-size swallowing potholes, some unsuccessfully causing water bottles to eject from their cages threatening to take down other unsuspecting racers.  Other riders were darting from side to side trying to achieve a better position up front.  Some riders began fish-tailing on the gravel taking a turn, narrowly escaping crashing, some did crash!  I backed off as I usually do in these starts…I don’t do chaos!  My desire to crash in the first kilometre of the race was zero and survival was paramount.

Converging onto a rail trail was mayhem.  The width of riders went from 10 across to 2 across.  Put a bunch of Tasmanian devils into a group and try and make them move in an orderly fashion…not remotely possible. Interesting tactics resulted and ejection over their handlebars into the surrounding forest was evidence of failed strategies.

A steady pace was eventually achieved and the mass of racers I was with had incredible trail etiquette.  Every hazard was yelled out.  Quick deceleration was announced from riders further up.  The rail trail was surprisingly dry and hard packed which allowed for smooth sailing.   I soaked up the joy of speeding along on my aerodynamic machine.   The return for my effort was huge.  I felt the pain of the mountain bikers as they watched me fly past them.  All I could think was “I’m sorry!  I know your pain!”

We eventually came to our first hill filled with loose, fist-size rocks and dirt.  Not sure how the new machine would handle the terrain, I elected to run up it along with the others.  Running it felt wrong!  I really didn’t like getting off my bike and I particularly don’t like not getting a hill.  Oh well, all was said and done and I hopped back on the bike and carried on.  The next climb came and I said, “screw it! Ride it until you tip over!”  There were riders dismounting their bikes everywhere!  Dodging them like pilons, one pedal stroke at a time, I made it to the top and gave myself a little, “F#!k yeah!”

The farm lane turned to hard packed gravel.  The views were beautiful with endless farmland and green hints of spring.  The other effects of spring became rapidly apparent during my moment of bliss…mud, lots and lots of it!  A double-track lane filled with brownie cake mix coloured sludge as far as the eyes could see with no alternative path.  Riders ahead slowed to a crawl,  swerving from the suction of the unbaked goo.  I thought about dismounting and running it but began to find hard packed, slightly frozen sections and riding a straight line was doable.  It wasn’t long before the mud drama was over and smooth riding was possible again.

My art interpretation of Paris to Ancaster.

It was a repeat mode of gravel to grass to mud with hints of road as the kilometres ticked by.  Nearing 30 km, it was clear that the life sucking muck was taking its toll on riders that passed me earlier on.  The clincher was a farm lane filled with mud and lined with quicksand speed, waterlogged grass.   It was the pit of despair and it was sucking in many souls. The physical demands were profanity inducers for many.  Weaving about, searching for a firmer path, many blurted out choice words from having to dismount and walk!  Their faces were drawn from fatigue and surely their waterlogged feet would be wrinkled for days!  There wasn’t a chance I was dismounting unless I tipped over first.  So I kept pedalling against the resistance of the drenched terrain, my eyes flitting about in search of good lines.  It was somewhat exhilarating trying to succeed against the wrath of spring thaw and before I could really feel any suffering, I hit firm ground and left the poor, disheartened souls behind.

Pre-ride warmup!

Forty kilometres in and my energy level was holding its ground.  My bout of sickness left my legs with less than I wanted but overall, I was doing better than expected.  The roads were rolling and  I couldn’t stop smiling.  My stealth bomber was an instrument of speed and I continued to pass riders who left me in their dust earlier..

Eventually it was time for the real mud…one of the two famous mudslides.  The Indiana Jones mudslide kind of mud.  Only there is no jungle, beautiful lagoons or fist size gems in the end.…just more gravel road! It’s a really long chute full of derailleur ripping, over the handlebars, shoe sucking sludge.  If you have enough speed and luck, you’ll ride it.  Otherwise it is a date with the “I’ll have to hose my clothes down outside then wash them three times to get the filth out!”   I did a point and shoot at the top of the slide.  Aim the bike straight and hope for the best.  It worked until my bike came to a stop.  I didn’t have enough speed and I was at a standstill, balancing against the forces inflicted by the sludge gods.  My will was no match against the ever-sinking slop and dismount I did.  Looking down, the mud was ankle deep.  Lifting my bike from what felt like hardening cement, it was clear the leftovers on my, no longer glistening machine, weighed an extra twenty pounds.  One step forward and my shoe almost got plucked from my foot.  At that moment I saw the photographer snapping a picture of me and all I could do was laugh!  I just kept laughing as I humped my bike down the latter half of the chute, listening to the shoe sucking sounds each step made.  My thoughts went to the hundreds of racers still to come.  The conditions would only get worse and would undoubtedly provide photographers with what they were looking for….face plants and head-to-toe mud covered riders.

Reaching the road, debris flung from every part of my bike as my speed increased.  I have yet to learn to keep my mouth closed at such times and chunks of mud made perfect trajectory into my mouth.  Chewing on grit,  the sound of grit echoed from the crap stuck in between my brakes.  It was a dam of twigs and other assorted things clumped together, clinging on and growing in size.  It didn’t seem to interfere with my bike performance so I just kept riding.

Reaching another part of the rail trail, it was perfectly dry.  I was relieved.  This meant the finish wouldn’t be too far.  It was a good time to start pushing a harder pace that was sustainable to the final climb.  I felt turbo-charged and did what I had been training to do…time trial.  Passing a bunch of riders in my quest for the finish,  I’d been pushing for a while when I discovered a rider behind me.  He’d been drafting and I didn’t know he was milking the draft.  I never thought to look back.  Quickly he pulled beside me and said, “nice pull.  Now I’ll do some work!”  He surged to get in front of me and the energy savings were a welcomed experience.

We were approaching the second and last, epically long mudslide and suddenly, my tank of energy fully drained.  Realizing that my week long illness was finally catching up, my stomach sank at the thought of riding up the death march of a hill to the finish.  My new bike didn’t have the perfect gearing for that kind of climbing.  It was going to be pure pain and even walking it would suck.  I popped out of my ‘woe is me’ fog to focus on the current slop adventure and aimed my bike straight.  If I was stealth enough, perhaps I could make it.  Spectators were screaming words of encouragement.  I deeked, dodged then deeked obstacles and riders.  Then, my bike came to a stop again.  Not enough speed and I was cemented in the mud.  I felt an ounce of Medusa coming out of me as I tried to yard my once ultra-light machine out of another pit of despair.  In the hillside, I could hear friends yelling “Yawnee!!!! You’re a mountain biker…get on your bike!”  All I could shout out was, “I don’t do skinny wheels!” Regardless of their observations of my current short comings, it was great to hear their laughter and it helped give me some extra drive  for the finish.

The relief of gravel road came quickly along with a beautiful, male voice telling me there was only 5 kilometres left to go.  I shouted out, “oh hell, ya!”  Gravel quickly turned to a short section of mud, back to more gravel road and then the final stretch to the finish; the daunting climb of Martin’s Rd.

Scrambling over a downed tree, I recognized the area and knew it was about two kilometres of “I can’t believe they call this dirt crap a road,” hilly terrain.  The last kilometre with a mix of loose and hard packed gravel, always slippery when wet, winds brutally steep uphill.  Even those strong in spirit will whine with no visual of the finish until you round the last bend.  It has broken many and it may just break me.

My legs were turning into stumps.  The first signs of cramping for me…a warning of sorts!  Heed the warning and I will avoid writhing in pain from my leg muscles trying to retreat to my upper body.  Ignore the warning…let’s just say I was warned!  Shifting to my easier gear, I tried to shift again hoping that one more easier gear would have magically appeared.  There weren’t any!  I had what I had and it was time to make it work or succumb to walking…an option I didn’t like. Suddenly I heard a very joyful scream which I recognized.  Looking up briefly, I saw my friends Mary-Lin and Phil.  ML was clapping and screaming words of encouragement.  Phil was snapping shots with his phone and I’m pretty sure he said something positive but my focus for things other than suffering was dwindling.  I drew some energy from their encouragement and kept grinding the pedals upwards.

The pitch of the hill began to steepen and my legs were becoming dried hardwood.  Cramping was almost immanent. The last stretch of pure evil forced me to quickly search for strength from the deepest recesses of my soul.  Without fail, I looked up and there stood my husband.  He’d been waiting and planned to run the grade of death with me.  I mumbled that my legs were toast and close to cramping.  He just told me to keep pedalling….so I did.

Gravel and more gravel!

One pedal stroke at a time, I began passing riders on my ascent.  My rotations were slow and laboured.  It was amazing that I was staying upright. Twinges of cramping were threatening to go full force.  Nearing the last two steep switchbacks, I came upon two other riders (aka indecisive squirrels!).  They were zigging and zagging out of sheer effort to summit.  I tried to zag when they zigged.  It wasn’t working. I kept getting blocked and trapped in their weaving.  Reverting to track-standing at times, I paused my pedal strokes and stopped my motion to avoid collision with the riders.  Soft pedal strokes kept me moving when I needed to and I managed to avoid tipping over.  Steven kept telling me to stick with it. I certainly didn’t expect that the hardest effort was going to be dodging cyclists instead of the steepness.  Finally an opening appeared when they zigged. I zagged, accelerated past them as the angle lessened and the finish line was in sight.  Donning my raging bull sprinting face, I put what I had left into crossing the glorious line.

Happiness is…finishing the Paris to Ancaster!

Ecstatic isn’t a good enough word to describe how I felt.  Shaving a half hour off my time from last year thanks to my new stealth bomber was far beyond my expectations.  Finishing 5th in my category and 18th in women overall was spectacular.  With the fact that even racing was doubtful considering my pre-week Exorcist experience, these results were truly incredible.  I gave it my all and any reserves I had were officially gone.  Eating will now be my sport for the next week while I try and get back what I’ve lost.  I may even get tired of chewing…but I’m OK with that!

Rob Sule and Peter Kofman 50-59

I am so proud to be a part of the Erace Cancer Cycling Team and they certainly did shine at the race.  Lori and Peter Kofman (creators of the Erace team) made it to the podium (no surprise there!)  Also, Rob Sule shared the podium with Peter.  There were many other Erace racers that participated, raced hard, did their best and showed what an incredible team Peter and Lori created.

Lori Kofman 1st place 50-59

What’s coming next…mountain bike racing!  It’s what I have been waiting for and who I really am…a mountain biker! The rest is training!

Goof Friday…I meant to say Good Friday…Road Race!

‘Terrified’ by definition is “cause to feel extreme fear.” ‘Bucket List’ by definition is “a list of things to accomplish before one’s death.”  How do these two things come into play for one race?  Take a seat and I’ll tell you a story!

First, I’ll start with the Bucket List. My list is as long, if not longer, than Santa’s ‘naughty or nice’ list. Even if I lived until I was 100 years old and fulfilled one each day, there still wouldn’t be enough time.  One item that has been haunting me since I got back to racing is a very popular, local road race called Good Friday. Yes, I said road race (insert furrowed brow here!).  One of the first road races of the season and an Ontario Cup, I have heard numerous stories of twitchy, crazed-squirrel like riding.  And, in true form for a road race, there is always the carnage. Hmmmm….so why would I want to do it when it doesn’t involve fatter tires, suspension and dirt?  The answer is simple…I wanted to face my fears and do something I’ve never done.

Terrified is exactly what I felt the morning of the race.  I almost required the ‘bucket’ part of the bucket list.  My desire to puke was nearing erupting volcano proportions.   The images of me becoming road pizza were beyond nauseating.  The regurgitation of my breakfast made it clear I was really scared and I may have to race on an empty stomach!  Let it be clear…this a real road race…not exactly Tour de France but you get the idea.   I’m not a road racer, no matter how far you stretch the imagination.  Road riding was strictly for training.  This voluntary venture to tick off another one from my bucket list was becoming epic before the race even started.

You could hear a pin drop in the car as we drove to the venue.  My incredibly supportive husband could see the fear in my face and remained silent. The only sound I could hear was my heart thumping like congo drums playing at warp speed!  My hands were dripping with sweat (no I wasn’t having a hot flash!)  and my breathing, at best, was laboured.

Getting out of the car, I told Steven I wanted to puke…not just a wee puke…a serious, I drank too much when I was in my 20′s kinda puke. His quick thinking came up with a few encouraging thoughts, …”don’t worry honey, you’ll be fine! Ride by yourself if you have to. You’re smart, you’ll make the right decisions!”  All very sweet words but it wasn’t helping.  The high speed slideshow in my head seem to come up with a thousand images of shredded lycra, raspberry-coloured road rash and mangled bikes.  I didn’t even know I had that many pictures in my head and in full colour!  Most of all, I dreaded the thought that some silly crash, even one that wasn’t my doing, could end my season before it really started.  Nothing like a bit of imaginary drama before a race!

Getting dressed for the race, I zipped up my Erace Cancer Cycling Team jersey that I am so incredibly proud to wear.  All the while, I repeatedly belched coffee flavoured oatmeal, and tried to settle my mind and my volcanic stomach by chanting, ‘blah, blah, blah…” Yes, that really was my chant.  It was a lame attempt to distract my mind from my mental, this film may contain violence and coarse language, movie production that was playing over and over in my wee brain.   It wasn’t helping.  The vortex of terror was picking up speed and sucking me into the black hole of despair.  Even the presence of familiar, friendly faces didn’t matter.

A Goofy Good Friday!

My nostrils were flaring and I took the ‘all the way to my toes deep breath.’  I pulled out my final addition to my racing kit…a googly-eyed, antennae clad, lady bug helmet cover.  Not even remotely aerodynamic racing attire nor is it anything close to what road cyclists would like to be seen in, it was my signature head warmer for the cold weather season. Onto my helmet it went. A quick glimpse of  myself in the car window made me giggle.  I was as ready as I could be!  Everyone will now know to stay away from the rider with the goofy helmet!

There wasn’t much time left so I scooted off to the road for a mild warmup.  It became blatantly clear in less than five minutes that my helmet/head warmer was frowned upon.  A few scathing looks from some male cyclists were confirmation of that.  I smiled at each of them, gave the  thumbs up and kept riding!  I’m pretty thick skinned and their looks of disapproval were humorous. I didn’t care what they thought. I wasn’t there for them.  Besides, if I was seeking approval, I wouldn’t be putting on anything that belonged on a Sesame Street show. It does nothing for blending in with the crowd!  Was I making a statement with my childlike attire…absolutely!  I was being…well me!  I race for fun and the love of it!  I don’t have to fit the stereotype and, most of all, I was racing for kids with cancer.  They would love this helmet cover and that’s all that matters!

That’s me at the back….the very back!

Back from the warmup, I got into the line-up and positioned myself as far as you can go and still be in the race.  I wasn’t there to win it…although the thought did cross my mind for about a second.  Fantasies are allowed, you know!  If I finished unscathed, it was another life experience complete.  My ego was non-existent and I was pretty sure my helmet cover was shouting that out on its own!

I’m still at the back!

3, 2, 1….GO! Survival of the fittest had begun. The start of the course was over the bumpiest, loose gravel, eyeball bouncing, teeth chattering, off-road style landscape just to get to the real pavement.  Maybe that was just me vibrating, but it was pretty crappy terrain. It became immediately clear that I was out of my element bouncing around on the loose crap on a skinny-wheeled machine.  It was beyond sad.  Tip-toeing through the tulips is faster.  I barely managed to hold onto the peleton (a main group of cyclists for all the non-cyclist readers) as we made our way onto the blissfulness of modern concrete!

Suddenly the peleton surged ahead.  ”Oh boy, here we go,” I thought.  Then, as quickly as it picked up, the paced slowed down and rapid breaking began to occur.  A few women skidded and I just about needed a change in shorts!  Again, the group began to accelerate quickly and again, another deceleration.  It was nothing short of feeling like an accordion.  My nose was beginning to drain fluids but I had to stay completely focused and letting go of the handlebar to clear the cling-on was not an option.  Ignoring the goopy, spiderweb strong string that was dangling from my nasal region, another whiplash took place.  There was nowhere else to go for the flexible, responsive mucous except across my face and glasses.  I couldn’t help but laugh at what just happened.  Without missing a beat, I had to share my experience with Sandy riding beside me. “Hey Sandy, I have snot flying everywhere!” She laughed and seem to take my bodily fluid warning in stride.  A few more accordion episodes with a few uncontrollable verbal “Yikes!” and I had to ask Sandy, “is this normal, this whiplash, yo yo thing?”  She gave me the answer I didn’t want to hear…”yup, it’s road racing!”  It was there and then that I had a punch in the face confirmation that I was a MOUNTAIN BIKER! And yes, those words were capitalized in my brain when I thought it!

The first lap continued like an accordion playing at a Polish wedding.  The only saving grace was the actual racing in the peleton felt easy.  The pace was casual and I could ride the speed for hours. Nearing the end of the first lap, my group was forced to stop.  Up ahead was one of my nightmares come to life…a road full of carnage.  A group of male cyclists were scattered across the road like pepperoni on a pizza.  Dazed riders standing in the ditches, some remained sitting. Somewhere, something had gone terribly wrong.  Some had crashed and then were crashed upon.  My movie production of all things evil between cycling and pavement became very real.  Ripped clothing exposed the consequences of skin cheese-grating over pavement.  Their mangled bikes and tacoed wheels were strewn from one side of the road to the other.  You could almost see the dollars spent on the prized machines floating up into the air like soap bubbles, quickly going poof and disappearing into the atmosphere.  A lone rider lie in a starfish position, motionless, surrounded by paramedics.

My brain was screaming, “bail, bail,” as we slowly passed through the front line of the war zone.  The realities of road racing were in full magnification.  Raspberry-coloured road rash, beaten up bodies and bikes are the nature of the sport if you don’t keep the rubber side down.

Heading into the second lap I had a chat with my shoulder gremlins that frequently appear during moments of great challenge.  One gremlin is my weakness companion with a big mouth, called “Bail.” Clad in black with a greater than human size megaphone, she appears when my confidence meter begins sinking faster than the DropZone circus ride that plummets you to the ground at what feels like the speed of sound. The other gremlin is called, “Never Surrender” and dressed in bright pink with a gentle, fairy-like voice.  Yeh, I know….bright pink and fairy-like you say…it’s a breast cancer thing and there is strength in the colour pink!  Now back to regular programming!  Bail was screaming at me to quit!  I could barely hear the sweet, gentle voice of Never Surrender telling me to keep going.  I already knew, without the help of my gremlin companions, that quitting was the easy way out.  I’ve never taken the easy way out.  The guilt of quitting always seemed like a weight to heavy to bear and it lasted FOREVER!  That was not an option for someone as determined as me! A shrug of my shoulder and Bail flew out of sight.  All I could hear was the Tinkerbell-like voice saying, “never surrender, you can do this Jany!” I knew I was okay being a workhorse.  I was definitely okay riding against the wind alone, if I had to. I was most certainly capable of riding 65 km, so I ran out of pitiful excuses and sucked it up.

Heading to smoother pastures!

Round and round the course we went, all the while, the accordion kept on playing.  Heading into the fourth lap, I was relieved that there was only one more lap to survive.  Through the unrelenting, torturous starting terrain, I was psyched beyond words to reach the bend and the buttery smoothness of pavement.  My skills for cornering are pitiful, at best, but I am skilled enough to recognize when I am in the trajectory of someone cutting a corner too tight.  Backing off was the only option to avoid a collision, so I obliged.  It was the worst timing ever since the peleton immediately accelerated and instantly there was a gap created between the stealth bombers and a few of us.

My eyes flew wide open. “Oh shit,” was the best I could come up with.  Accelerating to try and bridge the gap, it donned on me that I may be getting what I wished for and it only took about 1.5 hours to happen. Suddenly I was riding alone.  Alone with a headwind.  Funny how I didn’t like that option, after all.  I only liked it if it was my choice…how arrogant of me!  So with sheer determination I went into my drops (the lower part of the handlebars for all the non-cyclists).  Changing my body position to become an aerodynamic queen….I was ready for a time trial no matter how much it hurt.  I was going to catch that group of blips in the distance or die trying….well sort of.

Lori and I hanging at the back, at the start!

I caught up to my friend Lori who also lost the pack.  ”Grab on girl, we’ll catch them together,” I shouted as I pulled in front of her.  I was hoping she could draft and if we worked together we could catch the group.  I guess my drive was more than hers and she became a spot in the distance behind me.  ”You can catch them alone! You’ve trained for this damn it! Just put your head down and do it!” I told myself.  I know how to try so hard it will make me puke…this was one of those times.  The suffering was only going to be 20 minutes long.  The one thing that I’ve learned from having cancer; when you know suffering is temporary, it’s really easy to take!

The peleton remained deceptively attainable for half of the course.  Certain I could catch them, I pushed on.  I kept trying to apply some suggestions I had been told previously.  Increase your cadence with easier gears to improve efficiency. It wasn’t working.  I’m a masher….I like harder gears but I figured, what do I know…I’m a MOUNTAIN BIKER! The gap was steadily growing with every surge created by the lead riders.  Somehow, I wasn’t willing to accept that I couldn’t catch them.  I forged on, against the wind, by myself, one pedal stroke at a time!

It became a peaceful time although accompanied with burning lungs and legs!  My thoughts bounced around to the images of the kids at Camp Ooch and I wasn’t about to complain that my body hurt.  Then, as always, when a hint of whining arose, reinforcement appears that the ‘woe is me’ is unacceptable.  I caught a glimpse of a man in a wheelchair cheering at the side of the road.  I’ve spent my share of time in wheelchairs and understand the pain felt wanting to do what others were getting to enjoy…like riding a bike!  Since they can’t…if we don’t want to keep pushing for ourselves, push for those that would give anything to be able to! So I kept pushing.

The finish line was drawing near and I gave it some extra umpf!  Safely taking the last bend, I put in a little sprint to the finish.  Nothing spectacular but I still had to sprint.  Every fibre of my body was exploding with joy as I crossed the finish line.  It was truly a feeling beyond words. Adrenaline surged through my veins like the rush of caffeine from downing five extra large coffees back to back.  I was jacked.  Speaking a full sentence wasn’t possible and uncontrollable laughter consumed me. I had survived and remained unharmed except for any self-inflicted mental bashing.  The race was finished and ticked off my list!  My incredible husband had a smile from ear to ear at the finish line for me.  Something I had waited two hours to see.  Man, I have an incredible life!

Brian, an incredible cyclist giving me congratulations for a job well done.

The final result… I came in 5th.  I deserved no other place.  One more life experience I will not forget and was privileged to have.

It was a well organized event and certainly worth doing regardless of the stories of human cheese grating contributions to the concrete gods. Will I do it again?  Not sure.  I’m not convinced that road racing is fun.  That being said, I may have to try one more, somewhere else, just for good measure!

My next race…the famous Paris to Ancaster.  This time it will be done on a real cyclocross bike.  Will there be a story to tell….without a doubt!

Steaming Nostrils exhale winter demons!

Spring has finally arrived and I’ve been looking forward to dusting the cobwebs from my legs.   You’d think that a winter of training indoors was enough to keep the spidery strings at bay but it doesn’t work that way for me.  Sure, I have cardio fitness and even conditioned my legs but true racing fitness comes from racing and clearing the dust in my brain only happens when I am truly suffering out on the course.  That being said, I signed up for the first race of the season called the Steaming Nostril in Elmira, Ontario.

Elmira is a beautiful location laden with pristine farmland, horse drawn carriages and endless dirt roads.  This made it a perfect location for a race and the possibility to take a step back in time. This is the first year for the event and it appeared by the registration list online that there were a lot of racers looking forward to an early start in their race season. Reading the description, I knew it was a guarantee to be a sufferfest….at least for me.  You see, it’s really a 68 km cyclocross race with a large amount of farm road, rail trail, an itty bitty amount of paved road….and absolutely no singletrack.   I obviously didn’t learn from the Frozen Turkey Cross race about the price of bringing a mountain bike to a cyclocross event so I signed up.

My day started off with a beautiful drive to the race venue.  The closer I got to Elmira, I noticed the trees were covered in fog frost (don’t know the technical term for it)!  Needless to say, the spikey frost covered everything, giving the landscape a hint of blue and the scenery resembled an old-fashioned Christmas card.

The registration, parking and start/finish line were all very close in proximity which made for a fantastic set up to stay warm pre and post race.  Glancing around the parking lot was a sea of cyclocross bikes.  My voice in my head kept telling me I was screwed!  So I hopped on my mountain bike in search of a glimmer of hope.  Who else might have a mountain bike?  It took a while but eventually I found a few other brave souls, otherwise known as souls that don’t own a cyclocross bike!  It’s just training, I told myself…a race against myself.  I’ll do what I’ve always done…ride to ride another day, finish and never surrender!

The start of the race was to be a neutral start led by two police officers on horseback! I’ve come to discover that there is my interpretation of what neutral start means which is far removed from others, even when there are horses in front! I am not skilled at being aggressive in a pack of riders and the feeling of being surrounded by a group darting around like spring-crazed squirrels made me retreat to the safer zone in the back. Within 1.5 kilometres from the start, there was an entry onto the rail trail that required a two rider at-a-time pattern and it was evident that’s where the real fun began.

Considering it’s spring and Elmira lies in a snow belt, this meant there was still a lot of the white stuff.  The race organizers plowed the rail trail the day before but the 2 to 3 inches that were left made for some super sporty, fish-tailing, resistance-filled riding.  My fatter tires travelled over the snow more easily than cyclocross bikes but my negligence to warm up meant my legs and lungs were exploding from the extra effort.

About 8 km in and it was paved road time.  I was thankful for the break from the quicksand training, hoping the rail trail was done for a while.  A quick jaunt down the paved road and we turned onto a dirt farm road.  Again I felt the resistance of the softer earth underneath my wheels.  It didn’t help my confidence that I could hear the whir of many cyclocross bikes buzzing past me.  They were making up oodles of time on their speedy little road machines as I pushed my heavier, meant for singletrack in the forest beast.  I dare not compare myself to others but I knew it was going to be a tough go trying to keep up with the speed of the incredible stealthy machines.  A shrug of the shoulders, I shifted into a harder gear and decided it was time to try and find out how hard!

I began to push as hard as I could and watched my heart rate shoot to the stars.  Trying to bridge the gap between me and the cross riders in front seemed endless.  I needed more gears, a bigger set of lungs and well a whole lot of extra everything.  Looking down at my cyclometer, I noticed I had hit the 20 km mark.  ”Crap,”  I thought, 45 km more to go!  I knew I couldn’t sustain the pace and backed off my pursuit if I wanted to finish. The other riders became spots in the distance and I was now on the road alone.

Taking in the scenery as I rode, I was trying to appreciate more than the sight of my maxed out heart rate on my Garmin. The landscape was breathtaking and would have been a tragedy to miss. Nearing an intersection, a police officer stood directing traffic for the race. Slowing down to observe his instructions, I noticed some horse drawn carriages waiting for permission to go.  He ushered for me to carry on and I suddenly felt like I was entering a time warp and he was the gatekeeper to the entry back in time.  Rounding the bend, I suddenly heard Rod Serling’s voice saying I had just entered the ‘twilight zone!’  It was officially the 1800′s and the only connection I had to 2013 was the fact I was riding a modern age mountain bike.

Approximately 20 horse-drawn carriages filled with Amish families were lined up on the left side of the road. They were all waiting to go through the intersection.  As I continued to pedal,  I could hear the clickety-clack of the horses hooves pulling the black wooden carriages that I began to pass, travelling my direction.  Gazing out in the distance beyond the carriages were endless farm fields, frost covered trees and fields of untouched snow showing hints of last years crops.  It was at that moment that I reminded myself how incredible these images were.  The reason…I am alive and there were kids at Camp Oochigeas fighting for their lives and a hope that they will get to see adulthood.  It was an emotional moment that burned these unique images into my mind.  I comprehended how rare this time warp was and the fact that I had the privilege to see it….on my bicycle to boot!  It was also at that moment that I knew that I was racing for more than myself and that it was important to see more than the finish line.

The gate closed to my time warp as I caught the visual of other riders ahead of me ascending another series of long, rolling hills.  I felt recharged from my twilight zone experience and I was ready to try and bridge another gap.  Standing up, I began to push….then push some more.  I was getting closer, then the road began to bend.  In came a new element….the evil headwind.  It wasn’t a gentle breeze that delicately tosses your hair like a shampoo commercial, it was the kind of wind that makes you feel like someone just turned on the wind machines for the remake of the movie Twister and added ice cube temps to give it a little extra flavour!

I wasn’t psyched facing the headwind alone.  Suffering is best when shared!  It’s amazing how the universe can hear your desires. It didn’t take long for a group of cyclocross riders to come up behind me.  The lead rider looked over at me and made a quick observation of my fashionable Lady Bug helmet cover!  Without missing a beat he said, “Nice helmet cover! Hop on!”  Hop on I did.  I soaked up every minute of hanging at the back feeling the draft from the group.  The burning in my legs and lungs began to dissipate and I was hoping the universe heard my pleas of this lasting until the end of the race.  Well, apparently the universe decided to listen to the pleas for extra strength from others and the pace picked up. I pedalled as hard as I could to keep up but fell back and was again on my own.

Instead of griping about the situation that I signed up for, I embraced it.  Putting in as much effort as I could without forgetting to enjoy the scenery, I did what I’ve trained myself to do…try hard and take the pain.  It didn’t take long before I could hear the whir of mountain bike tires behind me.  Rapidly approaching was an Amish gentleman, maybe 20 years of age.  In his Amish cap and cultural attire, he flew past me on an old mountain bike.  He gave me a joyous hello and seemed to instantly become a spot in the distance. I did see him fly past the riders that were further ahead of me.  I can only imagine they had the same face of confusion and humility as I did.  I tried to reason out his great speed by figuring he had just left a farm and was completely fresh.  He definitely didn’t have the skunk streak up his back like most of us having ridden the slop of rail trail beforehand so I wasn’t totally disheartened by the speed I was only able to sustain.

The kilometres slowly accumulated and off in the distance I recognized the building we had passed when we exited the rail trail.  I was hoping that it meant the finish was getting closer.  Not knowing the course beforehand, I had a sneaking suspicion that we would be finishing back on the rail trail.  Well my suspicion was right!

Now if you can imagine 230+ riders riding over slushy snow and silty, sloppy, squishy sand at the beginning of the ride…guess what happens when you give it a few hours to warm up.  It became a life sucking, swishy swerving, soaking, grit spraying, where is the paved road, can’t find the right gear adventure.  My mountain bike tire width seemed to fair better over much of the terrain and I had to bust out a few mountain biking skills…like how to ride a skinny for a really long way but the cursing that came from the mouths of those I passed are “R” rated and were specifically directed at the rail trail.

I was feeling the exhilaration of being near the finish.  Recognizing the markers from the way out, I knew pavement was near and the finish would only be 1.5 km.  Getting to the road, I screamed out, “Hell ya!” to the spectators and a whole lotta “yee haw’s” as I approached the finish line.  Bells were clanging and the crowd was clapping and I gave it a good sprint over the finish line.  All I could come out with was, “holy shit that was hard!”  A quick turn to the left and I was at my car!

Looking down at my bike at the car….it was covered in dirt and ice. The snow had solidified to many parts of my bike and it took about ten minutes to remove it all before I could load it into the van.  All the while, racers walked by and the consistent dialogue was about the finishing rail trail and how brutal it was!  I kinda liked it so I kept my thoughts to myself!

I went into the Lions Hall to grab a bite of the free lunch the venue was providing.  Not all the results were posted and I was certain a podium finish was not in the cards for me.  I didn’t care about the results, I just needed to eat.  Sitting down, I was a few spoons into my soup when I heard the announcer say something that resembled my name.  He said it again and all I could come out with was “Uhhh, that’s me!  I’m confused!”  The people around me began to laugh and they ushered me to go up.  On the podium I stood, in shock, but I was not speechless.   I expressed my sheer excitement with the results and screamed out what I always have, a very distinct, “Hell Ya!” to the crowd of racers who also gave it everything they had, in dream of having the same opportunity of a podium finish.

It was an incredible day at an amazing event with a completely unexpected result.  I surrendered my ego, took in captivating scenery, made a visit to the twilight zone, got smoked by an Amish rider and found more ways to dig deep.  I fought hard to survive cancer….these experiences are some of the reasons why!

Next adventure….Good Friday Road Race!  It is on my bucket list of races to do…this is the year to do it. Update to come!