TransRockies Day 7 Report: Team Dynamics (Rafter Six Ranch -> Canmore)

[I owe you a few posts. Since my last, post-Stage 2, one helluva lot has happened, much of it wonderful and enriching, some of it very hard and reflection-inducing. Because of that last, I've been challenged by the prospect - both physically and emotionally - of putting what's happened down on digital paper. I've started a report from Stage 3, a TSN Turning Point for Matt and I, but it's going to take me a little while to get it internally digested, distilled and then described on these pages. Thank you for your patience (and for the queries in the digiverse about what the heck's been going on with us while we've been in the middle of the mountains and outside the bubble of the internet). For now, here's how things wrapped up...]

We crossed the final finish line in Canmore a couple of hours ago, as a team of four Tinhorn Creek riders, hand in hand, the grins painted across our faces those that only the palate of complete satisfaction can create. Matt and I had been talking about the final stage for a few days and, after making a final decision, let Mark and Keith – the A Team, Team Tinhorn Creek Crush Club – know that we’d like to ride with them today on the last leg into Canmore. They were happy to accept the suggestion, with only the slightest trepidation on the face of Mark after we told him we were going to pour on the full speed of the Purple Train* in the early road section of the stage and that his end of the deal was simply to do his best to hang on.

*This is one of the things I’m forever going to remember about this race, the nickname given to Matt and I by our fellow competitors, in reference to the fact that though my heart has left me less than powerful at times in the singletrack and high mountains, fortuitously it seems that whenever we’ve hit a road or jeep track section I’ve been in decent physiological condition, allowing Matt and I to pour all our collective cycling miles into the pedals, often quite happily inviting other racers to jump on for the ride amidst our contrails. Ego leaves an acrid taste in my mouth, but I’d be falsely modest to not admit that this nickname – and the pats on the back in combination with which it’s often used – is a source of pleasure and pride. (By the by, the videographers seem to have their own nickname for Matt and I: more simply, “Da Boyz.” Love that one too.)

Given our two teams were in separate start corrals – us at the front and the Crush Clubbers in the second corral – Matt and I hung near the back of the corral as the gun went off, putting Keith and Mark on our wheels as we wound up the tempo and moved forward during the parade lap around the perimeter of Rafter Six Ranch. The elite riders were apparently in a mood for fireworks on the final day, so we were immediately gapped as the field strung out. Keith and Mark stuck to us like glue, though, with the always powerful Keith and his two herefords for legs launching his own pulls. When the route soon hit the TransCanada highway, though, it was time for Matt and I to go to work, with Matty swinging to the outside of the group to rocket forward, throwing down a few of his available 1900 watts of power and quickly bringing up the pace, pulling me in his wake and a few dozen others to boot. Keith again showed his grit by taking his own powerful turns at the front. (A couple of hours later he admitted that the experience put him into the red zone, but that guy’s the real deal – you’re a full-fledged engine in the Train any time you wanna, brother – it kicked ass sharing the trail with you today.) We continued that way for a few minutes, tearing up pavement and a few sets of legs, before dropping into the first stretches of the sweet sweet singletrack that snaked us most of the rest of the way into Canmore.

Once into the trails, the experience in this segment of the “peloton” was markedly different from amidst the group in which Matt and I typically found ourselves (though our positioning varied fairly widely dependent upon the state of my heart health within and across days). Here, we found riders with strong enough legs, but in many cases – mostly legs of European decent – not the technical ability to match their engines. This is fine, of course – Canadian riding is renowned for its quality and difficulty, meaning, often, that Canadian riders possess the relative technical skill level to match – but the challenge it creates is the frustration of not being able to get into an accustomed rhythm. It also means that, going at an unusually slow pace, one can’t carry the momentum best suited to clearing technical trail sections. Again, given the day we had planned, this wasn’t that big a deal, apart from me, while messing around at the top of a rock drop-off, goofing, nollieing down the rock face on a still-locked-out shock (twit) and landing knee-first at the rocky bottom of said drop-off, splitting the knee wide open (it’s fine, though, mum, promise). It just meant that while being held up Keith and Matt’s now-well-known exercise-induced Tourette’s kicked in on more than one occasion – let’s just say they were “encouraging” those folks scared off their bikes at the prospect of a bridge crossing…or water crossing….or…a root…and holding up the rest of us.

Once through a few of these bottlenecks, though, we found some space as a foursome and started to roll. Mark’s back troubles made some of the slower, power-sapping singletrack challenging, but he soldiered on like a hero – I saw a look on his face that I’ve not seen since witnessing him going to the well during an Ironman race years ago when I was coaching him. It was great to be out there with you again, brother, and I’m proud of the effort you put in through less than ideal physical conditions. Hell, you were a technical star on the downs, mate, making me look like a Euro myself in the bigger drops! (No, to the peanut gallery, that has no correlation to my pasty white skin.)

Given the flavour of our day – our own self-described Champs-Élysées parade – Matt and I (and Keith) were goofing like mad, pulling our shorts up high, affecting accents (yes, of Euro ilk – all in good-natured fun, my Continental co-racers) and generally acting like pre-pubescent boys in tight purple clothing. (Yeah, that’s an image, i’n'it?) Goofs as we may have been, we had a helluva time out there and put a bunch of smiles on the faces of those with whom we shared the trail. It was a day of fun, frivolity and friendship, if not ferocious paces.

And, in the end, that’s what we’ve been about this week, no? Matt and I came here to re-find a connection we share – and, individually, let lapse – to the outdoors and high-performance sport. We vowed to honour the opportunity we’ve been provided by our families, friends, sponsors and supporters, by soaking every last globule of enjoyment out of the marrow of this experience. We sought fun with every turn of the pedals and, though others, TransRockies veterans, before the race suggested this would be an impossibility given the ordeal that is the TransRockies, and the ordeal itself tried hard to pummel, soak and freeze the fun out of us, today, with sincerity, Matt and I can reflect that we succeeded: On some version of the term, we truly did have fun with every metre of trail we covered, every vertical foot ascended. Even in the midst (and mist…and blowing gale…and sleet…and 2-degree Celcius temperatures) of yesterday’s day of horrific weather and questionable sanity (more on that presently), I shouted to Matt through the storm, “There’s nowhere I’d rather be, brother.”

These words have become something of a theme for us these past seven days, an implicit bond that’s grown ever-stronger between the two of us. So much so that as we slowly pedalled our bikes away from the finish line scant hours ago, the thought formed in our heads and found words coincidentally: “All I want to do now is turn around and ride back into the mountains.” We’re of a kind, Matt and I, and this return to wilderness and sport has affected us both profoundly. Reintegration into “civilization” and our “regular” lives is going to be a challenge. There’s reflection immediately up the trail and intersections looming, though yet unseen. This experience has been transformative and, I suspect, in a way that will endure markedly.

There are rare times in one’s life when you’re able to witness a manifest change as it’s happening. I suspect this is one of them. At the very least, I hope it is. In no way of the least significance, it’s been an experience that has reminded me of who and what I am at my core and one that has forged (and reinforced) bonds of life-long friendship. For all of this, once again, all of you who have supported Matt and I in this endeavour have our deepest and enduring thanks.

There will be retrospective posts to come that I owe you from previous stages and, I suspect, a bit more reflection put to print here, but for now, friends, here’s my parting wish for you:

Identify your own Continental Divide, the passage between the life you’re living now and the one you wish to live (for those already living your authentic existence, my respect and admiration). Plan a route to its high point. Train hard for the ascent. Then set your eyes on the trail ahead of you and make your way up, across, and over, tapping into the support of your friends, networks and teammates to help you get there. Relish the view. Then rip the trails that will define your life on the other side.

I’ll see you out there. Thanks for reading.