Cranky cramps up

To my great delight, I was recently described in a letter to the editor of this magazine as having “an ego issue” (see below). I say “to my great delight” because in all the years I’ve been writing this column, this is only the third letter to the editor that mentions me. I want the author of said letter to know that by taking the time to pen his angry screed, he’s only made my ego issue more pronounced. But this letter writer (and the thousands who share his views but remain silent) will be pleased to learn that my ego recently took a serious beating.

The tale begins months ago, when my boss, Art, announced that our company retreat would be held in Vancouver just before GranFondo Whistler. He said that he and two of my colleagues would be riding the fondo. I should join them. Between bites of my artisanal breakfast crumpet, I tried to tell him I hadn’t been riding much, especially not up anything resembling a hill, but it was in vain. He looked me in the eye, smiled widely, and said, “It’ll be great!”

And then he said something very alarming. “And the next day, we’ll ride back to Vancouver from Whistler.”

I smiled back. In that moment, I decided it would indeed be great. I had four months to regain enough fitness to avoid completely embarrassing myself. This was the kick in the pants I needed. Before I could talk myself out of it, I registered online, and that was that.

Fans of this column will know that I’ve come back from bouts of inertia before – some of them quite lengthy – and that I have a great capacity to turn things around and reawaken the unremarkable masters racer that was Cranky of yore. But this was when I was A) a lot younger; B) not gainfully employed; and C) childless. I was, therefore, blessed with all the free time in the world to ride myself back into shape.

My situation now is very different, in that I am A) definitely past the halfway point of my life, barring unexpected advances in medicine; B) very gainfully employed (thank you, Art, and bless you for that); and C) childful, to the sum of two nearlyfour-year-olds, and thus bereft of both time and energy.

But having paid my money, I “trained,” meaning that I got up early four times a week and rode for about an hour each time. I was sure to end every ride with a grind up my local climb – a two-minute effort at best.

On the day of the event. I was surrounded by thousands of cyclists, many of them thinner and all of them better prepared than I was. But I remained undaunted. I had done this sort of thing before. Art had been right all along. This was going to be great.

And great it was, for the first 20 minutes or so. Then the road started to slope uphill. Choosing to save energy for when I’d really need it, I clicked down into the small ring. Or rather, I tried to. Nothing happened. I tried again. Still nothing. I looked down to see what could be wrong. I was alarmed to see that I was already in the small ring. I had been in the small ring all along.

A nasty sinking feeling came over me. From there, things went from bad to worse. At the 40-km mark, I saw a sign warning of falling rocks. I prayed for a very big one to land directly on my head.

At 70 km, I started to get painful cramps in my quads and hamstrings. I hoped a bear would eat me. I wondered if it would hurt. I concluded that it couldn’t possibly hurt more than finishing this ride.

At 100 km, I had to stop and get off my bike. The cramps had increased to the point that I couldn’t stand up. I sat on the ground and started to cry. A volunteer handed me two bananas and a handful of electrolyte blocks and a soft tissue for my tears. I ate the whole stash (except the tissue) in about 90 seconds and stood up gingerly. I swung a leg over my cursed steed and rolled away from the pit stop.

The next 20 km are completely blank. All I know is that I woke up the next morning in a hotel bed wearing a finisher’s medal. How I got to the hotel is a mystery. Apparently, I finished the ride in five hours. I don’t know how I did it, but somehow I achieved my goal of not completely embarrassing myself.

Oh – and the ride back from Whistler to Vancouver? I did that too – asleep, in the back of a generous colleague’s SUV.

Cranky’s Stance on Mirrors

Your columnist James “Cranky” Ramsay made a bold statement in the Oct./Nov. 2015 issue concerning mirrors: “friends don’t let friends put mirrors on their bikes (or worse yet, on their helmets).” Mirrors on a bike are no different than mirrors on an automobile. When mirrors are used correctly, in combination with a shoulder check or under-the-arm check, they are a valuable tool. I wonder where Cranky obtained the fact that “people festooned with mirrors are often the cause of accidents themselves.” One reason why people don’t cycle more is for a concern for their safety while riding in traffic. Any tool, such as mirrors, that can aid in the safe operation of your bike should be embraced and not criticized by some guy named Cranky who has an ego issue.

Sean Ackland
Cambridge, Ont.