I wait at the top of the chairlift, fingers freezing, texting a friend. “What’s your kit look like?” as I scan the helmeted, goggled faces disembarking. She yells a “hallooo” as she skis up to me, enveloping me in a hug. Wisps of her pale pink hair peek out from her helmet, but it is her accent and her grin that are most familiar. “Ah! My summer friend!” she exclaims. We ride bikes together in the summer. It’s always strange when your friends cross over into different seasons.
There’s been very little snow the past few weeks, a grim sentence for a ski town like ours. Conditions have been poor, with a thin base, bits of grass and gravel peeking out through the groomed runs, and limited terrain open due to the lack of snow coverage. It’s also been unseasonably warm, resulting in ice patches and generally treacherous skiing. We ski down cruisy groomers, practicing backwards skiing, jump technique, and body position. It is fun goofing off without consequence, and there are giggles and guffaws every time we end up doing a baby-giraffe move and looking generally ridiculous. “It’s three runs and a cuppa season!” so we do the requisite three runs before stopping for tea. We peer over the boundary ropes to see if some of the other runs are worth a go. “Mingin'”, she says. “What’s that mean?” I ask. “That it’s horrible. We shouldn’t bother.” “Huh. Mingin’.” A few years ago, I learned the word “Lairy”. My across the pond friends are a wealth of new vocabulary.
The next day, I pull my bike out. It’s been a few weeks since her last ride, but I hadn’t washed her. I check tire pressures, suspension pressures, give the chain a wipe, drip some lube on, and head north. A photographer acquaintance has been posting footage of him riding well into December, and it’s been looking good, so I too, will go hunting for dirt.
My solo climb in the chilly fog is peaceful and my first lap down is the kind of thrilling joy you get when you haven’t done something in a while and you’re reminded of why you love it so much because it’s just so unbelievably fun. I have a big grin pasted on my face and my endorphins are having a proper party.
I climb again and meet friends for another lap, then find a fast and furious out to make it home in time for my husband to get to work.
Household errands are done, the bike is washed, and Amazon delivers wire cutters and colourful zip ties and ferrules. I get to work on the ongoing build of my son’s bike for next year. There is stuck cable housing, some cursing, some brake fluid leakage and texts to a mechanic friend for help as YouTube fails to provide me solutions. Then, after a brute force negotiation of cable housing by said mechanic friend, and the realization that there is yet ANOTHER tool I need and do not have (but can conveniently borrow), there is a lot of general bike ogling and satisfaction. As in standing with arms crossed, looking at the bike, with a stupid, sly smile, and intermittent comments of, “Look at that rig.” I love that there are people who do not think I am insane, and who will happily partake in such ogling alongside.
Today, after clinic, I catch a glimpse of my fellow doctor riding buddy. His schedule’s changed so we no longer have overlapping clinic days, and I haven’t seen him in months. He pops in to tell me about some new unmarked trails I should go check out, and he pulls up heat maps to show me the same trails the mechanic friend showed me the other evening. I get more intel from him, what trails I can manage solo, which ones to repeat, how long repeated laps of one region will take, and where to park for this whole new area of uncharted territory. As I’ve got a few days off upcoming, I want to plan a few big days ahead. “When are you going to go?” he says wistfully as he heads out the door. Our schedules won’t allow a proper mission day, but soon, I’m sure. It’s only December!
I left work and high-tailed it home to load up all the things I’d packed over the weekend. I kissed my family, squeezed the dog, and drove to the city, parking at the airport and lugging everything over to the airport hotel, where I proceeded to do a workout, then lie in a hot bubbly tub, before being too excited to sleep. I got up from lying wide-eyed in a hotel bed and lugged everything to check in at 4 am, where they made me unpack my bike so they could peer into every nook and cranny, and then repack it all before they would check it as sports equipment. I watch four episodes of The Last of Us on the way to Mexico City, then wait patiently at a gate for my connecting flight to Oaxaca. Only they change the gate. Twice. And notify no one. When it’s time for boarding, and I see nothing happen, I check with the attendant, who notifies me that this flight is now boarding somewhere else entirely. By the time I make it there, the flight is closed, and there is no way, no how, I’m getting on it.
I cry a wee bit, then stand in an interminable line to sort it all out. An American woman and five Mexican nationals are all in the same situation. There is yelling in English and Spanish, and somehow, I am bumped to the next morning’s 6 am flight. It’s 6 pm.
I wander the Mexico City airport, and drink three Mezcalitas at a restaurant where I think I’ve ordered tuna tacos, but this mystery meat is most definitely not fish. I chat with my brother, who is in Phoenix on a business trip, and has been in this exact situation many times in Mexico City, where apparently this gate changing business is its M.O. I lie in awkward positions on airport chairs, watch workers at the bakery restock shelves to a heavy metal music soundtrack, and I finish a novel. I do not achieve sleep. I do, however, pray repeatedly that my bike is safe, and will make it.
At 430 am, I am at the gate with the American woman. She has lipstick on. She is going on a “spiritual retreat” in Oaxaca, and I am imagining her high in a sweat lodge. Her almost-elderly status makes this more comical than it ought to be. My eyeballs are a bit burny, and I feel sticky and gross. I doze on the 60 minute flight (but apparently a 6 hour bus ride), and arrive in the tiny airport of Oaxaca, where I am soon on a shuttle to my hotel. I have perhaps slept two hours out of 48, and upon my arrival, I’m greeted by the face of a neighbour from home, who also happens to be a pro mountain biker and one of the coaches for this trip. He is so very French, so very energetic, and so very excited. I dump all my things in his hotel room until my room is ready later, and beeline to the restaurant for coffee before heading back to his room to change. Someone has already begun to put my bike together, and I am delirious, but it doesn’t matter because I have met one of the other girls and thirteen random people are introducing themselves and I am trying to remember everyone’s names while signing forms, and tshirts and stickers and a lucha libre mask are being shoved into my arms.
Soon, I am squished between two boys who will be my “back of the bus” buddies for the rest of the week, but I am passed right out on the trip up the mountain, and then suddenly wide awake as we get warmed up, and ride our first lap on Mexican soil. I feel like a space robot that hasn’t been switched on yet, and clip a tree with handlebar within short order. We session a drop into a sketchy runout, and everyone is feeling a little strange, catching air in a foreign country with travel health insurance cards in our back pockets. Riding on no sleep is ill-advised, but by lap three, and our longest top to bottom lap of the day, the terrain has gone from wet and muddy to dry dusty steeps into river ruts and tight corners. I’m wide awake, and we’re finding our rhythm now, what order we should be riding to avoid holding people up, and whooping like monkeys at the end of each lap.
Views from the top.
We stand by a highway, dusty, muddy, sweaty, and starving. Stray dogs sniff our bikes and smelly kneepads. As we regroup, our local guides take us to a little lean-to by the side of the road, where we have lunch, at 4 pm.
Oaxaca is the home of Mezcal, and this first meal together solidifies the tradition of a mezcal at every meal. One of my new friends has six children. He doesn’t drink coffee or alcohol. I tell him he’ll probably live forever, if it weren’t for the six kids.
We head back to the hotel, wash bikes and bodies, and wander into the main city, marvelling at the leftover decor from Dias de la Muertos celebrations, soaking in the dancing couples in the main square, and the random fireworks that seem to be going off haphazardly.
Dinner is fancy, but I don’t remember it anymore. All I remember is collapsing into my bed and having the deepest sleep I’ve ever had.
I wake a new person, and what follows is five more days of coaching, riding, and more riding. There are two other girls who have come on this trip, one who’s only been riding a year, and the other who crashes and garners a wicked whiplash on day two or three. They scale it back, and sit out some of the more technical or steeper trails. I find myself the only girl on a few days, keeping up and sitting comfortably in the middle of the pack. The coaches take turns riding behind each of us, yelling out tweaks in body position, timing, pumping corners, braking, leaning and posture. It is invaluable, and I can feel my bike control, and subsequent speed, increasing.
Every day, I finish the trails with a massive grin on my face, fist-bumping my compadres, and every evening, we sit around a table and joke and laugh, talking about bikes, trails, and more places to ride bikes. I am amazed at how a group of fourteen strangers can get along so famously. We are all stoked for each other, cheering each other on, with a cohesion I suspect is rare amongst large groups like this. One guy dislocates his finger after crashing and as another reaches to help him up, the wrong-way finger becomes apparent and there is panicked yelling. The rest of us pull up to the scene, and a Go-Pro captures the sucessful relocation of said finger, with only minimal cursing, en espanol. He rides out, and the footage is replayed at length as we all laugh about it later.
Post-ride Modelos after riding El Toro (the bull)
We were, in essence, a group of grown children, riding bikes and having fun. One evening, we are all in the pool trading tattoo stories, and another night, daring each other to eat hot peppers. We range in age from 15 to 55 (two local teenagers have joined the tour) and all share a fierce love of bikes and the cycling community.
I have found my people.
On the last two nights, a few pro urban downhill racers from Guadelajara join us for drinks. They are fresh-faced and young, known for racing crazy courses through twisted city streets and steep stairwells and here to join our coaches for some filming after our trip is done.
The final night, we all exchange hugs and farewells. “Thanks for being the other adult here!” says my six-progeny friend. I catch a ride to the airport with the only other Canadian on the trip (who advised that the bus to Oaxaca is indeed a six-hour trip, because he too missed a connecting flight), and in Mexico City, we part ways as we catch flights to opposite sides of Canada.
The red-eye flight gets me back in short order. I’ve slept two hours, watched another three episodes of The Last of Us, and finished another novel. I drive back from the city in crisp, wintry cold.
Upon arrival home, I message riding buddies to see if anyone’s keen for a ride. It will motivate me to put my bike back together, and stave off the blues and fatigue.
I find one taker, (it’s a Tuesday morning after all) and we go for a lap on a trail I’ve never ridden before. There’s been some snow, and we’re relegated to the lower mountain trails. This one’s techy, with awkward turns into steep chutes. I’m briefly scared again, as none of the trails in Oaxaca have this steep, technical terrain. I have a moment of panic at the top of a chute. “I’m scared! And I don’t know why!” I yell, debating if I want to walk this, because it’s probably safer to ride it. I didn’t see my friend ride it, only heard the tires thunder over rock and soil. “You’re fine. It’s fine. It’s nothing you haven’t done before. Ride the line on the far right.” It’s the steepest line. He hikes back up and rides it again, demonstrating the line in, and that the runout is smooth. I take a deep breath, ride it, and shake my head. It was fine. We do two laps, and on the second climb, it actually feels like I’m dying. My heart is racing and I’m struggling for breath. Fatigue is a b*tch, but the second lap is fast and fun.
That night, I sleep thirteen hours.
In the week that has followed, I’ve ridden bikes in the cold, fought a stomach bug, and napped numerous hours on a couch in front of the fire, while my dog snuggles into me. I’m still coasting on the high, remembering the warmth of the sun, and the happy glow of some of the loveliest people I’ve had the privilege of meeting.
In three days, I will be in Oaxaca, Mexico. Hopefully my bike will make it too. It is the sole source of anxiety for me right now. I’m relying on airtag tracking, a prayer, and trust in an airline.
I’ve never ever travelled alone before (well, not internationally). I’ve never ever travelled with a bike before. I’ve never ever travelled for the sole purpose of riding a bike in new environments.
So exciting! Also, mildly anxiety inducing.
I have so many friends who roll their eyes at me. “You’re a grown woman. You will be fine.” “You’re a DOCTOR. You will figure it out. I believe in you.” And yet, I will be my small, sweaty self, hopefully lugging around a giant bike bag (because it will make it there, right? Manifest destiny!), in an airport where I will fumble around in a vague and terrible mix of Spanish and French (I have always mixed up words, I find them such similar languages), ensuring I have my resting b*tch face on so as to deter would be accosters. I’ve switched over currency, bought health insurance that covers mountain biking, and packed tools and extra brake pads and tubes and gloves. I’ve no idea what the riding will be like, so I’ve brought the convertible full face, and an armoured shirt with spine and chest protection.
In the meantime, I’ve just been bike tinkering. As I hadn’t booked any assessments for the next few weeks, I was struck with the strange feeling of having no work to catch up on for the weekend. A very bearable lightness of being. This allowed for meal preparation, children coming for playdates, loads of laundry and a clean and tidy kitchen. It also allowed for bike tinkering. Things I’ve been meaning to do but never got ’round to. Mostly aesthetics. Like putting on stickers. It’s pouring rain right now anyway, so I’m not terribly motivated to go play outside. Is this what everyone’s weekends are like?All this free time??
This Fox sticker used to be grey and orange.
This PIKE sticker used to be grey. Now it is a gold foil, but one that doesn’t match. And it irks to no end. But is not irksome enough to invest in new stickers. In other news, my dog is now 13 years old. He is so wonderfully handsome.
I took my enduro bike apart and cut up a foam noodle to protect the frame before securing it into a bike bag, carefully wrapping and securing all the bits and bobs.
I also took apart the new hardtail, so I can put a CushCore insert into the rear tire.
I have broken all the rules of bike photography here, but oh well. It was the end of a fun first ride.
She’s been getting a lot of pedal time, because holy hell is she a ton of fun. I still want to swap out the brakes to something more reliable and confidence inspiring (and the brakes I have in mind are silver), and I’ve since put on a blue bottle cage and pump/tool mount. There will be blue rotor bolts, and maybe a blue headset spacer and seatpost collar coming, though I haven’t yet decided. If the bottom bracket wasn’t a pressfit, I’d consider a blue one of those, you know, for subtlety. But I’ve been taking her down all the usual trails, seeing how she handles. I can’t go as fast on the chunky stuff, but she can still handle jumps with aplomb, and steeps with confidence. She is so, so nimble, and I love her. My legs burn at the end of each lap though, likely as they’re doing more absorbing than they ever have before. Small bump sensitivity…
I had a moment yesterday where it felt so crazy to me that I built this ridiculously fancy enduro bike with so much front and rear suspension, and instead, I’m having oodles of fun on a barebones basic. Back to first principles.
Happy sigh. I love bicycles. I really, really do. 🙂
Here’s hoping Mexico will yield a group of like-minded folks and some solid, fun, riding!
I wonder, sometimes, what my dad would think. The predictability of my father’s behaviour had begun to elude me in his later years, and the less time I spent with him as he aged, the less I felt like I knew how he’d react. Now that he’s gone, I give the imagined spirit of him too much presence in my life, worrying always over the dour face of disapproval in my choice of activities.
This weekend, it was another adventure day: another two trails that have been on my bucket list ever since I heard about them a year ago. The Swede, who has healed after fracturing his hand a week or so after I did my shoulder, is keen to go. Intel advised a truck, as the rutted service road was not manageable for anything less. Also advised was caution for the upper alpine trail, as it was in moto territory, and the moto community did not want hordes of mountain bikers encroaching upon their trails.
The Swede has a French-Canadian friend who lives in the area, and conveniently has a large truck with a 7-bike rack. There are four of us, in the end, who commit to the day.
I don’t know what we were listening to. Carrie’s Country was not an ideal soundtrack.
The first large trench has the Swede and his friend deliberating. A line is chosen, the engine slowly rumbles through, and no ominous scraping occurs.
This occurs several more times as we ascend the steep service road, and we eventually reach a trench that, to our driver, is impassable.
We get out and start the pedal/hike. Where the rock is loose, we hike, and where the path hardens, we pedal.
Soon we are passed by a shorter wheelbase truck. The driver cracks his window and offers us a ride, as he sees us pedaling and breathing hard. We gratefully oblige, and our bikes go in his truck bed, tailgate lined with a towel. The boys go in the back of the cab, which they share with three large dogs, and another friend and I climb into the box, legs staggered between rear tires, keeping the bikes from bashing into each other when the road gets rough.
The view isn’t bad from here. And it is here that I wonder what my dad would think. His little girl, following the safe path of a career in medicine, the safe path of driving a midsized SUV with an exceptional safety rating, owning a home, marrying, having children – the expected, known entities. Safe. Statistically so. Only now she is sitting in the back of a pickup truck, driven by a stranger up a mildly sketchy service road in the wilderness with only a vague idea as to her location on an idyllic Sunday afternoon. There may or may not be cell service. She has a granola bar in her pocket and a single bottle of water, because the original plan was to only do the lower trail, but this truck just keeps going up and up and we’ve been driving for a while now.
We soon rumble to a stop, three happy dogs hop out, tongues lolling and tails eager, and our kind stranger driver is headed for an alpine hike. We climb out of the back, passing bikes down. There is more uphill still to reach our destination, another 400 m elevation still to gain. The Frenchman points to a ridge across the way. We want to get there.
More pedal/hiking, only now, every plateau we reach is met with an incredible view of mountains I’ve not yet had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with. Every vista is a sharp intake of breath, an exclamation of wonder, and I am blown away the vast blue sky, the stunning beauty of the mountain etched against it, the steep, defined ridgelines coursing the foothills. It makes me think of novels that describe Greek men’s noses as aquiline. So many noses. Such peaceful silence. No tourists, no stereos, just the steady plodding of footsteps, the intermittent creak of my friend’s bottom bracket and some friendly conversation. (I have managed to fix the knocking on my bike, and so now I move in silence.)
My dad would love this. These views. This magical, isolated spot. He would stand here in silence, take a photo knowing it would never do the view justice, and then breathe it in. This, I know. What if he had grown up with the privileges he afforded me? What if he didn’t have to worry so much about feeding his family, and working to advance past a colour barrier? What if he didn’t need to learn a new language to succeed? What if he had time to play, if he had a friend who would show him what these adventures felt like? What if he’d had the chance to taste this freedom from responsibility, to only exist in a moment, and to revel and relish in it? Would he have taken it? Would he have loved it as much as I do? Who wouldn’t?
We finally reach the top, only to run into two people, a local pro rider and her riding partner. They finish their snacks and start the descent, and we soon follow suit.
What follows is muddy, rowdy riding, fun rock features, made mildly terrifying as our mud-caked tires lose all semblance of traction. The lower we go, the more the trails solidify. The dirt is tacky, and the lower elevation trails turn into giggle-inducing joy. At every pause to regroup, we are breathless and smiling, swiping mud from our faces and taking judicious sips from water bottles. It’s pretty glorious riding, and proper, all ’round fun. My English friend’s phrase of, “That was WELL fun” comes to mind every time we finish an exhilarating ride like this.
We end with fist bumps and big, stupid grins. The Swede pulls out a pack of temperate beer from the bag he left in my car. We cheers and drink it down, because this is the last bike adventure we’ll have with him. He leaves in seven days to move back to Sweden. Adult responsibilities beckon, but not to worry, he’ll be back in January to ski.
Did my dad know this kind of comraderie? This type of friendship, borne only from a shared love of sport? Did he ever know this as an adult?
I remember my dad in his forties. Every day he came home exhausted from work, had dinner, and fell asleep in front of the TV. Sometimes we would go to friends’ houses for dinner and the grownups would talk while the kids finished homework in front of the television. I don’t know what we did with our weekends. Sometimes we drove to the mountains, which were about an hour or two from our home at the time, and we’d walk around all the tourist spots, take photos at every viewpoint, then drive home. Was that his attempt? Did he want what I have now, and just not know how to get it?
My dad was the one who taught me how to ride a bike. I had a banana seat with a chrome handle on the back that he hung on to as he ran behind me while I wobbled myself into balance. Lap upon lap, up and down our little street until twilight.
I remember when I bought my first new full suspension bike in 2017, how he pedaled around the parking lot on it with a slow smile spreading across his face, a bit unsteady, bouncing a bit on the suspension. He had an expression I’d never seen before, and it was perhaps the only glimpse I’ve had of him and who he could have been, had circumstances allowed.
.
.
I like to think he’d nod in approval at the sight of his little girl holding on in the back of a stranger’s truck, heading for a new adventure, living these too-short lives of ours to the fullest.
It is not farfetched to suspect that the author of my life events is not me, but rather an imaginative, energetic seven-year-old with a vivid imagination and poor impulse control. This child is seemingly obsessed with bicycles and wild animals.
If I may? It’s been a minute since I diarized any thoughts on paper/screen that were not medical, perfunctory for the sake of politeness, or legal opinions.
My beloved Rutabaga, my enduro bike, has been making a knocking sound, and it only occurs on the climbs. I tightened everything to no avail, and a couple weeks ago, the rhythmic knocking that accompanied my entire 1.5 hour climb just about drove me mad. So I stopped by the mechanic friend’s house to see if he could troubleshoot. After many laps up the hill in front of his house, with swap outs of chain ring, cranks, pedals, and eventually, the entire crankset, the knock persisted. The only thing we haven’t tried swapping out is the bottom bracket, but the bearings feel smooth, and there is no play. I’ve had my BB go on me before, and it’s more of a bat clicking for echolocation sound, rather than a knocking. So for now, I’m just living with it, going mildly insane, because my hubs are silent, and my pedaling is not. Any bike mechanic wisdom is very welcome in this regard.
In searching for the source of the knock, we also discovered a rather significant paint chip in the swingarm, sparing any damage to the carbon beneath. I wrote the company to see if it fell under warranty, and ultimately, after many emails with a stranger, I have withdrawn my warranty request, slapped some hot pink nail polish on it, and put on a little sticker to hide the horror. My heart hurts a little with this, but my daughter’s nail polish is sparkly, bringing joy to an otherwise decidedly unsparkly situation. I will not post a photo of this, because no one needs to remember these sorts of things visually.
Instead, these are my progeny and one of my best friends on Canadian Thanskgiving weekend, making our way to a pumpkin patch because I couldn’t be bothered to wait (and pay) for a wagon ride over there. We came home with three small pumpkins, dirty feet, and a general love of where we live.
Which, lately, has been plagued by cougars and bears (oh my)!
A lovely, mildly demented, gentleman from my church has now been missing three days. He was last seen walking his dog near the trails in a local neighbourhood, where a mere week before, a cougar was spotted exhibiting stalking behaviour, leaving only after the woman being stalked threw rocks at it. Search and Rescue teams from all over the province have arrived to help in the search, and the community is making a good go of it too. So far, nothing. I’ve been hesitant to participate for fear of a potentially grisly discovery.
Meanwhile, my children have been sequestered indoors for recess for the past two days because a grizzly has been spotted intermittently on the school field. Today, they were allowed outdoors in restricted areas, with a Conservation Officer standing by. I think this decision-making is all very strange, but I will say nothing, because it’s a bit of a privilege to live in a place like this, and to be honest, I think my children will be fine, and unlikely to be attacked by a grizzly, even though just last week, a couple and their dog were killed by one in a neighbouring province.
Also, I have a confession to make. While attempting to figure out the knocking, said bicycle friend casually began a conversation with, “Because I rather enjoy seeing friends spend a lot of money…”
Our little ski town, every October, has a big sale on ski gear. Some bike companies will also try to offload their summer wares, so basically, you can purchase all your summer and winter gear/toys over one weekend in October. There were two days in particular, where for five hours of each of those days, a local bike manufacturer had a ridiculous sale. He suggested I visit the next morning, and oh, you should know that one of their hard tails is going for a screaming deal.
I’d looked at this frame a few years ago, but didn’t commit and ultimately ended up buying a short travel cross country bike for the BC Bike Race.
Well, what do you know? After I find my favourite knee pads for 70% off (yup, I bought a backup pair), find some bike pants for me, and a ton of cool clothes for my son for cheap, I wander outside to see the frames they’re selling. I am then there for another hour, discussing sizing and geometry, and somehow, I legitimately don’t know how, I walk out of there having purchased this beauty.
It’s a steel (chromoly – chromium and molybdenum) hard tail, 29″ wheels, 160 mm front suspension, aggressive enough that it theoretically should be able to tackle everything I’m riding on a full suspension, but will hopefully force me to be a better rider in line choice and precision because I won’t have the forgiveness of a rear suspension.
I bought the full build, and debated buying just a frame, but talked myself out of it, because in the end, that would end up costing considerably more. It was about 40% off, and in this town, if you know this manufacturer, their bikes just don’t go on sale like this. Ever.
If you ever need to define “enabling”, this is it:
Yes. I impulse bought a bike. And I don’t even feel bad.
I got the call this afternoon that it’s been built, so I’ll aim to swing by and pick it up next week. I’m planning on putting a tire insert in the back, upgrading the brakes, and maybe adding a teensy bit of colour via pedals and bottle cage. Maybe some colourful rotor bolts. I’ll move the current brakes to my husband’s commuter bike, and ta da! Life is grand. Even then it’ll be cheaper than its original price.
There was about two hours’ deliberation about whether I ought to sneak it in the garage vs telling my husband I actually did this, and in the end, all my guilty glances had him believing I’d gone and signed a lease for a pickup truck and bought a dirtbike (I have had some obsessive thoughts about things lately), so a wee measly little bicycle was actually a relief for him. My daughter’s response? An eyeroll and a “Mo-om, you definitely need to sell some bikes. You have WAY too many.”
N PLUS ONE DAMMIT.
Only dilemma now is trying to decide what trail should be the inaugural ride. That, and ensuring nobody dies from cougars or grizzlies.
This is, believe it or not, a photo from a bike ride at night, with the full moon showing off its sun-like capabilities in a long exposure shot.
If you were to look behind you, you’d see this:
I don’t know how it looks like day time in that first photo, because we hiked up a big rock to take the photo, and it was pretty damn dark.
But you know when you get a bike gang together, and you all put lights on your heads and on your handlebars, then go careening down trails at warp speed, seeing only two or three metres ahead? (No? Have you no insane friends??) It’s another kind of excitement; another kind of fun. Throw in a little low consequence jump trail where you can’t see the landings, and there will be whooping and yelping all the way down.
I used to ride in the dark by myself sometimes. It wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve done, but it was eerie, magical, and kind of thrilling.
This is the first time I’ve done it with a big group. There were ten of us, and when you’re all following close to each other, the light is better and you can pretty much go the same speed you go in the daylight, only you see nothing but what’s in front of you and you might as well be riding in the vacuum of space. It’s bloody good fun.
In other news, it’s autumn again, and raining. Masks are required in the clinic again, and it all feels kind of like a bad let-down.
Hormones have resulted in bad shopping decisions, having purchased, in the past two days, a dinosaur-patterned fleece blanket-hoodie (for me), and a hoodie with an axolotl riding a bike printed on it (this gives me inexplicable joy). I am basically hunkering down in all manner of warm clothing, bracing for the winter season, though there’s probably another solid month of riding to be had.
But today, I’m at work, with a no-show first thing (hence this post), wearing a cashmere sweater that used to belong to my husband but that I subsequently shrunk, and now it fits me, albeit with sleeves that are just a wee bit short.
Happy Tuesday.
Do something this week that’s out of your comfort zone, and have fun!
It was a grey day, cool enough to be comfortable for sweaty bicycling up a mountain.
There’d been a flurry of messages in the week prior, all expressing a desire for another weekend adventure day, and we decided upon an area in the town south of us. Only two of the group had been there before, and friends of friends had provided a little map of the trails in the region, as they are unmarked and blacked out on Strava, though if you are good with picking through heatmaps, you can probably find them.
At 2 am that morning, one guy had sent a photo of two neon beer steins from a sign at the local beer fest.
Does that mean he’s not coming?
I pull up to his house and he is ready, but equipped with various containers of water, a thermos of hot tea and a bag full of snacks. He’s looking a little ragged.
On the drive, he proceeds to tell us of his date the night prior (it went well), and that he will need to sweat out the alcohol.
We bump our way up the service road with a rack full of bikes. I am told my mid-sized SUV will not make it up the next section, but soon after we park, we see a vehicle similar to mine zoom up the steep incline. We pile back in the car, and follow suit after a passing truck advises the road has recently been re-graded.
After a wrong turn or two, and a bit of pedaling and wandering, we arrive at the top of the trail.
This is the above hungover friend, taking a photo that may or may not be used on his Tinder profile.
The views are stunning, and there are slabs upon slabs of the uniquely grippy granite in this region. The slabs are variably steep and wide open, allowing you to choose whatever line you like, and so grippy you could creep them at a snail’s pace, or go charging down at breakneck speed trusting that you’ll have traction to slow down later.
Options. I like options.
There were so many that we kept riding back ’round or climbing back up to ensure we got to ride them all.
A view of my back end and my snack pocket. Snack pockets are the best.
The slabs went on for ages, glorious ages, and we took our time exploring lines, taking photos, and trying out various ideas to take interesting videos.
We are full grown children in adult bodies. I love it. I have found a whole town of similarly minded Peter Pans, for better or for worse.
The town below, with a view of the Sound and more distant mountains and islands, feels like another land. It’s like being an ant at the top of the world. I love feeling so small and insignificant. No one down there, living their lives, knows or cares that we are up here, toodling around.
We eventually dip back into the forest and arrive at a crevasse of vertical rock, a trickle of water rushing down below. A long, mossy log crosses the gap, clearly flattened on the top so one can walk (or ride) across. The other side allows access to a jump, seen in the below photo. If you don’t make this jump, you are very likely dead.
I look at the log, and I look at the rocky riverbed below. I’m vertiginous and mildly nauseated.
Come look at the jump!
I wander over and again, the dizzying height triggers more nausea. I drop to my hands and knees and peer over the edge. A few others follow suit. Of the six of us, there are probably two who have the skill and precision to do this jump, but both are being wise today.
“Nah. No f*cking way. This is not the kind of mountain biking I want to be doing. That’s insane.” I’d be willing to bet that there are those who think we are already insane for what we ride though. “True. Perspective I guess.” Live to ride another day. That’s the key.
We climb up partway to access another trail, and eventually arrive at another massive ridge slab. I can’t look over the edge without feeling really sick on this one either, but I focus on where I’ve got to go, and we ride out. The slab itself isn’t challenging, just the forcing of yourself not to think about the exposure. It isn’t until I find this video by FlowMotionAerials that I get perspective on just how massive it is (might need Facebook to view?). But SO beautiful and magical right??
We climb one last time to ride out on a trail aptly named Jungle Boogie, a tight, twisty, steep trail that weaves through the trees following the fall line all the way to the bottom. We are dusty and tired after our day of adventure, and really bloody hungry.
“Indian food!” suggests the no-longer hungover friend. He is so very German, with all the hard consonants and a hearty laugh. “Tacos?” suggests the youngest of our group. We go to the taco place, thinking it will be cheaper, but once we sit down and look at the menu, collectively thank the server for bringing us water and seating us, but um, we’re going to go now.
Indian food it is. Who knew it would be so perfect after a fall ride?
The German starts talking about how he wants to “get shredded”, and how he’s going to start counting macros to complement his training. I grimace as I shove another bite of naan into my mouth. “I did that once. Never again. I cannot be bothered to weigh and measure my food. No time for that kind of math. Also, I don’t care enough about my six pack. It’s under there. I can feel it.” My friend smirks at me. “Remember when we used to do stupid stuff like run hill repeats all the time? WTF was wrong with us?” I laugh. Yeah, now? Just feed me and take me biking.
Now I really want a truck. There are a whole lot of similar adventures waiting to be had, but I need a truck to get there.
I give the German the rest of my Butter Chicken sauce. The boys have nearly licked their bowls clean.
We make the drive home; stinky, full, and wholly satisfied.
“So many camps. Our kids don’t know how good they have it.” I’m talking with my best friend’s husband. I haven’t seen the two of them in at least five years, and it would seem we’ve turned into curmudgeons.
I met her in sixth grade. We were instant besties. I met him in fourth grade. He sat next to me, in his matching sweatshirt/sweatpant set, and talked incessantly. I remember being so annoyed I drew a picture of a girl with her finger to her lips shushing, taped it to a piece of bristol board that was then folded in half and placed between my desk and his as a divider to stop him talking to me. Over a decade later, he would shatter both ankles in a climbing accident, and in her efforts to keep him encouraged after surgery, they fell in love, and I was re-introduced to my childhood desk-mate. He turned out alright, in the end, no longer an incessant talker, and generally a cool, affable sort.
Now they’ve got two kids, similar to mine in age and sass, and we have just hiked up a mountain as our day’s activity. The kids are no worse for wear, but we’re tired and sweaty.
In the past three years, she and I have both lost our fathers, and they’ve recently moved from the chaos of New York City to the foggy, wooded calm of Washington state. Now we’re only five hours apart by car. We each drive a bit, and ta-da!
“Right? Bike camp, outdoor adventure camp, hockey camp. I just sat around at home in the summers and tried to find friends who were free to roam.” I say this with a tone of derision, because my children are probably spoiled.
“Yeah, but wouldn’t you have wanted to do all those things? Like if our parents had the means back then? I totally would have. It’s so much fun!”
We are, the three of us, all first generation North Americans, our parents all immigrants.
I pause. We have the means. We have so much of what we have because our parents took some big risks and got really uncomfortable, so that future generations could reap the benefits of their hard work. That’s the party line, anyway.
Isn’t that our job now as parents? To give the best of ourselves to this future generation?
“It’s going so fast,” he muses. She chimes in. “Yeah, when they were little, we only had to keep them alive. Now it’s like, hard. I have to be so much more attentive and intentional.” My best friend has, as always, nailed it.
Attentive and intentional. I worry about my daughter, that if I am not on it right this minute, she will be lost to me forever, and we will become the toxic mother-daughter complex that people write about in psychology books and all manner of fiction. There’s a whole genre of it, I’m sure. I worry about my son, the man he will become, the way he will behave in his future relationships because of his interactions with me. Another genre, no doubt.
Then I spend hours agonizing over the example I’m setting, and every time I mess it up. Hours thinking about how to enrich their life experiences, their activities, their socialization, all thwarted by my laziness and a default to letting them on their screens. I suppose my objective to is to have my children grow up without trauma. Well, parental trauma anyway, as that’s all I can control.
But then what? Kids are known to be a terrible return on investment. In the end, there is still no guarantee they turn out okay; that they turn out to be kind, empathetic, altruistic humans who contribute something positive to society.
So, attentive and intentional I will aim to be. But I shall still have all my fingers and toes crossed, with a desperate, whispered prayer to the greater powers that be, Please, please, let the kids be alright.
“UGH. What’s in there? It’s a mole! Whose mole is that?!” Our clinic office assistant is tidying up my exam room for me. On Tuesdays, I borrow the room of a colleague who is known for her scatter-brained chaos. Most clinic rooms are tidy, but hers always looks like a tornado has blown through, littered with little scraps of paper reminding her to call a specialist, send a form, fill out a referral, and every now and then, a crude drawing of a bladder or a spine. There is not one, but two stethescopes strewn about. Why would anyone ever need more than one stethescope? The cleaners are loath to clean the room in case they move something important. Like a mole or something.
Yesterday, she has resected a mole and left it in a container with fixative, no name attached. As I clear and organize her desk to be my workspace for the day, the office assistant sighs an exasperated sigh. Our assistant does actually know whose mole it is, and she will sort out the paperwork. An astute office assistant is worth her weight in gold.
“What’s going on with the coffee pods?” I ask. “There are some blue ones left. They go so fast, we can’t keep up. D drinks a million cups a day.” I wander to the Nespresso machine and make myself a mediocre coffee. I’ve already had one this morning, made at home on my own espresso machine. I take a sip of the acrid stuff and am reminded that coffee at home is always better. There is therapy in the process (the whir of the grinder, the pressure of the tamp, the solid stop of the portafilter locking into place) and Nespresso takes the process away. I’m tired. Stayed up late reading. It’s too hot to sleep.
My right lower eyelid starts to twitch. It’s been doing it periodically every day for the past week. As a neurologist, I know it is within the realm of normal, influenced by caffeine, fatigue, or stress; perhaps all three. I get referrals for this every now and then, when a patient won’t believe their doctor that it’s normal. I debated the muscle movement with my Chief Resident once upon a time. He became a neuro-ophthalmologist, and I remember, one early morning, after I’d had all the terrible coffee to make it through the day, my eyelid started twitching and I absently held a finger up to stop it while presenting a patient case. He glanced and me and said, “Myokymia.” Electromyographically, myokymia sounds like marching, a group of muscle fibres firing rhythmically all at once. As I type this, I can see the waveform in my mind’s eye, hear how it sounds electrically, how that sound changes as I move the needle tip away from that group of muscle fibres. I did my fellowship in neuromuscular disease, and myokymia has a satisfyingly distinct and uniform sound. “No,” I say. “I think it’s a fasciculation.” A singular muscle fibre, rapidly firing, semirhythmic and maddening in its unpredictability. It’s a fasciculation. I’m still convinced he is wrong. But it does not matter.
Because my eye is twitching. And I have a ten hour day of patients to see.
By 630 pm, as I sign off my last dictation and the office is quiet, the eye begins to twitch again. My contacts are dry from the air conditioning and the many hours staring at a screen. I scrunch my right eye shut and start my billing. I can’t remember my first patient from this morning, it was so long ago. I re-read my note so I can fill out a diagnosis on the billing form, and her face comes back to me. Her story. The same thing happens for the next one. And the next. It’s as though my brain punts out each person to focus on the next.
Then suddenly there is silence, nothing else to remember, nothing left to think about.
I leave the clinic, opening the door to a blast of hot hairdryer air and close my eyes for one hot minute, and the twitching calms to stillness.
After so many months, all the pieces (the many, many pieces) came together.
Why the Rutabaga? I think a while ago, I had written about how the “men’s” variation of this bike was called the Bronson, and with a swapping of a link to increase rear travel, people effectively managed to make a bike with the plusher suspension of the burlier version of this bike called the Nomad. The hybrid was deemed a “Bromad”. Juliana is the “women’s” branch off the company. Frame geometry is the exact same, but colours, marketing and touchpoints are different (smaller grips, women’s specific saddles, lighter suspension tunes). The Bronson equivalent is called the Roubion. The burlier version is called the Strega. Roubion + Strega = Rutabaga. Yes, I giggled about it for a solid week after I thought of it. It’s appropriate too, because the bike is pink.
I would like to draw your attention here to the blue pedal pin accents. Please also see the hubs. Yes, they are blue. The widgets (not seen at this angle) are pink on the sides of the hub.
Grip collars were swapped out to blue, and the stem, which I initially thought was too chunky and masculine for this bike, actually gives me joy now, because it’s like a little TV window, and I am going to find a sticker of a rutabaga to put in it.
I wanted to build the bike myself, and not just send it off to a mechanic to build it and pick it up later. Trouble is, I don’t know how to build a bike. So last week, I made a plan to meet up with my bike friend/mechanic/parts dealer, and he’d supervise my attempt. “It’ll take two hours. Maybe three if you’re doing it all.” Four hours later… I guess I ask a lot of questions. And maybe I’m just not very deft with the tools (yes, you can repeatedly pick the wrong size hex key fifty thousand times in a row), and I have never in my life seen some of the tools he has. Each tool serves an incredibly specific purpose, and in this purpose, it is brilliantly and efficiently designed. It is mind-blowing.
I look blankly at the frame as it hangs on the stand. Where do I start? Headset. Plumber pipe tool to cut the steer tube down. Score first. Not too short, in case you want to adjust later. Here’s how you figure it out. File down the edge. Outside edge, then inside edge (different file), then final top file to make sure it’s all smooth. Here is how you use this thingy to bang the crown race into place. Here is how you use this other thingy to bang the star nut into place. You want it 1 cm below. Wait for the sound to change and you’ll know you’re there. This frame already has a cup molded in so you don’t need this extra ring, some don’t. Grease it. What rise bars? What width bars? How many spacers. Carbon? Put the bars on at the end, because you’ll need to walk around the bike a bunch still. This hole for the derailleur cable, this one for the brake. Use a pick to fish it out. The internal routing on this frame will not allow you to pass this through, so you need to cut the olive off. This is what the olive is. Here is the tool to do that. It will also help you put a new one on. And because you’ve cut it off, you’ll need to bleed this brake. Just this brake. Front brake cable always runs along inside of fork, so if you brush the fork leg against something, you’re less likely to get it caught. This hole for the dropper cable. Run housing through, then wire goes here. Shifter cable goes here. Run it a touch longer than the brake cable, so if you do get caught up on something and it rips a cable out, you will at least have brakes, even if you can’t shift. These rotors are 2.3 mm thick. 203 mm diameter. You need a 23 mm adaptor on the back, because this frame accommodates 180 mm on the back. Do you want a matte adaptor? Or shiny? We can get them in colours later too if you want. There are all these different rotor widths and diameters. These are the reasons why. Shimano does this, TRP does that, and Sram does the other. These brake pads are organic. Not the metal. Know for when you replace them. Mount the rotors to the wheels while I do this other thing. How tight? Newtonmeters? Nah, use the Fs – either finger tight, or f*cking tight. Rotor screws should be f*cking tight. Bottom bracket: drive side screws in this direction, other side screws in the other direction. Need this tool with these grooves to do it. All these cogs on the cassette have these grooves in them. Match them up, they’ll only go one way. Then they mount here, like so. These hubs have no pawls. Hence the instant engagement, and the feel. It’s going to be a joy to ride. This is how you tune the gears. This is what B tension is. Suspension is set per factory recommendations, but we’ll need to swap out the spring once the link comes in. They only have one blue one left for this bike. They should be in town this weekend for Crankworx, and you’ll have to look see if the blue is the right blue.
I get home that night around 1130 pm, and have to be up at 5 am the next morning. I’m so excited though, and don’t really sleep. I have had a crash course in bike mechanics, and my brain is buzzing. I can ask AAALLL the questions, and he just answers them.
The link manufacturers are in town. I get a text. “They’ve got the blue. Bring the bike by and have a look. I’ve got the black one but we can swap it out if you want the blue.” I’m so behind on work. I meet a friend for coffee and she walks with me through the village to their booth. I feel like everyone is staring at my bike. Everyone is staring at my bike. Yes, the blue matches, and it’s a go.
Today, I stop by the friend’s again, and he swaps out the link, which necessitates swapping the coil and taking some spacers off the shock. He shows me a graph which involves compression curves and a lot of physics I no longer remember, but I don’t know how this line will translate to how it will feel. He attempts to explain. Also, these bearings are sealed. Original is not, so if you swap out later, you need to pump grease through this port. Before he puts the new link in though, “Look inside,” he says. The lining of the holes drilled through the link is pink. WHAT?! It’s like it’s meant to be! Are they usually pink? “Nope. No idea why they are this time. It’ll be one of those little things that only you’ll know.” Ah, I’m so pleased.
My brain is so full of words and pieces and precision manufacturing awe and I just hope I remember it all.
Finally, we are done. Done done. Complete. It all fits together so beautifully. He pauses to look at his handywork. It is a moment of silent admiration.
So. What are we riding tomorrow for Monday Night? Because I’m bringing the Rutabaga.
Also, how does one express adequate gratitude for so many hours of time and tutelage?
Bikes, Brains, and other Musings 