~

Yesterday evening and this morning I made a handful of decisions that directly – and significantly – impacted the course of six very long hours of my life today.

During the first two days of the race, as I’ve described in previous posts, I’ve been feeling pretty lethargic, my heart rate not getting up into typical race (high aerobic) zones. I recognize this for what it is: simply my beta blockers doing their job. While training in the weeks leading up to the race, this typically hasn’t been much of an issue. I’ve experimented with my dosing, coming to a system of taking my drugs before bed, thereby giving them time before evening workouts the following day to diminish in concentration such that they’re still effective – dampening and regulating my rhythms – but don’t knock my maximum rates down as low as shortly following dosing, those diminished maximal rates correspondingly diminishing my capacity for athletic output. In practice, this means that in training for TransRockies, doing workouts that would normally have my heart rate around 175 bpm would instead yield rates of closer to the low-150s; my max heart rate, usually around 195 is, when medicated, around 168. I figured none of this would be an issue for the race, given Matt and I were able to do sustained training rides of up to six hours at heart rates hovering near my medicated max, and do so at pretty decent levels of output.

Not so, it seems, now that I’m here. I’m uncertain the reason – though I suspect it’s the altitude – and, as I’ve said before, who cares? We’re about having fun here, so it’s no big deal if my output isn’t as high as I’m used to or would like. Or is it? Part of having fun on a mountain bike is going fast, and my depressed heart rates mean I can’t go as fast as I’d like, even within a non-competitive, fun-focused context.

So, I experimented last night. I made a small decision.

Instead of my usual 25 mg dose I took 12.5 mg, my thinking being that at the lower dose I would still get the moderating effect of the drugs, but that that effect would be dampened, allowing my heart rate to climb somewhat higher and me go somewhat faster.

~

Yesterday Matt and I were riding the endorphin high of a day spent at the limit – the giddy satisfaction that only such times deliver: completely depleted, content in the knowledge you tapped over ounce of energy you had to offer, surrounded by mates and, post-effort, recounting the stories of your day. We were complete. And we iced our completeness and satisfaction with saccharine laughter, hurtling down the highway in our rented RV, shuttling between the finish of Stage 2 and the start venue of Stage 3.

And then the laughter ceased and a cold quiet replaced it in the cab of the RV. Matt had his phone cupped in his hands, reading an email that had downloaded while we drove through a rare band of connectivity near the Continental Divide. His shoulders slumped; his head, muscles failing involuntarily, tipped to the right. With his left had he simply passed me his phone.

On the screen was news he hadd expected, but not now. Not while living so completely. Not while paying homage to vitality with every next pedal stroke. Not while so far away. Jonathan, his young friend riddled with cancer, had lost his fight. His pedals had stopped turning. He was gone.

And as our departed loved ones do, without malice, he had left Matt to feel the pain he had escaped. Matt wore it like a lead jacket as he sat there in the passenger seat. All I could think to do was to stay close – two vital bodies in close proximity, fighting anguish in tandem. I held my Adonis partner’s shoulder in my small hand and squeezed hard, hoping to pull some of the pain from him, to be the teammate he deserved. I didn’t say a thing – I had words flooding into me, but none of any use to share.

The best I could do the next morning, this morning, was to post this message on the web, letting it be known to the world what today was about: Today’s for you, Jonathan & Lindsay*. #TransRockies #FuckCancer #LiveHardLoveDeep

*For those who don’t know, Lindsay is the beautiful dynamo former girlfriend of the best man at my wedding. A woman with a lovely young daughter. A woman who should live forever and continue, as is her wont, to cajole us to try to keep up. But she’s been caught – cancer too – and the doctors say she’s not going to finish this race. Her sickness – the illness and frailty of someone so young and deserving of life – has punched me in the stomach.

I felt that pain as we rolled out this morning, wanted it to wrap around me so I could carry a little of it. Knowing, ultimately, that it would blow away, not mine to bear.

But I took you both with me today.

[Update - July 22, 2011: Nearly a year after beginning this post, sitting in the dark, the Rocky Mountains all around me as they were during the bike race I'm describing, I'm thinking again of Lindsay as I try to finish the words that have haunted me these 12 months. And she is gone. Lindsay left on August 20th, 2010, short weeks after my original writing, and the world is a colder place for her loss. I still ride for you, Elle.]

~

Tweaking my meds worked like a hot damn.

Straight off the gun I felt better, my heart rate higher, my legs stronger. We rolled out of the start, first onto a dirt road and then a rougher jeep track, sitting near the front of the pack as the pace ramped up. It was a good thing we were there, too, as right behind us a duo of riders veered around a pothole and into three rows of traffic, causing a massive pile-up I heard first and then saw unfolding as I checked over my shoulder. But I didn’t see Matt, who’s typically sitting on my wheel in the first few hundred metres of stages. I looked back again and still didn’t see him, getting a little worried. Then I heard his voice immediately to my other side: “Keep riding – you don’t think kierin boy is going to let himself get caught up in that s#!t, do you?”

We rolled on, the pace of the front group ramping up ever higher, us dangling off the end. Matty, uncharacteristically, wasn’t feeling his oats. We were, as a team, rolling through the classic TransRockies conundrum: one of you is ready to rock, the other needs some time to warm up – what to do? I’ve heard horror stories of this situation, tales of the speedier partner (on that day – remember, everyone has a relatively bad day in a week-long stage race) simply turning his heels on his partner, in the process, in some cases, dropping not only his teammate, but a long-standing friendship.

For what? No good reason. There was no consideration for us, the decision was made – I shouted to Matt that we were good where we were, didn’t need to bury ourselves to hang onto the front group, that we should let them go. So off they went, though not far, perpetually dangling a scant couple of hundred metres up the trail as we turned the cranks, Matt tucked in behind me. The road continued to rise, and with it the challenge of staying on top of the gear. I though, on my low-dose meds, felt fantastic. Matt continued to curse at the hills, heading towards a dark emotional place. I could feel the cloud of his angst creeping forward from my slipstream, and I wanted none of it. I called him up beside me, took my eyes off the trail and stared at him hard and pointed. The sullen prick wouldn’t look at me for a while, but eventually he had to hold my stare. And when he did I asked him – in language that made clear I wasn’t asking a question – why we were here. I didn’t give him the chance to answer. Not for podiums, placings or foolishly-defined glory. But for those that can’t be here today, pushing because they’ve run out of power, hurting so we can know compassion. We’re here to suck the marrow out of this day, this blessing, that we’ve been given. We’re here to live, and sometimes, like when the road turns uphill, living gets hard. But our job is to dig, only, and not to worry about where that digging leaves us relative to the rest of the field.

Matt’s a focused competitor – he wants to be at the pointy end, wants to win – but predominantly he’s an intelligent human being, and the rational truth of my lecture sunk in. He dug in, sucked up, and stopped worrying about the riders up the trail.

And, not surprisingly, he rode into his powerful legs, such that by the time we reached the second checkpoint at ~ 40km he was once again up front, taking his characteristic mammoth pulls, garnering the appreciation of those able to hold his wheel. We hit that check point feeling like we were just warming up, ready to attack the 3000′ of vertical left to carry us over the Continental Divide into Alberta.

~

Writing now, many days later, I desperately wish I could have held onto that feeling: strong, on top of the pedals, wind in my face, emotionally unburdened, focused purely on the physical task at hand. Heart working properly. But I know now that it wasn’t to last, can see through the rearview mirror of retrospect that leaving the checkpoint the wheels were about to fall off. That as we started into the climb my heart rate would first track the elevation gain, skyrocketing, and then get erratic, pulsing frantically and spastically, trying to flush oxygen to my body to fuel my legs and brain, but doing a piss-poor job of the task.

Following a short stretch of singletrack, the trail opened up to reveal an obstacle we’d been warned of the night before in the pre-stage briefing: a (seemingly) near-vertical hike-a-bike along a plumb-line straight seismic line drawn straight up an imposing hill pointed in the direction of the Continental Divide, still unseen. Matt shot a quick bit of video of the comedy of that horrendous climb as seen from the bottom, and then we got down to it, me still feeling fine. As we climbed, though, step by slippery, alder-impeded step, my energy levels started plummeting towards sea level. In these situations, it’s hard to be objective about what’s going on. We’re a couple of hours into our third day of hard riding. I’m from sea level and we’re getting up high. The trail’s simply really efffing hard. There were plenty of good reasons for me to be feeling more and more sluggish with every step.

I asked Matt to stop to take a break, leaning over my bike and trying to pull oxygen from the air, watching a caravan of racers trudge by. It must have killed Matt to just sit and watch them make their way up the trail. But I was slipping. Matt didn’t enquire what was going on and I didn’t offer. I still wasn’t sure what was up, thought perhaps I was just tired, hoped it’d pass, figured I’d just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Very. Slowly. More guys went by, few words exchanged. My head started creeping farther towards my knees, my power slowly draining. I started to realize through the growing mental fog what was going on. My breathing began to grow raspy, the too-familiar feeling setting in that only the top 10% of my lungs were getting air. My field of view grew narrower, black creeping in along the edges. Holding my balance became problematic.

I kept my mouth shut. By this time I knew I was symptomatic, but also knew a handful more pertinent facts:

1. There was no going back: We were about halfway through the stage so going forward was about the same as going backward. (Getting picked off the hill wasn’t considered as an option.)
2. Telling Matt wasn’t going to change anything. Unless he truly had an AED strapped to his bike – as he’d joked throughout our months of training together – he wasn’t going to be able to fix my broken ticker.
3. I’d made another fateful decision before this stage; actually, an omission during my rush to get to the start line: I didn’t have my bottle of heart meds with me. I had no way to stabilize my heart, now feeling like it was set to explode in my chest.

So it got worse. I started to weave. My head was nearly resting on my handlebars as I pushed my bike. My breathing took on the character of a steam locomotive. Matt took note.

“You doing alright?”

“Fine,” I responded, a little too curtly if I was trying to convince him of the truth of the word. When I get like this, physically, my heart pumping inefficiently and my body teetering towards shut-down, I go to a dark place mentally. I want to be alone. I wrap myself in a ball of resolve and commit to simply pushing as hard as I can, forward, ever forward. I don’t want help. I just want the finish line. And I’m damn certain I can get there on my own. Regardless all indications to the contrary. I am a stubborn fuck.

“Why don’t I take your bike for a bit?” Matt was now looking over his shoulder at me. He’d seen me walking my bike already in this race, seen me pushing up against the governor of my medication, but it was clear he could tell this was different. The first hint of concern was reflecting in his eyes.

(Wheeze) “No.”

He looked at me more closely. He’d also seen this before, seen me in distress, knew the obstinate prick I become. We’d talked about it. I had promised him during our training that I wouldn’t be an idiot.

“Give me your fucking bike, idiot.”

I considered refusing, started girding myself to put up a fight, but by that point I knew I was in trouble. What rational brain I still had access to told me to acquiesce. I pushed my bike in Matt’s direction. I couldn’t look him in the eye, feeling ashamed. I leant on my knees and sucked in the thin air of the Continental Divide, hoping the breather would see me to the other side. My head swam. This wasn’t going to fix itself. I had to keep going. At least now I didn’t have to push my bike. I started putting one foot in front of the other, head pulled down by lack of oxygen and defeated pride.

It killed me seeing my burly teammate ahead of me, pushing both our bikes while I hobbled in tow. Other teams passed us in a steady stream, looking at me compassionately, figuring I was just too weak to get up the hill on my own, not knowing the other factors. I didn’t correct them. “Keep going, mate; you can do it.” Thin grin. “I hate you,” I respond inside my head. And smiled again. I abhor those platitudes, revolt at the fact I’m the recipient. Just leave me alone. But I know my fellow racers mean well, have the best intentions, are full of goodness. I’m simply a ball of metastasized rage. So I keep my mouth shut, knowing better than to let what’s inside out. I don’t tell anyone what’s going on because I recoil from few things more violently than justifications from the sidelines of a race gone wrong. It’s happened to us all. Just get on with it. No, I don’t care that you pulled your hamstring. Yes, the air’s full of pollen isn’t it – oh, that’s why you’re having trouble breathing? Not your day? So sorry to hear it. Keep fucking pedalling.

Because, you know what, it sure as hell isn’t Lindsay’s day. She’s back in Victoria, probably in a hospital bed somewhere, perhaps hooked up to a deadly main line of chemo drugs. She has a notebook in one hand, list of phone numbers in another. The phone’s lodged between her ear and an ever-more-protruding collarbone. She’s gotten so thin. Calling every doctor she can track down, imploring them to give her a better prognosis, hoping this one has a glimmer of hope to offer. Names are crossed off her list; reality gets closer to an empty white page.

Still walking, hands still pushing down on my knees with every step, I start to cry.

She’s so fucking strong, so vital, so mad to live. She’s the wrong person. I didn’t see her that way, with the phone, her desire and a hospital gown. My wife did, one day on the ward at the cancer agency where she’s a nurse. She came home rattled, inspired and disgusted by injustice. “She was so good to me,” Aviva said, “As though I was the one sick and in need of care.” They spoke with the intensity shared by those two blonde forces of nature. They talked about the progression of the disease, Lindsay’s treatment and prognosis. They talked about the things women talk about when meeting again after years apart. They talked about life. “I’m not ready to die, Aviva. I don’t want to leave Abi behind.” The doctors are telling Lindsay that she only has a couple of months, that it would be best for her to find acceptance. But acceptance and acquiescence don’t live there, in the heart of that fireball. “So I’m fighting, y’know, Aviva? Fighting for my life. I’ll call every goddam oncologist in North America if I have to, until I have one that’ll give me a chance.” Aviva has no response. Only admiration. And the tears she’s able to hold back until she arrives home that night. The same tears streaking muddy tracks down my face as I take another step upwards towards the Divide.

Ahead of Matt now, him chatting easily with another team of riders, I’m glad they can’t see me, aren’t paying attention to the shuddering of my shoulders as the last aftershocks of emotion course through me. I pull it together. The rivers on my cheeks run dry. I look up for the first time and see the beauty around me. Another few hundred feet of vertical. Keep going. Get angry. Fight up this rise. Push hard. I bear down and narrow my eyes, squinting the hundred meters of this hill into a shorter distance. Try to accelerate to a jog despite the protests of my bike Sherpa teammate behind me. Get angry_er. C’mon, damnit!

My legs start getting weak as I near the top of this latest hill, the view in front of my still-squinting eyes starting to disappear completely, two black discs covering my irises, blocking out the light. I’m dizzy. Weaving. Damn, my head’s swimming. Who’s making all that noise? Oh, it’s my breathing. Hmm…my hands are going numb…probably not good. Keep pushing, pussy! Clench my teeth. Growl. So. Fucking. Angry. Almost there. It’ll get easier over the rise. Dizzy. Weak. Wait, what’s this…uh oh, now my face is going numb. Definitely not good. Perhaps I should …

Just as I’m getting to the top of the hill my legs give out and I fall like the dead weight I am to the ground. Momentum tucking me into a fetal position. “This is good,” I think, “I’ll just stay here for a while.” But Matt’s running up to me, the bikes discarded, asking me how I am. I’m not so good at talking just then, but I guess my grey pallor gave him all the answer he needed. Knowing enough about my faulty physiology to understand that blood simply isn’t leaving my heart with any effectivity, and that my numb grey face hides a brain being denied oxygen, Matt lifts me up by the ankles and hangs me in a head-down aspect. My god how stupid we must look, I have the wherewithal left to observe. Muffled jokes from passing riders filter through my ringing ears. Something about high altitude yoga. A few words of concern. My complete lack of caring. The blood slowly returning to my head, and with it my eyesight. Sitting now, head between my knees, pulling it together, reflecting on our spot on the racecourse and our available courses of action. Clambering back on my bike and offering a word of thanks that the trail does downhill for 200 meters. Starting again to cry.

I’m overcome again with emotion, but this time not simply thinking of Jonathan and Lindsay, but also thinking of myself. The life that had been taken from me and the theft that I had accepted. The years I had spent away from the things I love the most: the outdoors, the fitness, the striving, the achievement, the sharing, the truth. Thinking also of what it meant to me to be back, living this life once again, out in the wilds and at the limit of my abilities. And, for one of the very few times since I’ve been battling this condition, afraid that it was going to be taken away again, and permanently.

I’m writing now, a year later, and only at this point able to admit that as I hit the ground out there near the Continental Divide, my legs gone feeble and my eyes nearly blind, my heart a broken muscle, I wondered whether I might die. I lay there scared and ready for sleep, asking myself what the hell I was doing, how could this possibly be worth it.

The answers I came to out there were as fuzzy as my eyesight, but they had something to do with the grand themes of striving, honouring the gifts we’re given, of filling every minute with sixty seconds worth of distance run.

I kept pedalling. And when that was too hard I kept walking. Eventually, I crossed the Continental Divide and looked east towards what lay ahead.

In the year that has passed I’ve had time to clarify those thoughts from the trailside, to come up with better answers to the question, “Why?” Many of those answers echo the words of Dr. Rachel Naomi Remen:

“Most people have come to prefer certain of life’s experiences and deny and reject others, unaware of the value of the hidden things that may come wrapped in plain and even ugly paper. In avoiding all pain and seeking comfort at all costs, we may be left without intimacy or compassion; in rejecting change and risk we often cheat ourselves of the quest; in denying our suffering we may never know our strength or our greatness.”

Why?

For Johnny and for Lindsay. For too many before and since. For their strength so manifest and my own still being uncovered. For the realization that while we are living we owe it to them, to ourselves and to this world we inhabit to make the decision to truly live.

dum vivimus, vivamus

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.

Rumon (equally outta breath):  “Uh-huh.  What do you think it’s doing?”

Matt (solemnly): “It’s probably medivac-ing someone else down in the valley.”

The ‘thwack-thwack’ of the helicopter overhead punctuated the fact that things had gone seriously bad during Stage 6 of the TransRockies Challenge, and we were only two hours into what turned out to be six of the most dangerous hours I’ve ever spent on a bike.

The storms that poured through at the end of Stage 5 left new snow on the high peaks above camp, and we all went to bed with an uneasy feeling about what lay ahead for Stage 6, knowing full well that the ride would take us up high, into the alpine and cold.  Our fears were realized when we woke to cold and drizzle reminiscent of Vancouver in February.  The hot topic of the morning was what to wear;  do we continue with our ‘light and fast’ philosophy or do we gear up, putting on extra layers that would not only weigh us down, but also risk overheating on the 7400 ft of climbing we would do this day.  We all decided that a compromise was the best bet, but in hindsight, I’d have taken every damn stitch of clothing I could get my hands on.

Stage 6: The 'Queen Stage.' 72 km long, 2300m of climbing, and very, very exposed.

Stage 6 was supposed to be the ‘Queen Stage’ of the TRC, showcasing some of the most beautiful, exposed singletrack in the Canadian Rockies.  What it ended up being for some was a very real fight for survival.  By the time we had reached Check Point 1, 20 km into the ride, I was already cold and soaked to the bone.  The constant rain, winds, and single-digit temperatures had dropped my core temperature to the point that I was actually looking forward to the big climb to the top of Jumping Pound Ridge.  Thoughts of bailing at CP1 had certainly crossed my mind, but in finding a spare garbage bag cum rain poncho, I rationalized that I could warm up on the climb, speed across the exposed ridge, and get back to the relative warmth (5 degrees C) of the valley bottom.  Rumon had the brains to bring a rain shell, so he was marginally warmer, but we both shared that we had not felt our fingers in the last hour.  Better get warm – up we went.

Little did we know that the race officials closed the ascent soon after we started going up, shuttling riders in vehicles to CP2, thus avoiding the dangerous section that we were now climbing into.  Struggling up the trail in our smallest gear, we climbed in silence, unable to speak save for grunts of effort to ride up this trail-turned-streambed and shouted expletives as we repeatedly slipped and crashed on the slick boulders.  Emerging from the forest after an hour and a half of climbing, we were exposed to the full force of the storm, no longer shielded by the thick stand of pine.  It was two degrees, the rain was now sleet, whipped by 50 km/h winds, and the visibility was down to about 40m.  I’ve been climbing mountains all over the world for the past 25 years and every instinct in me was saying ‘Go down.  Now.’  Yet, up, over and along we went, driven by what I guess must have been will.  All I could hear was the snapping of my garbage bag as the howling wind repeatedly tried to snatch it off my body and carry it into British Columbia.  We were no longer racing the TransRockies, we were riding for our lives, truly and metaphorically.  In the 30+ minutes we spent riding across the storm-raked ridge, Rumon and I traded comments only twice.  Once when I implored him “We’ve gotta pick it up” (not wanting to tell him that I was shaking uncontrollably – the first sign of hypothermia) and then later, when my partner rode up beside me, looked me squarely in the eyes, and told me “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, brother.

Two degrees, 50 km/h winds, and blowing sleet. Less than optimal conditions.

A few weeks ago, during a training ride, Rumon asked me to recall some of the most memorable experiences I’ve had climbing mountains.  I remember telling him that, although not enjoyable by any stretch, the most salient memories I’ve had have been when things have gone wrong and I’ve been thrust into a situation where my very survival depends on my choices and actions.  In climbing vernacular, we call these ‘Epics.’  What we did on Stage 6 certainly fits that bill.  We may not have been connected by a rope, but our reliance on the skill and judgement of each other was paramount to our getting back to the valley safely, let alone finishing the stage.  I’ve always said that you never feel more alive than when risk thrusts you to the ‘edge’ and allows you to peer into the darkness.  Both Rumon and I felt very, very alive up there.

Our descent from the ridge would normally have been filled with whoops of excitement and fun, but with hands that had long since stopped functioning properly, we bombed the steep, slick 700m drop like two out-of-control kamikazes, repeatedly pushing the limits of both ourselves and the bikes in a desperate run to get down and get warm.  To spice up our hereto mundane Sunday ride, Betty (my steed) decided to blow her front brake seal, seize up my left shifter, and pop a rear brake pad, giving me the pleasure of finishing the stage with only a metal-on-metal rear brake, no front brake, and about 4 of my 27 gears.  Suffice to say, that Betty and I were no longer on speaking terms.

Once back on the valley floor, things changed dramatically.  Although only a couple of thousand feet lower, the relative protection of the forested trail brought renewed energy and a sense of determination bolstered by what we had just survived up high.  Despite the lingering cold and revolting bikes, we rolled into CP2 with none of the uncertainty felt at the previous Check Point.  Intending to simply ‘gas and go,’ we got off the bikes to begin the standard routine, but became quickly aware that others were not of the same state of mind.  A large sheltered tent had been hastily erected and a portable gas furnace, resembling a mini jet turbine, had been turned on and was blasting hot air into the tent.  Never ones to turn down an excuse to get out of the rain, Hurricane and I ducked into the tent for a quick warm and chat with the lads, but once inside, we witnessed the toll of the ridge climb on some of the other riders.

I’ve often complained how I’m too big to be an effective climber, but today I was very happy to be carrying that extra weight.  Small, lithe climbers who we often saw only at the start of each stage as they climbed out of view, were sitting and standing in the tent with ashen faces and blank stares reminiscent of ‘survivor’ photos.  Some were fully undressed and wrapped in dry blankets in an attempt to warm their cores while waiting to be loaded into a vehicle and transported to shelter, while others stood shivering in their soaked, muddy clothing.  These poor bastards were either done, or were mustering the will to finish the final 20km of what was obviously going to be their own personal hell.  Needless to say, we didn’t linger long.  Slogging along in the rain, eating the mud from Hurricane’s rear tire was far more appealing than staying here.

About 30 minutes into the final stretch, the Coke, chips, and gummy bears that Rumon forced down my gullet at CP2 finally kicked in and for the first time that day, I felt strength in my legs.  I had shamelessly let the Hurricane drag me along for the previous 7km, so when I pulled alongside him on some high-speed doubletrack, the simple glance we exchanged spoke volumes – “Let’s crank it up,” and for the first time that day we started to have fun. Almost too much.  The double track began winding down the mountainside, allowing us to hit speeds approaching 60km/h, and when I lost control around a greasy, sweeping corner, Betty’s rear end cut loose, whipping back and forth like the tail of a 3 yr old Retriever.  Feet off pedals, legs fully splayed, I held on for dear life and looked for the softest place off-trail where Rumon would stabilize my soon-to-be fractured pelvis.  For the second time this day, my fat-boy status may have saved my ass.  Two hundred and thirty pounds of meat and metal hurtling down a fall line at high speed have a fortunate physical property – momentum.  By keeping Betty’s front wheel pointed where I wanted to go, I was somehow able to keep the rubber side down and with a few more windmilling legs, I was able to straighten Betty out and clip my feet back in.  Once back in control, I hastily glanced back at Rumon with one of those giddy “Did you just see that?!?!?!” looks.  All I saw was his toothy grin busting out of a mud-caked face and a head shaking side to side in disbelief.

Adrenaline has a wonderful effect of increasing performance, so after this last pant-filling near-crash, the reigns were off and we both wound things up.  Rumon, who had been battling some sort of stomach bug all morning (repeated warnings to not ride too close behind him illustrated the severity of his malady) seemed to have kicked the bug, so between the two of us, we were able to effectively time-trial the final 15km like we had been training to do for the last 4 months, scaring the hell out of a few teams who didn’t hear us coming, and for those who tried to hold on, it was immensely satisfying to watch them fall off the back of the Purple Train.

Crossing the finish line felt like popping the valve on a pressure cooker.  The relief of finishing safely and shedding our shared burden was overwhelming.  Bikes were dropped into the soggy grass as Rumon and I wept in embrace, awash in the wave of relief that crashed over both of us.  I have only felt that emotional overload one other time in my life, after spending 18 storm-bound days climbing to the summit of Mt Logan, Canada’s highest peak.  If there was any chance that it wasn’t already so, the TransRockies was no longer a race for me.  Standing there, surrounded by many yet completely alone, I felt the will and strength of all those who have helped me get there.  As my partner had reminded me three days earlier, when I went to my dark place, we were there riding for all those that couldn’t be.  Today we finished on their backs.

Over the last two days, the course has taken us down the eastern slopes of the continental divide and into the lowlands of Kananaskis Country.  We’ve encountered some incredible climbs, insane downhills, but without doubt, the majority of the last 10 hours of racing we’ve done has been spent slogging through endless bog-like pastures amongst herds of cattle who were none too happy that we were anywhere near them.  At one point, as we were crossing a pasture, Rumon, from behind, shouts up to me ‘Cow Back!’ and I look back over to my shoulder to see 1000 lbs of agitated beef bounding up the trail behind me. Normally, I’d be damn scared of being flattened, but the sight of this ungainly behemoth jumping and bucking actually elicited a laugh, in light of the dismal poo-walking we’d been enduring.

If we were lucky, we could manage to ride through the bogs, hopping through the muck from hummock to hummock in a jerky, spastic fashion.  If we weren’t, which was the norm, we’d be up to our shins post-holing through a poo/clay goop having the consistency of soggy polenta.  Bikes, which at times had to be carried over our heads, gained a good 5 pounds of sludge, and any moving part eventually revolted as gears, shocks, and wheels succumbed to the invasive stuff.  I was actually able to tolerate these ‘Trans Walkies’ stages quite well, but I have to admit, that yesterday, after wallowing for two straight hours, I had my own little tourettes fit, flung my poo-caked bike into one of the many rivers we had to cross, and vowed that if I saw the Course Director trail-side, I would manually remove his arm and feed it to him.

Keith, showing the effort of a glacier-fed river crossing (with a mangled shoulder) near race end

Maybe I’m painting a bit of a dark picture, but we really did spend a lot of time off the bike, miserable and caked.  Fortunately, the multiple glacial-fed creeks and rivers that we had to cross did well to keep us marginally clean, and very, very refreshed.  Some of them were small enough that we’d be able to wheelie through them, but others provided spectacular crashes.  Today, at about four and a half hours into the ride, Rumon and I came barreling out of the woods to cross the Elbow River.  Knowing full well the river is hard enough to even walk through let alone ride, we exchanged a quick grin, dropped a couple of gears, and accelerated off the bank into the grey-white torrent.  We managed to get halfway across before the current swept our bikes out, leaving us laughing, splashing, and clawing our way to the far shore.  The numbing effect of the icy bath even provided a temporary reprieve to our naughty bits, which, after five days of being thoroughly punished by mud filled shorts, hard bike seats, and endless rocks and roots, now resembled veal picatta.

The weather has actually been our nemesis (although, because I can’t take out my frustration on Mother Nature, I still wanna stuff the Course Director’s hand down his gullot), with continuous drizzle interspersed with torrential downpours over the last two days that had me debating whether I should toss the bike and start building an arc.  Rumon and I had a pretty good ride on Stage 5, coming in before all hell broke loose, but Tickles and Bushleague weren’t so fortunate and ended up being caught out, along with the majority of the other competitors, when a huge thunderstorm rolled through the valley we finished in.

Bushleague's revolutionary back exfoliation technique: Ride your bike through a hailstorm.

Riders were crossing the finish line looking as if they had just come down from Hamburger Hill, and it wasn’t until Bush explained that they rode through a hailstorm, pummeled by marble-sized hailstones, that we fully realized what we’d narrowly avoided.

The last two days have been the most arduous, challenging riding I’ve ever done.  I’ve hit the wall a couple of times, unsure if I could even climb the next hill, let alone finish the stage and the race, yet Rumon has managed to say just the right thing to keep my pedals turning.  The guy is pure nails.  Here I am, questioning if I’m able to haul my carcass up the next 400m climb, and I look over at Hurricane, knowing full well that his heart is functioning like the wheezing six-banger of a ’76 AMC Gremlin, and see the freak with his head down and eyes fixed with a stare that says ‘fuck quitting.’  Guess I better suck it up and keep climbing…

Waking to clearing clouds was a blessing after yesterday’s three-hour wallow in the greasiest, most abundant mud I’ve ever ridden in.  Stories of Tickle and Bushleague’s epic 5 days of enduring the same sludge during last year’s TR had me spooked that we may be in for the same suffering, but beautiful Mother Nature decided to smile upon us and reveal endless ranges of stunning mountains as the cloak of cloud peeled away.

Geurillas in the Mist

Today was the beginning of the big stages, punctuated by a big, grinding climb and a balls-out, fast-as-you-dare descent which lost all the altitude we gained in 35km of climbing over a mere 5km.  You can do the math.  To polish off what was a helluva ride in its own right, we finished with 35 km of rolling fire road, who’s repeated ‘little’ climbs left both Rumon and I well and goodly humbled by the Sparwood finish, 71km and 4 hrs after leaving Fernie.

I felt relatively strong again today, but the trepidation of venturing into the ‘unknown’ in terms of my capacity, big climb ability, and acclimatization was certainly weighing on my mind. I knew that Rumon was less than happy with his Day 1 performance, so I’m just waiting for the lion to wake up within him, at which point I’m going to make sure I can match what I know is a Cummins Turbo Diesel of an endurance engine.  As it turns out, we had a solid performance relative to our competitors, finishing 10^th among the elite field.  I know that we’ve both been talking about our motivation for racing here being for the experience, enjoyment, and camaraderie, vice competition, but let’s remember that both the Hurricane and Steamdonkey are former elite athletes, so we’ll never fully extinguish that competitive fire.  But, more than anything, it certainly was about the experience.  Hearing the hoots, whoops, and laughter of my teamie hot on my tail as we led a train of riders screaming down the face of Fernie Ridge sticks out in my mind, as does seeing Rumon ‘ride into his legs’ over the last 5km, as, sensing my fatigue, he went to the front, wound up the speed, and pulled his tiring partner to the finish.

I write today’s entry with a heavy heart, but at the same time, a renewed sense of desire and strength.  I started my journey down the road to TR as much for others, as for myself.  I’ve lost some of the most important people in my life over this last year and this race is as much a tribute to their will and spirit as it is to my own sense of adventure.  Each of them has taught me more than I will ever appreciate, and their departure from my life reminds me that in the precious time I have on this rock, I must live our loud every single day.  Today, sitting in the comfort of our motor home as we laughed with each other recounting the incredible day we had just lived out loud, I received an email telling me that a very, very courageous young man who I had the privilege of knowing, had succumb to his battle with cancer.  All I could do was hand the phone to Rumon and sit in cold silence, trying to reconcile the post-ride elation with the agonizing lump of pain and sadness that had suddenly swelled in my gut.  It’s Tuesday morning as I finish this entry – I needed the time to sort myself out before telling this story.  I will continue to ride my bike, and I will continue to hoot, whoop, and laugh with Hurricane, Tickles, and Bushleague, because I know that that is exactly what Jonathan would expect of me.  This ride is for you Jonny.  I’ll be listening for your laughter among the trees and rocks of these beautiful mountains today. Thanks for reminding me why we’re here.

What came next is we got here and started racing. You’ve already heard how that went yesterday, a short introductory stage. Today, Day 2, the race served up it’s first real stage: a 71 km marathon from Fernie to Sparwood, covering 1900 metres of vertical gain, much of it in the first 30 kms of constant climbing [update: this is being posted the morning of the third day as we couldn't get connectivity last night]. From a physiological reporting perspective, the day can be summed up simply: Forget “feeling strong,” forget “dialing it back a little,” forget any intentions of moderation – I basically spent the entire day at the limit. At the limit in an odd sense given my heart rate was relatively low all day (good, I guess, from a heart health perspective if not a race speed perspective), but at the limit nonetheless. There was a lot of time spent contemplating Matt’s back or, when that had ridden up the trail and out of view, the ground directly in front of my front wheel.

Which is true, though not entirely representative, because I also spent a fair bit of time during the middle portion of the race with my eyes, saucer-like, taking in buff (= beautiful) singletrack, gorgeous vistas from atop the high ridgelines and an absolutely stellar, vertiginous decent through which we lost, in 5 kms, nearly all of the altitude it taken us 30 kms to gain. Amazing stuff. Through the sweat and often gritted teeth, I sported my Cheshire Cat pose throughout the ride.

~

The race started in Fernie with a parade lap of town behind an antique fire engine, racers getting the first taste of pack riding in this year’s TR edition and consequently, doing a little jostling and jittery riding. The engine pulled off when we hit a logging service road and the race was on in earnest, the pace coming up immediately. Up at the front, the pro teams hit the gas and, taking along a handful of the top amateurs, created a gap back to the rest of the field. While the break was opening up, Matt looked over at me and asked, “What should we do?” Folks were riding hard ahead of us, heads down and driving, small groups fracturing and moving in either direction towards and away from the lead pack and where Matt and I found ourselves. “Just stay here,” I responded, not seeing the point in trying to bridge forward. Already I was feeling like I was working too hard for so early in the day, but also, I knew what was going to happen next. Sure enough, all of the splinter groups that tried to get up to the front pack slowly worked their way back to us so that, within 5 minutes, we had a solid sized group working around us. For the most part, that’s how things stayed for the next 20 kilometres, settling into a rhythm on the fire road and gradually gaining altitude. After the first aid station at the 20 km mark, the route turned into the woods and onto a beautiful, rarely used piece of singletrack traversing the sub-alpine.  Wild flowers lined the narrow trail and when the scrub spruce opened up you could see views in all directions.  It was absolutely gorgeous, though at this point, I was finding myself on the rivet, little power in my legs and forced to clear the way for stronger riders wanting to go by. As the trail turned further upwards, I was frequently forced off my bike to walk, battling with myself to keep riding as long as possible before succumbing to the weakness in my body and tipping over to start pushing. Through this time Matt was his usual stellar self, encouraging on occasion but mostly just staying close, waiting at the tops of rises and making sure I was alright. I was. I felt weak physically, but other than working to climb higher up climbs than my mind might have wanted, I otherwise just set the dial at “hurt” and kept pushing.

There’s a peace and certainty to leaning your shoulder into your own limitations and seeing how far you can push them.  Time passes surprisingly quickly when you’re in that space, focus compressing your effort and the passage of time. Soon enough then we were at the top of the climb and looking down the barrel of the Porky Blue trail that would take us back down into the valley bottom. The descent was incredibly fast and fun, a white knuckle rip on a 12 inch wide trail often at the very edge of a precipice. The grade was so steep that my hands became numb from the braking (our friend Normon Thibault actually had his rear brake rotor overheat and sheer off completely, leaving him to descend the remainder with only a front brake – burly stuff). It was, quite simply, a brilliant pay-off for the effort of the climb and another example of the kinds of trails that make this race special and unique compared to other international multi-day mountain bike stage races.

At the bottom of the descent we were spit out onto fire road where we essentially stayed for the next 35 kms other than a brief transfer along the highway. Along this whole distance, Matt was my wind block and my engine, sitting in front of me and pulling me along at speeds into the mid-40s kph. He’d check back frequently, sometimes seeing that I’d fallen off the pace and was dropping back, always making sure I was in his draft and getting pulled along. I had a fraction of his power and sat back there impressed at his strength. And so glad that I had him to drag me towards home.

With 5 km to go, we could both smell the barn and dug in a little deeper, both taking (to the extent I was able) pulls at the front while driving for the finish. We ripped along the final ups and down, and rolled into the finish straight totally spent, taking each others’ hands and finishing as the team we’ve become.

Efforts like these take you to different and special places personally. One of the race’s mottos is, “Find Out What’s Inside…Outside,” a motto borne out every day. As a team event, you also find out what your partner is made of and the character of each of you as individuals and your cohesion as a duo. In this regard, Matt and I have already won, no matter our placing. As we sat in the sun moments after the race, I looked at my teammate and observed, “If it hasn’t already happened, we’re building a life-time friendship out there, mate.” Matt clarified where we’re at in the process: “We’re already there.”

And it’s a good thing too as today was a tough day for me, not one where we as a team could therefore have any concern about being anywhere near the podium. The responsibility for this rests squarely on my shoulders – I just didn’t have any jam today. I felt stellar yesterday on our short evening pre-ride, I’m completely rested – i.e. I have no excuses – but as soon as we started into the first ramps of the initial 1800′ climb (of 4265′ on the day), I knew I wasn’t going to be able to hang with my choo choo teammate as he accelerated away from me.

Swallowing my ego – a very easy exercise in these circumstances – I called ahead to Matt and said, simply, “I don’t have your legs, fella” (from a physical morphology perspective this is, of course, already a redundant statement), letting him know that he was going to have to slow down to my pace or leave me behind. I felt rotten for having to do so, but that’s team racing and I have a stellar teammate – he backed off immediately and continued to do so throughout the day. Waiting at the tops of climbs, taking breaks in the single track, and generally just keeping an eye on me.

What was going on? I don’t know. I certainly had time to think about it throughout the day and could throw out a handful of rationalizations, but really, who cares? I’m healthy as I sit here writing this, my heart is fine, I had a stellar day in beautiful country on trails I’d never ridden (but surely will again) and I’m back amongst the tribe I’ve dearly missed, pursuing the adventures I cherish. So who cares if the wheels weren’t spinning faster? Not me.

Now, today, given the Floods of Noah that rolled through Fernie last night and the mud pit/slide that today’s trails were consequently turned into, there’s ample reason for all racers’ wheels to have been spinning a bit more slowly. And sideways. And backwards. The last time I’ve seen mud like that was when I was riding through the jungle in Costa Rica following a similar deluge during the first stage of La Ruta de los Conquistadores. It was nuts. And all over my bike and body. And filling both my eyes. And absolutely fantastic. Our lives should be measured by the number of variables we present ourselves with and with which the world presents us – on that metric, today was one for the books. It was, in one of my favourite adjectives: brilliant. Or, as others have put it: character building. Suffice to say, I loved it. You may have already seen the grin (second from left):

Given the time, now past 11, I’m going to have to regretfully pass on posting a fuller, more typical play-by-play race report from the day. Perhaps Matt will do so for us tomorrow. Before going, however, I’d like to say thank you so much for the incredibly kind comments we’ve been receiving here, through Facebook and via Twitter. Matt and I both are humbled and deeply appreciative. Personally, I would be remiss to not say how touched I’ve been by the emails friends and supporters have sent the past couple of days. I sent out a post to Twitter today observing that these events are as much about the community created around them as they are about the racing itself. Similarly, all of you from various circles are, at a distance, part of this community, part of my community, and a huge part of what has made it possible for me to be here. My thanks again.

There’s a 30 kilometre climb to start the day tomorrow – I’d better hit the sack.

There’s a full race report posted by the race organizers on their site here, and a photo gallery here (no shots of either Team Tinhorn in action).

So when we stopped in Cranbrook to resupply, we grabbed the paper. After reading the article – http://tgam.ca/px7, three observations:

1. Probably not the article you want your mum to read the day before the race you’ve been keeping strategically quiet about.

2. From Matt: “Hey, I’m cooler than I thought I was!” [*raised eyebrow* from his teammate]

3. The boys are now very, very stoked.

*Grins*

It’s also an explanation to those following along on Twitter or Facebook why I got a little philosophical about life and babies a little while back.

Anyway, here it is: http://delibleink.com/?p=279

Fortunately, I’m not alone.  Tickles, Bushleague, and the Hurricane all feel the same giddy anticipation, as witnessed by feverishly typed emails and text messages.  “Who’s packing the disco ball?”  “Don’t forget to pack the XBox!”  “Are we painting flames and fangs on the motorhome!?!?”  All very important questions and comments that are being shot back and forth with an urgency normally reserved for saving a small child that has fallen down a well on an Iowa farm.

There is a simple word that explains this urgency, uneasiness, and excitement: Stoke.  Months of training, organizing, training, doubting, training, whinging, training, recovering, and, oh yah, training, has led to this point.  With decreased riding volume over the last 10 days of our taper, our bodies are actually getting much-needed rest, but unfortunately, the result is a feeling of pent-up energy that leaves us feeling restless and chomping at the bit.

Tickles and Bushleague make Whistler look goooooood.

Fortunately, all of us being athletes of one type or another, we deftly anticipated this reaction and threw together a great final training weekend at Whistler where we were able to further cement the solid friendships that will keep us laughing at and with each other into the times when saddle sores, sunburns, and seized-up legs turn our ‘fun outing’ into a test of will.

Not ones to pass up a great riding opportunity, we also used this final weekend session to polish up on our technical skills riding many of the classic valley trails, and managing to get lost on a trail that is bordered on four sides by paved roads.  It was pure comedy watching Bush and Tickles ‘Laurel and Hardy’ it back and forth insisting that ‘Whistler is that way!’  Without their bike-mounted GPS’s, the two of them reminded me of that classic Far Side couple…

The unfortunate thing about the weekend was the absence of Rumon, but fully understanding of the Hurricane’s family obligations, we managed to get in some great team downhill training without him.  With a little ingenuity, some master craftsmanship, and a healthy degree of bravado, we developed a descent method that is sure to not only land us atop the podium at the end of the first days team time trial in Fernie, but most importantly, to get us there with stoke and in the most dramatic style! (Watch for Bushleague’s shoe in the slo-mo replay!)