Post-Idiot Stress Syndrome

“We may not be able to prevent every fatality on our roads but we owe it to those who have died — and to each other — to do what we can to make our roads safer”.
Toronto Star op-ed article, August 28, 2011

Call me prejudiced. To me, a person who would get in his car, drive a few blocks, line up with other cars, and then remain seated behind the wheel to order, pay for, pick up and consume his breakfast would not seem like a big supporter of cycling in the city. I’ve often joked to myself that it can be dangerous to get between a McDonald’s customer and his Sausage McMuffin. This morning I did, and almost became a Sausage McMuffin myself.

I was riding to work, westbound in the bike lane on Cosburn. A car turning left very rapidly in front of me into the McDonald’s drive-through came within inches of knocking me down, hard. Did the driver later think later about the fact that he could have killed me? Or did he think: “stupid bikes; shouldn’t be on the goddamn road”?

I don’t think I am a stupid bike. I try to be a safe rider. I wear a helmet, signal my turns and use lots of bright lights at night. I actually come to a stop at stop signs. This last action causes some bemusement among drivers, who take it as an invitation to roll on through in front of me without stopping themselves. So what more can I do?

This section of Cosburn is a bit of a graveyard. There is always a crowd of vehicles trying to squeeze into the hopelessly un-supersized McDonald’s parking lot. The last thing any of the burger-for-breakfast club are looking out for is a bicycle, despite the fact that a painted bike lane runs right down the side of the road. Should I expect less from the drive-through demographic then?

The frightening thing is that this morning’s scare was only one of many such near misses, and every cyclist has a compendium of similar there-I-wuz stories. (As I write this, a driver has been charged with driving up onto the sidewalk and knocking a woman off her bike with his car following an altercation, then fleeing the scene.)

What defense do we have against this? Almost daily I have to take some kind of evasive action to escape a sloppy or selfish driver while I’m riding to work. The other day I was cut off by a car making a last-minute unannounced exit off the Bloor Viaduct towards the Don Valley Parkway. His car sported a bumper sticker reading “Jesus is the Answer”. No, I thought, signalling your turns is the answer.

I can testify that nearly being run over, even if it happens often, is not something you get used to.

A female cyclist was killed the other day by a right-turning truck. Although there is no way to know if this particular accident could have been avoided, what I do know is that the circumstances of her tragic death lessen the value of living in this city. To borrow from John Donne, the death of anyone on our streets diminishes us all.

Bike lanes are not the answer; side guards on trucks are not the answer; pitched war between cyclists and motorists is definitely not the answer. Awareness and enlightenment might be the beginning to an answer, and sadly I suspect that neither of these things will happen here any time soon. Our mayor has implied that we cyclists – along with streetcars and other forms of above ground transit - are part of some perversely imagined ‘war on the car’, which he pledged to end when he took office. He was elected by a landslide.

Mayor McCheese and his Sausage McMuffin Brigade have won this battle for now; I am weary of the stress. After this week, my commuting bike is going away for the winter. Even though the roads are still clear and there is plenty of autumn riding left to do, it is getting too dark and cold and mean out there.

A Season for New Promises

Toronto Waterfront Marathon and Beyond

All men should strive to learn before they die, what they are running from, and to, and why.
James Thurber

Although most of the leaves are still clinging stubbornly to the trees and serious snow is still more than a month off, it is finally time to admit that my racing season is over. It’s a funny feeling; since last January I have given myself something specific to train for every day, and now I’m running in place for a while. I managed an 80-minute spinning workout and a 10K run this weekend, but these are maintenance activities only. It’s really time for a rest.

As always, I had some unexpected challenges thrown at me this year: blistering headwinds in Death Valley and mechanical problems and dehydration at Ironman. I really do try to allow these curves and speedbumps to add to the richness of the experience. After all, what’s the point in entering one of these things if I know beforehand exactly how it's going to turn out? It would be like starting to read a mystery when I already knew who done it. I subscribe to the truism that a success is deeper in proportion to how well you maintain your focus after sudden changes in fortune.

I finished my year by setting an unplanned goal; because I was slowed down so much in the marathon at Ironman in August, I was determined to run a more satisfying one, so I entered the Scotiabank Toronto Waterfront Marathon on October 16. Having spent all summer training at Ironman pace (i.e. slow) I was under no illusion that I would set any personal records for speed. Nor would I try; I just wanted one more chance to run the distance.

The Waterfront Marathon is a beautifully organized event and offers one of the best race routes I can think of. Not only is it flat and fast, it nicely limits the runners’ exposure to the snarly entitled automotive element that even on a Sunday morning clogs and cheapens our city. This year the route looped through the Beach area; this is a great addition as the Beachers are refreshingly welcoming and supportive of special events that take over their streets.

After battling the wind in Death Valley and the cold at Blue Mountain this year, I was provided with a brisk mixture of both at the Waterfront marathon, with a few raindrops thrown in. Bundled up in running tights, gloves and a jacket I was nicely buffered from the unfriendly weather, although some people showed up in just a singlet and shorts. I hope they survived; I am not nearly that tough.

I seeded myself toward the back of the field of 4,000 marathoners, crossing the starting line about twelve minutes after the gun went off. To me there is a mystique and a romance to a marathon and I always start out suffused with uncertainty and anticipation. No matter how many I have finished, and no matter how well-prepared I am there is a sense each time that I am running into unknown territory and that the outcome will remain a mystery until the last few steps. After having run this distance for a quarter of a century, I still regard every step as an adventure and a gift.

I trotted comfortably westward along Lakeshore Boulevard and back along Queen’s Quay and at the half-marathon point I joined a Pace Bunny and his group. I’ve never done this before and it felt good to have someone else keep track of the time and speed for a while. In the Comrades Marathon in South Africa this is known as ‘hopping on the bus’ and the simple act of falling in with a group has helped many runners to complete that 89-kilometre distance. By the time I joined these Bunny folks there was not a lot of casual chatter occurring; at this point most runners are in conversation with their bodies, feeling the accumulated kilometres and negotiating with their pounded feet the distance to the next aid station.

At about 39 km I was becoming tired and sore myself, but decided I wanted to push myself a bit harder, so I left the Bunny bunch and dashed toward the finish. (Actually the official splits for the last few kilometres show that my speed wasn’t really much faster than it had been all along, but I felt like I was dashing). I flew through the final blocks and hopped across the finish line. I had run at a strong, even pace and I finished feeling wearily refreshed. By my count this was my twentieth marathon; each one is uniquely remembered and treasured by me.

So after two marathons, two cycling centuries and an Ironman, I am calling this season complete. I gratefully managed to avoid serious injury, either from overuse or accidental trauma. I set goals and achieved them and I kept the promises I made to myself. Now the cold months ahead will be a time for resting, for reflecting and for dreaming of new promises.

Cycling Big Blue

Blue Mountains Century – September 18, 2011

"It is by riding a bicycle that you learn the contours of a country best, since you have to sweat up the hills and coast down them".
Ernest Hemingway

Shortly after leaving the starting line of the Centurion Cycling Canada Century, I noticed a road sign that read: “The Blue Mountains Welcomes You”. Grammatical ambiguity aside, it didn’t take long for it to become clear that the Blue Mountains did indeed have a welcome for me. In the form of five magnificent climbs, each one challenging in itself, which collectively made up one killer bike ride.

About 950 cyclists began the century ride, which was billed as 168 kilometres but actually came out a bit farther on my computer. No matter, it would have been a darned good workout at half the length. In fact it was: there was also a 50-mile event for those who were of a more reasonable mindset. Between the two events there were about 2100 bicycles on the road, a terrific turnout. The coordination was admirable and the Centurion Cycling folks did a very slick job of organizing everything.

The morning was clear, calm and quite cold for mid-September. I had brought long sleeves, arm warmers, tights, full-fingered gloves and a vest and I was still shivering when we started (giving new meaning to the term ‘Blue’ Mountain). The conundrum of the day was that the air stayed cool and the chill wind picked up, but the sun grew warm, which made hill climbing a hothouse experience. The early part of the day became an exercise in personal temperature control. Dripping sweat going up the hills; chattering teeth coming down.

The aid stations were well-placed, well-manned and the volunteers did a great job of feeding us, as well as rising to the Augean task of cleaning up after us. Bicyclists must be the sloppiest athletes on the road. At least in a triathlon we triathletes make an effort to throw our used bottles and Power Bar wrappers somewhere close to the aid stations where they can be picked up by the crews (in fact, we risk disqualification if we don’t). The riders in this event managed to strew trash along the whole course with little thought of who would have to clean up after them. A popular dumping ground seemed to be people’s driveways; I could just imagine some poor farmer coming home from the hardware store to find a gaggle of empty Gatorade bottles blowing across his property. There must be a way to change the culture.

The countryside was stunning in the bright sunshine. The sounds from hundreds of derailleurs clicked and whirred in the air like crickets as we rode up and down the wild topography of the Niagara Escarpment. There are Mennonite communities in the area, and as I passed one church I noticed dozens of black horse-and-buggy combinations lined neatly up in rows in the parking lot, waiting for their owners. I wondered how the horses liked the hills.

The course is a big loop, thereby offering both headwinds and tailwinds and favouring people who like riding in pelotons. Being more of a tri-geek than a pure cyclist, I ended up working alone most of the time. At one point I came upon a lady who was grimly battling the wind; I began to suggest that we work together, but she was immersed deep in her task and didn’t respond, so I continued past her.

I had entered the Blue Mountain Century as a sort of treat for myself, a kind of low-stress day of cycling after the rigours and trials of Ironman Canada just three weeks ago, and a chance to ride my wonderful Cervélo R3 again. A noble and nurturing idea, if only I hadn’t committed to pedalling up 6,500 feet of vertical ascent in the bargain. Not exactly a day in a hammock with a book.

The course featured five tough major ascents (and a bunch of tough minor ones). None of them were real stand-on-the-pedal thigh burners, but all of them were long and fairly relentless. I tried to be gentle with my legs, telling myself that I was still recovering from Penticton and that - for me at least - this was not technically a race. It took me seventeen minutes to make the climb out of Beaver Valley at mile 80, and even with my 34/50 compact cranks, each pedal stroke was a test of the entire complex system that is my body.

The last climb, up to the Scenic Caves, was the longest and hardest, reminiscent of the trek up from Wilmington at Ironman Lake Placid. Reminding myself that there was no marathon to run afterward, I pushed my legs to their limit up and over the last hill. I took a moment to savour the brilliant sparkling blue of Georgian Bay spread far below me and then flew 900 feet straight down to the finish line at Blue Mountain Village. I finished with very little left in the tank, just as I had hoped.

In the end, this spectacular century was more work than I had planned on, but as always for me, that is what gave more allure to the goal, more meaning to the task, and more shine to the accomplishment.