Distance, or ‘enduro’ cycling can take different forms: road, mountain, fatbike, single-speed, paved, gravel, singletrack, prairies, or mountains, group ride or solo, single-day or multi-day… There are lots of possibilities, so I decided to keep mine simple and planned for a single-day (sunrise to sunset), solo, road bike ride in the mountains, along the Jasper to Lake Louise Icefields Parkway.

I chose this route for a few reasons: A) it’s world famous for it’s epic scenery and cycling friendly roads, B) it’s a point-to-point route that allowed someone like me to literally ride as far as possible, with a few staged exit points, at Lake Louise (235km), Banff (288km) or possibly even to Canmore (312km). C) it serves up some leg torching elevation gain, making it not only possible for me to ride far, but also climb big adding some additional legitimacy of the ride, at least in my mind. With this type of ride and the route picked, all that was left was to pick when, so naturally I chose to do it as close to summer Solstice as I could, taking advantage for the long hours of light here in Alberta.

With all that settled, I still kept coming back to one nagging question – what was it I was doing? Was it a ‘longest ride attempt’? A ‘max distance challenge?’ I wasn’t aware of any term to properly describe it, but I was aware of something called ‘Highlining’, which sometimes refers to walking across a wire, high over a gorge or canyon, but if you’re from around here, it’s more commonly referring to a winter sport when you rip up a nearly vertical steep mountain side on a snowmobile to see who can hit the highest point before stalling out and turning back down. The one who sets track in the snow to the highest point holds the highline. When I thought about that, it seemed to fit. A ‘highline ride’, could be an attempt to ride out and set your own distance highline mark. And what I liked about that even more, was that in the case of the route I’d planned, the Icefields Parkway, I had the opportunity to not only set a new personal distance highline, but also a climbing highline, in the same ride. This was starting to feel like a solid concept – one that I felt quietly inspired by.

With this ‘idea’ rolling around in my head, I still wasn’t 100% committed to it, but I started adding more and more distance to my weekly rides, and planned a rough 3 month ramp-up to get me in the range of a 200km test ride, before I set out on the real thing June 25th. Plans aside, with real life and actual commitments, like family, work and friends, it turned out to be a hard training plan to execute. Though I was racking up lots of 100+km rides, I wasn’t getting close to 200 – in fact, by the week prior to June 25^th weekend, the longest ride I’d mustered was 157km with a little over 1500meters of climbing, a far cry from my ideal target training distance. This didn’t instil me with much confidence and I briefly considered postponing. But, for a 40+ year old, husband and father of 2, with a full-time job, and added volunteer obligations, I knew that I couldn’t be too surprised… Adding enduro distance training goals in the mix, was kind of like adding a 4^th chainsaw to my juggling act… So after a solid week of taper/rest, I felt pretty good when my family and I checked into Jasper on the Friday, so I could get all my gear laid out and ready to go for my early morning start, ready or not…

The Grand Depart

3:30am, my Rock Clock alarm went off. I had an hour to wake up, eat, get geared up for rain and 8 degrees, and roll out for my 4:30am start. Big surprise here, was that although the sun isn’t quite up yet at 4:30am, in Edmonton the sky is already light and you can see pretty well – this wasn’t the case in the mountains. Leaving Jasper, the sky was light, but the surrounding mountains and forest were a blackout. Add rain, I couldn’t see much at the start. This made for some interesting first 20km… Not a single car went by, as I followed the beam of my bike light down the highway center-line, buffering myself from whatever wildlife might be hanging out in the roadside darkness.

As the sun came up, and pulled back the curtains, I got my first glimpse of the kinds of views I was going to have throughout the day, including a massive stag elk that crossed the road not far in front of me – but at the same time, the rain picked up along with the headwind, to put a noticeable damper on things. I’m no stranger to riding in bad weather conditions, but wind and rain make you work for it, and when you’re only 2hours into an all-day ride, mentally it cuts a bit deeper…

First major rest stop – 100km

9:35am, I was 100km in, and 10 mins ahead of schedule as I rolled up to the Columbia Icefields for my first planned major rest stop. My support team, my Dad, wife and kids, were all there waiting. My pace was almost bang-on. But my legs felt pretty gassed for only 100km. The cold morning, the headwind, the rain, and most of all, the killer climb leading up to the Icefields with near 14% grade, took its toll. When I got to the top, never mind a match, I felt like I’d burned the book. So, I fuelled back up quickly, kept the stop shorter than planned, not wanting the weight of fatigue to take hold, and I headed back out 15min ahead of schedule.

Just a few km down the road, uncertainty crept into my mind, like a mosquito into a tent. As a continued to grind my way up hill into the SW headwind, I toyed with my first thoughts of pulling the chute. The next planned stop, at Saskatchewan Crossing, would put me close to 160kms, or 100miles, and very near my existing highline mark of 163km. I figured if I got there, and the weather was still bad, I could just roll out another 10km and call it a day. This thought was a fleeting one; one I didn’t take seriously at that point, but it gave me an odd level of comfort, knowing I had a ‘theoretical’ fall-back position if the wheels fell off. Fortunately, at six hours in, the weather had improved. It was warmer, the sun was peaking down at me through the broken clouds; the rain had stopped long enough that I was nearly dry again, and most important of all, I was finally headed back down hill!

Some rare flats, after Columbia Icefields

Winds were not on my side, however… Downhills like these should have been white-knuckle rippers! 80+kph screamers that make you question your sanity when that little voice in your head asks you, ‘um, is this safe?’. But, the winds were big enough that those speeds just weren’t in the cards. I hit a max speed of about 60kph, by pedalling… Instead of asking myself, ‘is this safe?’, I was checking to see if my brakes were rubbing? But still, after the climb up to the Icefields, I was happy with any downhill action I could get – and despite the winds, (and my wasted energy cursing the winds), I rolled into Saskatchewan Crossing nearly 40 mins ahead of schedule and my outlook had markedly improved. It was midday, I was dry and I was ‘already’ 153km in. Things were looking up! But, this is the mountains, so 30mins later as I saddled up again, the pendulum had swung right back on me; the rain was back, I was soaked through in no time, I was cursing the wind again, and knew I was soon headed back uphill. Lake Louise waited only 79km ahead, but with Bow Summit between me and it, at that point, Louise felt like it might as well have been on the dark side of moon.

Locked out at Waterfowl Lake

2:00pm, I caught up to my support team at Waterfowl Lake. It wasn’t a planned stop, but I’d been pushing and was still 30min ahead of schedule so I stopped to check in, and grab a fresh water bottle. The last 10km had felt faster; I was feeling better after my lunch at Sask Crossing, and I was even starting to think about the possibility of pushing on past Lake Louise, for Banff. The problem was, when we went to open the hatch to the SUV to get my new bottle, it didn’t open. The remote fob battery was dead… With my family there on the side of the road, locked out of the vehicle, and no cell service in the valley to call for help, I couldn’t continue on to Lake Louise until we figured things out. How quickly things had changed again… Fortunately for us, eventually a Parks Ranger came by, and used his radio to call for AMA roadside assistance, but they needed to come from Banff, so all in, by the time we were all back on the road again, we’d lost three solid hours… Now, it was 5pm, the sun was getting lower in the sky – I was only 170km into the ride, and I still had 60+km and Bow Summit to climb just to make it to Lake Louise! I had some work to do and it didn’t feel like time was on my side.

View from top of Bow Summit

Bow Summit… is a sustained 40km climb that burns you down, slow and deep. It starts at 1,400m above sea level, and for the first 35km, slowly lifts you like a boat on the tide, up to just over 1750m, before the wave breaks and you’re shot up to nearly 2100m over the next 5km. It’s also the kind of climb that messes with you over and over, tricking you in to thinking you finally see the top, and then just as you approach, it pulls it away around the next corner. It’s a massive push by any measure, but when you’re cresting the 200km mark of your ride, it has the potential to be a plutonium-laced, lactic acid filled wrecking ball. Call it gained experience after the climb up to Icefields, or call it what it really was, simply being too tired to do anything else, but I held an easy pace on this climb, all the way up, focusing on just keeping the legs turning in nice easy circles, so when I got to the top, though I had to stop and put out the lactic acid flames, I knew pretty quickly that somehow, I still had a bit more in the tank. Sitting on top of Bow Summit, looking out across the valley, I felt like things were back on track again, to at least get to Louise.

Climbing Bow Summit, was 100% pure sufferfest pain, but flying back down the other side was pure ‘kid with their first bike’ kind of joy! 45km of sustained and glorious general downward tarmac, from 2100m to Lake Louise at 1550m… Woooosh! Nagging headwind be damned, that section was some of the most incredibly beautiful and enjoyable road riding I’ve ever done.

Chateau Lake Louise 250km and 3000 meters later

7:30pm, finally in the town of Lake Louise, and 240km on the odometer, I knew there was no pushing on to Banff. It was another 50km and on some seriously tired legs, I wasn’t sure I’d get there before it started to get to dark. That said, I didn’t want 240 to be the final number, so just for posterity sake, encouraged by my support team, I made the push up the mountain to Chateau Lake Louise, and back down again to get to 250.5km and a solid 3079m of climbing, officially making this my new highline, for both distance and elevation. That felt pretty good.

Reflecting back on the ride now, so many things need to go right to do a long ride like that, from training, to health, to weather, to logistics like food and water, to avoiding mechanicals/flats, not to mention the dreary thought for crashes and injury… When it comes to a highline attempt, fitness is just one factor. So many other things can ‘beat’ you. For me, without that delay at Waterfowl Lake, although I may have had time to push on to Banff, and go for 300km, who knows… In any case, that’s just not the way it went down – my highline ended at 250km. Now starts the planning for the next one, and how to get to 300km, or should it be 330km to make it a nice and pure 200mile double century…?

Ride Video:

Jasper – Lake Louise Higheline Ride 2016 from Sheldon Smart on Vimeo.

Enter the Vanhawks Valour.

A tremendous Kickstarter success story, Vanhawks managed to raise $820,083 – Over 8x their original goal of $100,000. Billed as a “rethinking of the urban commuter”, in addition to a solidly spec’d carbon fiber bike, there’s certainly no shortage of digital enhancements to be found on the Valour:

• 3-meter blind spot sensor delivering haptic handlebar feedback – Should anything enter into the sensors range (behind the bike) you’ll feel a vibration through the handlebars.
• Handlebar embedded directional LEDs – Proactively tells you where to turn based on the route you selected through the app.
• Smart route tracking – Including traffic, terrain, elevation, etc. This information is enhanced by other peoples travels as well.
• Mesh network security – Other bikes will look for the unique signature of a stolen bike and notify the owner.
• A front wheel dynamo hub will charge all the electronics with a 1-hour ride.
• Metric-based app that collects speed, distance, calories and time (along with the routing features)
• Available as either a single speed or with an internal variable transmission

It’s an impressive list, but at the end of things I’m left asking if it’s all really necessary. What does “being connected” on a bike really mean? What is the benefit? Does this actually make life easier for a new urban commuter? Are new commuters really looking for this depth of information and assistance?

We know that generally speaking the largest barriers to new riders are infrastructure and safety related – I wonder if the technological augmentations in this bike will help to overcome shortcomings in these areas… I can certainly see the value in each feature, and although you could argue that a 3-meter proximity sensor may give a cyclist the valuable seconds they need to avoid a collision, will it really help a new rider overcome their insecurities and get out and ride in the first place? Is that 3 seconds providing the right kind of safety? But perhaps, the Valour will play an important mitigation role in a city whose infrastructure falls short.

I also wonder if new commuters will have enough confidence in these technologies to drop $1,200SUSD. Though for that price, they are getting a pretty solid bike. Interestingly, to help reduce costs Vanhawks developed a new carbon layup for the frame based on biophyllic design (explained lower in the article). I’m unaware of this approach being used elsewhere in the cycling industry, so I’m intrigued to hear how it performs.

At first blush, I can definitely see value in features the Valour is bringing to the table – Those embedded directional LEDs would definitely be handy in areas of town I’m not familiar with. However, when I look at the whole package (admittedly knowing I’m not the target market), I’m not sure that I’m 100% sold.

I think there would be tremendous value in a bike like this being integrated into a bike-share program. Accessibly designed, pain-free routing, potential for built in tours (tourists), internal gearing, etc. (though I’d imagine the bikes in these programs aren’t quite as spendy as the Valour).

I guess at the end of the day, I’m left with more questions than answers, but from a technological standpoint, I’m certainly intrigued. I know this type of evolution is inevitable and is ultimately just one of the steps bringing us closer to being controlled by the machines ;-)

What do you think? Is the Vanhawks Valour a technological marvel, or destroying the simplicity of the bicycle?

Though many people will find it strange, to most XC riders I think, the climb is a badge of honour, and probably where we find the most overall enjoyment, which may sound counter-intuitive given the suffering you endure on a long hard climb. But nevertheless, it’s the combination of suffering through the climb and sense of success when you reach the top that keeps you going and searching for big climbs to conquer… After all, we track our vert KMs with as much or more pride on STRAVA as we do the distance. But let’s not discount that every XC rider also knows, at the top of every climb waits a glorious downhill, which to our thinking tastes so much sweeter to us exclusively, after ’earning’ it. Like the mountain saying to you, ’You made it. You suffered to get here, and now here is your reward. You may pass.’

Now, compare that with what I imagined would be the empty feeling of just stepping off a chair lift at the top, with no effort put in… and I always supposed the experience would leave me, wanting. But admittedly, never actually having experienced true ’DH’, I now realize I was missing some critical perspective. Up until a few months ago, my downhill experience was in my opinion, pretty ’fair’. After all, I’ve raced in some of the biggest XC MTB races Canada and the Canadian Rockies have to offer including, 24 Hours of Adrenaline, National XC Championships in Canmore, the TR3, and the full 7 day Transrockies stage races, which crossed the Continental Divide 3 times and routed us through some of the best downhill tracks places like Kickinghorse, Fernie and Canmore have to offer. All in, I felt I knew what down hilling was about.

The single best downhill experience I can recall from those races was day 2 of the TR3, outside Fernie when we climbed almost all morning, and ripped back down a track called Porky Blue. It was a fast, flowing singletrack screamer that left your hands aching, and your heart pounding from countless close calls, as your 26er XC racer bounced and rattled violently, barely remaining in control. It was amazing! The adrenalin, the speed, the intensity – but, like I said it was also well-earned. I had climbed up there to get it. And for me, this was my benchmark for all DH for years, until that is, I actually went downhill mountain biking – in the Columbian Andes.

I heard the first rooster crow around 4am, as was the norm, the sun was still well below the horizon of the surrounding mountains. I didn’t necessarily need to get up right then, but I was on vacation and had been ‘out’ the night before – a glass of water and a couple Advil were in order – stat.

With my gear packed up for the day, I headed downstairs to the cottage kitchen, made coffee and foraged on day old leftover arripas and eggs. I met my cab at the cottage gates at 5:45am, and explained in my best Spanish that I wanted to go to the Nikai metro station. As we drove down the peaceful, narrow cobblestone mountain roads past small mountain-side farms, Medellin was already awake and well into her day and we hit the busy freeway for the drive from the outskirts deeper into town.

I’d been given the instructions to wait outside on the steps of the main metro station doors, near the ticket purchase kiosks. It was only 6:30am when I arrived, so I had a little time to kill before the planned 7:00am pick-up time. I picked up a coffee and some additional supplies from a nearby convenience store, like plantain chips, a couple candy-bars, water, and some juice – it was another clear beautiful day in Medellin, already hot out. 20 minutes later, not more than a moment after I’d pitched my empty coffee cup, I noticed a white van, loaded down with mountain bikes. I waved back as two enthusiastic arms waved out the open windows toward me as the pulled in and parked.

Nicolas and David, our local guides for the day, greeted me with big grins, and boisterous handshakes before they loaded my bags and I hopped in to the back with my new pals Bojan and Gerry, who I’d met earlier on my trip through my brother. Gerry, a uni friend of my brother was an engineer with Blackberry, and Bojan, also an old uni buddy of my brother, was a PhD. computer hardware architect working in Silicon Valley. Bojan organized the whole bike trip for us, and had also invited two other travelers along who he’d met the day before at his hostel– an American named Grady, and a criminal psychologist from Holland, named Tamar.

As we drove out of town, Nicolas, our guide who spoke very good English, explained what was in store for us. It was a 2 ½ hour drive out of town up into the mountains, to where we’d start the ride. Once there, we’d have well over 2000 meters of vertical decent to look forward to over a planned 35km route of mixed rural gravel roads, and an extensive single-track network made up primarily of ancient horse trails up & down the mountain side – in this part of the world, the primary mode of access to where we were going, was still the horse. Otherwise, this was only the domain of the Toyota Landcruiser or other highly capable off-road mods.

Once out of the city, the long drive up the switchback mountain roads, which might have been an opportunity for us to take in the beauty of the ever-changing Andes’ landscape, we traded for the chance to get to know the other folks in the van. Even though none of us really knew one another, something in that group seemed to click right away at least to me – everyone seemed cool, interesting, and excited to be there, so the conversations between us monopolized our attention for most of the trip up. I chatted with Grady quite a bit, and quickly found him to be a fascinating soul, a mid thirties guy from the U.S., traveling the world, lending his skills wherever he went to help pay his way and extend his adventures wherever they took him – talk about a guy with great stories and perspectives on things… Tamar, an established criminal psychologist in Holland was in the midst of finalizing her plans to take a 2 year sabbatical from work and cycle around the world! It’s not often you meet people like this. And it’s not often that I feel like the least interesting person in the room, but I don’t mind admitting it here.

We finally stopped on the side of a narrow and bumpy gravel road, high up the mountains, seemingly in middle of nowhere, surrounded by tropical forest.

‘We get out now. From here we ride’. Nicolas said excitedly.

Nicolas and David unloaded the bikes, assembled and set them up for each rider. They also handed out all our protective gear, including helmets, gloves, arm and leg guards. I’d never worn the arm/leg guards before, or felt I needed them, so I wondered how necessary they were, but wore them anyway. The van had everything we needed, filtered water, energy snacks, a large cooler with our lunch, as well as all the bike equipment we’d need to handle any mechanical issues we may encounter, and of course a first aid kit.

Nicolas explained that the van was going to act as our follow car, and take the main road back down the mountain, and carry everything for us, but also explained that it would be following us at a distance most of the time because we would be on roads and trails where the vehicle couldn’t access. Knowing this, Nicolas who was on a bike with us, would be in radio contact with David in the van at all times, co-ordinating things so we could meet up with the van at pre-determined cross roads. Reading between the lines on this, I understood that although we had help close by, it wasn’t always going to be immediately accessible, so it would be important to keep the rubber side down…

The bikes were impressive. Brand new, 150mm full suspension Trek Remedy 7, 29ers with seriously mean looking knobbies! By far the biggest, most capable downhill rig I’ve ever ridden. At first it felt massive, unwieldy – but I immediately appreciated its potential and the quality and newness of the bike. I couldn’t wait to point it downhill.

It was roughly 11am when we finally parted ways from the follow vehicle – and we started off, but instead of pointing our bikes down hill, we were instructed to start pedalling our way further up the mountain. At first I didn’t understand why we just hadn’t been let out further up the road, but as we climbed, the road quickly and clearly turned impassable for most vehicles. It even became a bit of a slog for us on the bikes. Thankfully though, it wasn’t long before the chatter of the forest died off, and the dark canopy pealed back as we crested the top and the massive valley floor opened up far and wide, below the bright blue Colombian sky.

Nicolas pointed far west down the valley to a distant village perched on a ridgeline and explained, ‘We’ll follow the road down to that village. May take us about 20 – 25 minutes and then we’ll stop for lunch and coffee.’

This sounded good.

Up here the dirt roads were hard, sun-baked, and a little sketchy with a thin layer of gravel that allowed them to still be very fast, but also giving you the sense that you were always sliding around. Toss in the random bumps and larger rocks, salted along the road, and you had to pay attention, especially around the numerous downward pitching switchbacks. This was hard to do because the views from up here were amazing, and distracting. In fact we hadn’t been going that long, not more than 15 minutes when our group had its first crash. Bojan, an experienced downhiller, had screamed off from the start and taken the lead down the road. I was right behind him and flyin’ too, feeling confident on a rig that was so heavy and stable, but at each corner, he’d go out of sight for a moment till I came around it. On one corner however, I watched him disappear and then saw a massive puff of dust through the trees and heard a loud clatter. As I came around, I saw Bojan hopping up and down like a maniac next to his bike, which he’d laid down hard… Thankfully he was okay – just a case of taking the corner too hot, but it was road rash city for him! His right shoulder, upper arm and thigh took a beating – looked like he’d cozied up to a cheese grater. He put on a brave face, but it was clear it hurt. I wasn’t sure if he was going to continue… But, he did. The bike was fine, and after just a few minutes to collect himself, we set off again – though I think we all dialled it back a bit until we rolled into the colourful little town of, Sopetran.

Sopetran was a bustling mountain metropolis of just shy of 100 people, and consisted of only one road. It was a magical little place in the world, with well-kept brightly painted houses, and a patchwork of surrounding micro farms, mostly coffee and plantains. Nicolas explained that often the two grow together because the plantain trees provide the shade the coffee needs to grow. This was a great lunch spot – sitting in the shade of the café veranda, shielded from the blazing sun, looking down from this tiny mountain town, you felt like you were honestly on the top of the world. It was so quaint, and peaceful, with no vehicles at all except for ours.

After a big lunch, prepared by David and Nicolas and some fresh brewed Colombian coffee, we slathered on some more sunscreen, geared back up and rolled about 10 minutes further down the mountain to our first trailhead.

‘Singletrack here, is… different than you might be used to. These are ancient horse trails, completely natural with no trail maintenance or grooming. It can be tricky.’ Nicolas said, nodding assuredly.

‘So it’s up to you if you want to follow me this way, or stick to the road and the go with the vehicle, which will also be very nice too, but much easier. This trail meets back up with the road so we will all re-connect later.’

The roads where fun, and fast but I wasn’t about to turn down the single-track… ‘It couldn’t be that tricky on this bike’, so I thought…

Most of us followed Nicolas down the trail while one of us stuck to the road and we parted ways. At first the trail was essentially what I expected and felt familiar to trails at home, but it started to steepen, and narrow into more of a shallow v-shaped gully, maybe 2 or 3 feet deep, shaped by erosion – and the large rocks kicked loose by the horses made it, just as Nicolas said, ‘tricky’. I quickly fell far behind both Nicolas and Grady.

When I caught back up at the next fork in the road where they’d stopped to wait for the group, I said, ‘Yes. It is tricky! That’s hard work, too.’ already feeling like my back, shoulders, arms and hands were taking a beating.

‘Try not so much brake.’ Nicolas suggested. ‘You need to go fast and let the bike work for you. If you have speed, you’ll roll over everything. Also, lower your seat.’

He’d clearly left me in his dust on that trail, so I didn’t doubt his advice but other than dropping the seat height, I was dubious about my ability to follow it out.

Once we were all back together, we continued and I quickly got better – the lowered seat helped, dropping my center of gravity, and changing my body position so I sat further back behind the bars. And, now feeling more comfortable, I let the bike carry more speed and looked further down the trail, instead of focusing on each big rock immediately in front of me. To my surprise the bike took it all, without so much as a wince – though not to say it wasn’t still hard work. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have been so surprised, but in my experience with XC bikes, trust me, the kinds of rocks I was working so hard at first to dodge would have meant a taco’d wheel and a spectacular crash if I’d hit them on my racer.

We got to the bottom of that section and waited for the follow car to catch up. I was starting to get comfortable on the bike and lovin’ it, but I was also already starting the feel some fatigue – as any MTB’er knows, going downhill isn’t as easy as it sounds. I looked at my watch. It was nearing 2:00 in the afternoon and to me, even with the lunch stop, we’d already put in a reasonable amount of down-hilling – all in, maybe a solid hour’s worth… We were in some thick forest at that point so I couldn’t see where we were really, but I imagined we were probably nearing the bottom. I was wrong. We’d only covered 10km. We still had 25kms to go and Nicolas suggested we pick up the pace. We had to take the road for a little while, before we hit the next trailhead, and then after that, we had to do some climbing.

‘How long is the climb?’ Bojan asked.

‘About 30 minutes, by bike.’ answered Nicolas.

After another blistering fast rip down the road, the next section of single track came up quickly. Again, most of us dropped into it. This is where I had my first crash of the day, and learned the value of the shin and arm guards. Though I hit the deck pretty hard, I jumped back up largely unscathed. Note to self: protection is good. Funny thing was I didn’t realize just how soon I’d need that protection again. Piloting down a narrow section of trail with high dirt/rock walls, I came around the final switchback leaning so far back that I was essentially sitting on the rear tire. I rolled out the bottom fast and back out on to the road, where I skilfully skidded out and tipped the bike over on the bigger rocks lining the sides of the road. Needless to say, everyone was very impressed. But again, thank you shin and arm guards.

30 minutes of climbing up a rocky and reasonably steep dirt road on a downhill rig, might seem lame, but according to Nicolas it was going to be worth it, and in all honesty, I enjoyed it. I popped the seat back up a few inches, and settled into the slow grind along with those that also chose to pedal up, instead of ride in the van. And I have to say, I was impressed with both Grady and Tamar, who kept up on that section no problem. I even admit that I put a pretty sincere dig in around the 3/4 of the way up mark and both of them stayed on, especially Tamar – those Hollanders and their bikes…

Once at the top, we rode down a flat section of road that went along the side of the mountain for a while. It was at this point, just riding along in the late afternoon sun, past even tinnier little villages, and farms, smiling a waving kids leading coffee bean sack laden horses and looking out across the vast valley below, where I had time to reflect on where I was, what I was doing – and the amazing people I was sharing this day with. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of ‘awe’ about it all. I felt like it was already a day I was never going to forget. But the best was still yet to come.

Back with the follow vehicle, and all together again, we powered up on snacks, chugged some water, and rolled out on the final 16km drop.

‘This is a why I wanted to come across the valley this way. From here, we can go right to the bottom, and link together many amazing trails.’ said Nicolas.

Then pointing out at the sun, sitting low in the sky, he smiled and added, ‘We should get going.’

And with that, it was game on. Nicolas led, and we did our best to keep up, as he took us down the mountain, from trail to trail, only hitting the road long enough to cross it before dropping back into the next section of single-track. It was glorious as we dipped in and out of the forest cover, giving us the most incredible glimpses of the valley cast in the glow of the setting sun as we descended. And the trails just seemed to get sweeter and sweeter with more flow and speed – it was pure joy, but if I’m honest, it was also shockingly exhausting. My arms were running out of steam, so it was bittersweet when with 6km left, Nicolas got a flat.

The glistening, dust-covered smiling faces of the group said it all as we took a welcomed last breather and soaked in the view. But it was a short reprieve. Nicolas had his tire changed in no time and we were on the home stretch.

The last section was like nothing I could have imagined. It consisted of a deep, narrow canyon-like system of trails, eroded and sculpted by a century or more of use. The walls on either side, at times 20 feet high, were within arms reach much of the time, as you more like ‘surfed’ down them around switchback after switchback, on the soft sandy bottom. I was probably as close as I’ve ever come to experiencing pure elation, on a bike. I didn’t care how much my hands cramped, my arms ached or my back screamed… when we finally came ripping out at the bottom, back on to the road, I wanted to go right back up and do it all over again – every kilometer, every vertical meter of it… And I know I wasn’t the only one. As we all rolled out that last km down into town to the pick up point, there wasn’t much chatter – everyone was quiet. From total exhaustion – sure, but I think more from the feeling of just being totally and completely happy, pure and simple. And that is what I now think down hilling is ultimately about – the honest and intense joy of it. Why would you ever want to spoil that by slogging a DH rig up the mountain…

We ended the day off with a few well-earned ice cold Aguilas, and Club Columbia Rojos.

So, after decades of mountain biking, that was my first ‘real’ downhill experience. Not too shabby if you ask me. But was it good enough to convert this old XC racer? Well, let’s just say I’ve already started planning where my 2^nd downhill experience will take me.

BIG thank you to Nicolas and David, our excellent tour guides, to the San Gil Tour Company and Colombian Bike Junkies, for a fantastic, fun, safe, well-organized and supported day out on the bikes.

www.colombianbikejunkies.com

And thank you too, to Bojan, Gerry, Grady and Tamar. I’d ride with any of you, anywhere.

We were lucky enough to have our ‘foreign corespondent’ Rob Pryor do some legwork and catch up with Aaron Schooler to see how his season overseas is progressing.

But therein is the fun of it all.

Thank you to Velocity, Shaun Adamson, the race sponsors and all the the race volunteers for braving the icy roads, the snow, and the cold to put on a great event for all of us. Thanks also for the great coffee, hot chocolate, the burgers and the epic waffles!

Race results will be posted here: http://www.albertabicycle.ab.ca/results

Fatbike and XC ski season here we come!

Meet Mark McConnell.

A fashionably moustachioed and sometimes bearded bike messenger on the mean streets of downtown Calgary, schlepping packages to support his aspirations of becoming a professional cyclist. At 26 years old he’s been racing bikes seriously for five years, Cat 2 Road and Elite Cyclocross for local club, Synergy Racing p/b SRI Importing. He’s also founder of Hot Sauce Cycling – selling custom designed Hot Sauce T-shirts and cycling caps for $20 a pop, and with each sale he gets another step closer to his dream of racing against the world’s best!

I had the chance to catch up with Mark, to learn more about him, his swag-fuelled European dream and his take on what it’s like being a racer from Alberta.

B/R: Where’d it all start – what was the moment you said, ‘yup, the bike is for me’?

MM: I reluctantly let cycling pedal its way into my life in 2007, after blowing out my knee in my Cross Country days with the UofC Dinos in my first year of University. I hopped on the bike as a way to rebuild the atrophied muscles after a scope surgery on my right knee. Originally, I hated cycling – all I wanted to do was run again, but after the injury, I could never get back to consistent miles without my body breaking down. As my quads grew, the bike started to take precedence. After a year of juggling both running and riding, I decided to hang up my sneakers for good, and turned them in for a pair of SPDs instead.

B/R: How’d you get started in racing – has it always been ‘all about Cross’, or have you played the field a bit?

MM: After a couple years of riding, mostly commuting and doing my own ghetto trainer sessions on my parents 1980’s stationary static belt trainer – I started to get the itch to compete again. In 2009, I started training under the National Cycling Center (NCC) through the Olympic Oval in Calgary. I told them that in five years I wanted to be on the Canadian National Team – at the time I meant for road cycling. It’s funny that now, five years later, one of my biggest goals this year is to make the Canadian National Cyclocross team for Worlds in Tabor, CZE. Alas, it was through that program that I synced up with Synergy Racing, a local club whose primary focus is developing youth riders, but are open to all ages. I hit the road season that Spring in full force, thankful for the fitness I developed during my years of running, I upgraded from Cat 5 to the cusp of Cat 2 in my first Summer of racing bicycles – barring a few crashes that season (which are inevitable for most as they journey through the Cats), it probably would have happened.

B/R: So, how & why Cross?

MM: With summer’s Road season over: one carbon frame and two broken wheels later, I turned to race Cyclocross as it’s lure for more forgiving crashes and crossover from Cross Country running looked too enticing to pass up.

B/R: What’s the race scene like here, at the Elite level? Is the calibre high enough in Alberta to bridge the gap to larger markets, like the U.S. and even Europe?

MM: The race scene in Alberta is catered to mountain bikers before roadies, first and foremost. The course designs and limited park space often make for a very technical, less power orientated race. This is usually the opposite with US racing and even more so with European racing. There will be sections in Europe where a minute to two minutes of sustained big geared efforts are required, we just dont get that same style of racing over here which is why it’s so important to train for and venture to these bigger races if one is vying for a pro contract. The experience is incomparable to racing at home. But thankfully, there are some incredibly strong riders here in Alberta that keep me on my limits week in and week out — riders like Michael van den Ham and Dustin Andrews – both of them are capable of going top 5 at Nationals this year IMO.

B/R: Can you tell us more about your bid to race in Europe? Where did the idea come from? What or who inspired you?

MM: This is going to be my second time back racing in Europe. I hopped the pond in 2012 with Aaron Schooler – Elite ‘Crosser from Edmonton who made the move to Germany with his wife, Emily in 2012 and now races for the pro team Focus. Leading up to their move, Aaron and I spent a couple of seasons venturing to UCI cross races in the States, splitting the cost of travel, but he also showed me what it took to get him to the level he’s riding at now. I would say alot of the way I carry myself as a rider now was built from the lessons he tried to instil in me years ago – it was very much a ‘I’ll tell you now and you’ll hear me later’ kind of story. Realizing that if I want to turn pro, I have to start acting like one – has been the largest lesson I’m still continuing to learn.

B/R: Glad you brought Schooler up. He’s been over there again this year, and racing a lot. You think he’ll come back to Canada for Nationals and be on another level – maybe beat Kabush?

MM: I think going across the pond offers an invaluable experience of World Class racing. Guys like Schooler who have tossed themselves into the deep end of Elite Cross racing and living life with cycling as the primary focus will always beat the guys who are more loosely committed or staying in a ‘smaller pond’ of racing 9 times out of 10. Whether he’ll stick it to Kabush is another story. Kabush is still the King of Canadian Cross but I see a list of gents who are working away to try and dethrone him. Winnipeg will be an interesting and riveting battle to say the least.

B/R: In a perfect world, once you’re over there, what happens then? What’s the dream that’s driving you?

MM: I’m going over to become a student of the sport and soak up as much as I can from racing with the best. With four World Cups and multiple Superprestige races to attend, it’s going to be the first time since 2012 that I’ll be able to train and race full time without working as a courier and distracted with ‘real life’. Belgium represents my getaway, my someday, only this time, along with my wife, Aimee. I get to live life as a full-time cyclist for three months from December until March. Eventually I’d love to be in a position where I could sync up with a pro team and race over there for an entire season where travel, bikes, everything is basically taken care of by the team. But I’ve been lucky enough to have incredible support from guys like Rob Pryor of SRI Importing and Synergy Racing, as well as Dan Richter, owner of Cafe Roubaix, who is building me a few sets of his custom carbon wheels. Then there’s guys like Chris Webster from The Cyclepath Calgary who have encouraged and supported me from the start, all the way to Steve Smith of BioRacer who is taking care of the custom race kit with all the collaborating sponsors this year. I’ve basically tried to build my own support network here at home to try and springboard to Belgium. This is also where the idea of Hot Sauce Cycling came into action — selling t-shirts and cycling caps to raise funds for Europe.

B/R: So why “Hotsauce”? What’s the story there?

MM: “Hot Sauce” is my bike racer alter-ego. The nickname was given to me years ago, joking around with a few guys at The Cyclepath. It stuck and kind of took on a life of its own. This year instead of asking for a handout, I thought I could give something unique back to the community by printing shirts and caps with the custom logo we designed and selling them for $20 each as a way to fundraise for Europe. I ran the numbers last night, over the last six weeks, I’ve sold 220/250 t-shirts and 85/100 cycling caps. I’m pretty overwhelmed and humbled even by the support received from the community, even strangers literally buying the shirts off our backs at times. But that’s another story. If you’d like to buy a t-shirt or cap: check out ‘Hot Sauce Cycling‘ on Facebook and I can ship one to you. If you’d like to follow along with my European adventure, check out on Twitter @hotsaucecycling, @hotsaucecycling on Instagram or HotSauceCycling.wordpress.com for blog updates.

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At this point there aren’t many T-shirt and caps left, so if you want one, get in line. Mark’s dream seems to have gained the support of many from around Calgary and Edmonton. And why wouldn’t it? In my opinion, this is something we should get behind and cheer on – it’s not everyday an Alberta-boy gets the chance to give it a go overseas. In a way, by supporting Mark, we’re all sort of going along for the ride.

There’s nothing more humiliating than seeing a DNF next to your name on a results sheet. There’s no space for excuses there… Just three letters, staring back at you – and everyone else, for that matter.

Sure, if you taco your wheel, shred your derailleur, or snap your femur, it’s pretty legit. But what about that feeling of complete helplessness mid-race… When you’re out of breath, miserable, aching… Isn’t that what cross is all about?

Sure you could tough it out to the finish, “but why?” asks the little voice inside your head… Or at least that’s what it said to me.

STAGE 1 – Birth

A DNF does not simply come into existence, like anything else it is born. Either from one single event, or from a small series of events building upon each other. In my case, it was a crash… Not devastating by any means, but certainly sincere. Overmedicated and a little foggy, I grabbed a fistful of front brake on a wet, off-camber downhill corner. Needless to say, my bike quickly disappeared underneath me, tumbling down the hill in one direction, while I gruffly slammed into the ground in another.

My only thoughts at this point were finding my bike and catching my breath.

STAGE 2 – Contemplation

Unless the ‘event’ is so severe that you really can’t get up, this step tends to creep up on you. My initial reaction after any crash is to get back on the bike as quickly as possible, and do an injury/systems check as I get rolling. Usually things will normalize quickly, but in cases that may lead to a DNF there’s often something niggling that just doesn’t disappear. This is when the doubts first begin to creep into the back of your mind.

After remounting my chain and jumping back in the mix I found myself quickly drifting back… It felt like I was pedalling backwards. My body ached from the crash and I just couldn’t seem to catch my breath. I grunted through the bumpy straightaway with nothing but mashed potatoes in my legs. Nothing was fundamentally wrong, I just couldn’t put anything together. As I commiserated I found myself rolling past the finish tent.

This is where I briefly stopped to consider my fate.

After a heavy sigh, I rode to the tent and let the officials know I was pulling the chute – They didn’t seem too concerned by the esoteric internal struggle with which I grappled.

I rolled off the course in despair.

STAGE 3 – Embarrassment & Humiliation

As is the nature of these things, the instant you’re no longer racing you start feeling considerably better and start to wonder what the hell your problem was. Why on earth had I wussed out so grievously?! Were things really that bad?! Why didn’t I just suck it up and finish what I had started?!

The guilt and sense of failure are too much to bear.

Of course it’s been shown that similar sentiments exist in those who undergo VO2 Max testing… They hook you up, tell you to go until you can go no more, and without fail, people always think they could have gone even harder after the fact.

Now, to be clear, I had excuses in spades… Head cold, overmedicated to the gills (Tylenol, Benylin, Vicks VapoRub & RedBull), generally unfit, bald tires, up early, kids were acting up, crashed hard, etc… All within the boundaries of legitimacy, no doubt. But there’s just something tough to swallow about those three letters… DNF.

Even worse is talking to your fellow competitors after the race… Explaining your feebleness over and over, while your friends and competitors judge you with disdain. It’s the worst.

In hindsight, I may have preferred a snapped femur ;-)

STAGE 4 – Acceptance

Slowly however, time passes and you’re able to come to terms with your new reality. You understand that despite your temporary embarrassment and open humiliation, you will live to ride another day. This too shall pass.

As with any set back in life, after you’re able to process your catastrophic failure, it’s important to look forward, bringing us to Step 5.

STAGE 5 – Retribution

I’d like to say that after a disappointing DNF, I rallied the next day, crushed my competition and stood high upon the podium basking in glory… And although this wasn’t quite the case, I would classify my return as a success.

I started strong, mixed it up with some other fine gentlemen in the middle of the pack, tried my best to race smart and rallied when I needed to, stronger today than I was yesterday because of what I had overcome. More steeled and resilient because of my DNF.

I wouldn’t say it completely redeemed my weekend, but it felt good to hold things together.

It’s possible, that these 5 stages are a tad melodramatic. But it’s cross. It’s blood, sweat and tears. It’s just too bad all I was able to show up for was the tears ;-)

The Drie Zussen Superprestige was held in beautiful Canmore, AB. A huge thanks goes out to the ABA and all the volunteers. You can have a look at all my event photos here.

This year reassured me of that fact, without question.

It wasn’t that many years ago now. Well, okay, it was probably 5-6 years ago… Dang. Anyway, I remember my focus was still on MTB, fully. To me MTB was all there was. I didn’t do road or want to, and I’d never even heard of CX really. I was out for a trail ride on my own in the valley, and I ran into Pepper. I didn’t know her, but I recognized her. I said ‘Hey…’. She said ‘Hey’. I asked if she was going to Canmore for what I think was the Iron Lung. She said ‘No. I’m already in cross mode.’ I didn’t know what that meant, but I said something like ‘Oh yeah’, and nodded knowingly. Then she added, ‘It’s all about cross’ and then smirked… I didn’t get it, but I never forgot it, and I still remember it today because I’ve caught myself saying it more and more the last few seasons. For me, when it comes to racing, it really is ‘all about cross’ for many reasons – and the Dark Knight is the Acme of cross races.

What do I love about cross? The fury, the kaos, the mayhem, the suffering, the pure fun… What’s not to love? The Dark Knight just takes it all to a new level. This year, was certainly an upgrade from 2013. More twists, more turns, addition of fire barriers, a ‘choose your own adventure’ style log-run and ramp-jump section. Add in halmark features like the smoke tunnel, the discoball forest section, the agitator bowl, and the ‘short-cut of gastronomic peril’ plus the Arkham race and you’ve got a recipe for cyclocross nirvana.

The Dark Knight has been growing in popularity year-over-year to no big surprise. This year, it set records, with 300 racers opting in for a seat at the cool kids table. It’s not a stretch to predict this event will sell out completely in 2015 so if you’re planning on getting in on the madness, best keep your eye out for early registration, or budget for a bribe of some kind.

If you’re interested in looking back at DKs gone by, click away: DK 2012, DK 2013

Kudos to all those behind the scenes who make the DK what it is, cause what it is, is awesome!

On a recent ride, I came closer to getting hit by a vehicle than I’ve ever come in my life… I felt the sideview mirror of your 1990s burgundy Dodge Caravan brush my left elbow as you sped by me!

In the seconds after, I struggled with what just happened. I questioned if I’d been out of line, maybe too far from the curb, but I wasn’t. I gave you lots of room, and the two cars that had passed me moments before you, confirmed that – you had room. I also questioned if you were really going that fast, but I could still hear the sound of your engine revving up in my ears… No, you sped up as you drove by, through that construction zone going north on 121 St near Fox Drive, coming needlessly close to me, and you put my life at risk when you did!

With that clear in my head, I looked ahead and saw you stopped at the next set of lights, so I raced after you, planning to get a picture of your plate, and hopefully of you, so I could report you to the police. I didn’t know if they’d be able to do anything… I mean at best that should be reckless driving, or maybe assault. At worst, and I have a hard time saying it, you tired to kill me. But before I could even get close enough to find out, you pulled away and drove right through the red light! Did you see me in your rearview mirror? If you ran the light to get away, that just confirms to me that you knew you scared me, that you tried to scare me, and I will admit that thought still scares me today as I write this. If you just ran that light for fun, I can’t say I’m any more comforted, knowing a driver like you is on the road with me when I’m driving with my family.

Yeah, that’s right – I have a family. Did you think about who I might be, when you decided to buzz me like that? Did you wonder if I had a wife and two small children at home to care for? Or was I just a faceless cyclist, an annoyance on the road to you? I really do wonder… Did you do it on purpose or where you just that oblivious? In the meantime, I’m going to try and keep off the roads even more, to stick to shared pathways, bike lanes and dedicated paths – and for that matter, I may take to some sidewalks when necessary… At least I’ll have alive to pay the tickets.

Sincerely,

A husband, a father, a brother, a son, a motorist and a cyclist.

Taking time off the bike is a normal, and healthy thing to do. Your body and your mind both need a break from time to time, to rest, recover and recharge. But, after last year’s cyclocross season, I stepped off the bike for more than a break – it was nearly 5 month black hole… that was largely unplanned and definitely unwelcome.

2013’s CX season was my most successful to date. I had focused my entire riding season around it, keeping my miles up through the winter and well into the spring and summer, before ramping up the intensity just prior to September. The result was I had reasonable fitness going in, certainly the best I’d had to date, and I was able to peak in October and early November – perfect timing for our season here in Alberta. The shocker for me though, was that by mid Nov, I was done! It was lights out. I’d cracked. Physically, I felt drained, between building work stress, home-life with family and kids, not sleeping or eating well and then riding/racing… my energy levels plummeted. And mentally, I was zapped too. I knew it was time for a break, but the idea at the time was for a few weeks, not 5 months.

When Christmas came and went, I considered getting the stationary trainer out, but brushed that off easily enough, still utterly unmotivated. When January wrapped up, I figured it was time to get my butt back in gear again, but it was the dead of winter, with limited sunlight during the day, and I just didn’t have it in me. I was at an all time low. And with sleep problems still persisting, I decided to check in with the doctor.

It didn’t take long for her to suggest I was suffering from S.A.D, , or maybe something worse – something more pervasive. She ran some tests and I was fit as a fiddle, except my vitamin D was seriously low, which seemed to coincide with S.A.D. So, on top of taking my vitamin D, she told me to get moving again, outside for walks and to get back on the bike. And as much as I didn’t want to, she said I had to. She told me to get back on the bike, to even just sit on it and pedal for 5 or 10 minutes, if that’s all I could muster, but I had to start.

And, so I did, literally just sitting on the bike in my basement, turning the legs the first few times for no more than 20 mins. It felt ridiculous. It felt futile, and I didn’t see any point really. But, after a few weeks of that, I started to come around a bit. I had a few spins where I started to push, to break a sweat, and that started to feel good again. This was the beginning of the road back. That was back in February, just the earliest turns of the pedal, but since April really,  I’ve been riding again ever since. In June I rode around 300km. In July I logged just shy of 550km, and in Aug I’m on pace for around 750km right now. Things are definitely looking up!

Interestingly, looking back, getting back on the bike itself wasn’t what I was ultimately trying to do. I was really trying to kick-start myself. Somewhere back in November I lost something. I slipped, while I wasn’t paying attention to how far down I let myself go. The bike was just a means to an end to spark things inside me again– and it’s a powerful one for me. I can find so much joy in the bike, even when that’s just riding in my basement chasing a TSS score. Now that I’ve been able to get back outside and roll around as much as I have (mostly early mornings), I’ve really felt something inside turnaround – and it permeates into everything else, my work, my family and my kids, even my sleep is improved. Although breaks from things, even the things we love like bikes, are healthy, something I won’t let myself ever do again is to allow myself go back to that dark, unmotivated space where you can’t seem to get yourself going again. That’s a place I don’t ever want to revisit.

I started writing this article a couple weeks ago now, before, as you likely heard that Robin Williams died. I was at work that day, in a bubble, and didn’t hear about it until I got home. It was certainly socking and very sad news. Something that struck me though when I heard about it, was that he was also a cyclist. In fact he was a rider, and even a racer. Then, just tonight, to my delight, I came across this article in the Wall Street Journal where I learned that he was also a passionate collector of rare bikes as well. Part of me was impressed by that, to know he loved cycling so much, but I was also troubled by it, because despite his intense passion for bikes and riding, we can only assume he felt his troubles were greater than any bike ride could ever fix…

Last Nov I may have had a taste of what many people have to face and to a much more crippling degree. I hope all the attention this insidious disease is receiving right now helps to shed a lot more light on an issue we currently barely acknowledge enough to begin to understand it. In the meantime, for what it’s worth, I’m going to keep riding my bike. I hope you do to.

Side Note: Some great cycling communities are doing some really cool things to raise awareness. Check out Cycle Against Suicide here:

http://www.cycleagainstsuicide.com/