Author: arfenarf

It’s been a long winter. You would be forgiven for thinking I was so badly scarred by Tour de Vic last year that I went and hid under a rock for six months, and you wouldn’t be far wrong.  I kind of fell apart after that ride and stopped training much, except for a last fling at the Tour de Foothills with Mom in November.  With all the time I recovered from training, I rediscovered the joys of drinking beer with friends.  And baking and eating bread.  And cookies.  And what my scale looks like when it’s begging for mercy.  And why you shouldn’t wear argyle cycling shorts that are one size too small.  (the warping of the check pattern graphically demonstrates how the shorts are being stretched.)

Anyway, I resolved to pull myself together and started training with Clint Lien and Mercury Rising Triathlon.  It’s been great.  I’m back to running (slowly), cycling (slowly) and swimming (less slowly, thanks to a great clinic with Clint and Coach Tenille Hoogland).  Travel and the usual plague of minor injuries and bugs has punched a few holes in the schedule, but on the whole, I’m back into OK condition.

So, Clint finally noticed that although I was training, I kind of hadn’t registered for any races and I had to admit to him that I’m, um, afraid of racing.  I hate racing.  But we agreed that I should do the Shawnigan Lake Olympic tri to get back into the swing of things. I knew all the right things to tell myself.  “Just getting going again.  Just train through it. You won’t be fast, but nobody cares but you.”

Continue reading “Chicken”

Yesterday was the third annual Tour de Victoria, the brainchild of our local Giro d’Italia champion, Ryder Hesjedal.  I’ve wanted to do this in previous years but didn’t for very good reasons, like an impending world championship race of my own, or just not being trained for the distance.  This year, I hemmed and hawed all summer, leaning “against” as September passed and I spent far too much time travelling and far too little on my bike. So, I did the clever thing and asked people who were well-trained for the distance and very excited about the Tour whether I should do it. Well, duh.  I entered the 140km event, which loops through Metchosin and around the Peninsula.

Our glorious summer ended with a cold stop on yesterday’s equinox.  Really cold.  It was showering lightly before the start of the race ride and went downhill from there (“This is not a race, it is a mass-participation cycling event,” said the announcer.  “Riiiiiight,” murmured the crowd of MAMILs.[1]) Continue reading “Ryder Hesjedal’s Tour de Victoria 2013”

Back in Colorado Springs this week, and I might as well be on a different planet than the place I visited two weeks ago. Besides the tremendous damage done to the area by torrential rains and flooding during the week I was back at home, I couldn’t be staying in more different parts of the city.  The plush luxury of The Broadmoor and the post-apocalyptic feel of Colorado Springs’ northernmost exurb are joined only by views of the Rockies and the wonderfully weird natural megaliths of the Garden of the Gods.

I’ve felt unsettled all week.  Cherwell’s offices are in an area that must have taken a pummelling in the crash of ’08.  Huge sweeping six-lane roads to nowhere have the occasional office building or hotel dotted alongside.  The shells of buildings abandoned mid-construction are haunting.  I didn’t bring a bike along, so have been confined to pitiful little runs.  Each of them has begun on half-built suburban roads that peter out into two-track through rolling pasture.  The old post-and-rail fences are there, but the cows are gone. Continue reading “Lost in Surburbia”

So, I’m just back from the Cherwell Global User conference, one of the most enjoyable vendor events I’ve ever been to. Our new ITSM Software partner hosted the event at the Broadmoor, a stunning resort in Colorado Springs. Now, of course the Broadmoor offered a beautiful setting; a world-class facility; and service offered at a standard I’ve never experienced before.

A girl could get used to having five people tend to her simple supper, turn-down service, and a courteous word from every last staff member I met as I passed through the place. Of course, I was paying for it and the place completely met my expectations. But I’ll tell you where the “wow” landed for me.

I wanted to go for a run during lunch. Seeing as how I’m from Canada’s Pacific Southwest, I was completely surprised by the appearance of a giant flaming ball in the sky and had no shades with me to protect my eyes from the thing. So I went to the concierge and got a trail map… and then asked, a little embarrassed, “Um, I need to buy sunglasses and I can’t really afford the $275 polarized shades in the golf pro shop. Which of the 87 retail outlets in this giant, beautiful, expensive resort is least likely to bankrupt me?”

The concierge thought about that for about 50 nanoseconds and said, “Hold on a sec. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” She returned with three pairs of sunglasses from the lost and found. “Pick one,” she said. “Um…. those.” I pointed, like a three-year-old, at the ones that were most likely to fit my face and didn’t have, like, diamonds on them. She dashed off again, cleaned them with disinfectant, and gave them to me, saying, “Bring them back when you’re done. Have a great run, and here, carry this water.”

This little transaction completely, totally, blew me away. The Broadmoor is down about $50 (the sunglasses I didn’t buy) + $2.55 (bottle of water), but utterly won my heart for that gift of time, creative thought, and energy.

The resort’s overall opulence and magnificence were wonderful, that’s true. But the concierge’s hands-on approach to hospitality and client service utterly delighted me. And it’s the story I’ll tell about the place (well, that and the infinity pool with the margaritas) for a long time to come.

The Victoria Wheelers hosted a 175 km ride from Victoria to Cowichan Lake… by way of Port Renfrew. I’m used to thinking of Port Renfrew as The End of Everything, but the province paved some logging roads over the spine of the island a few years ago and now it’s passable even by nutbars on road bikes. We had a perfect warm (but not too hot) day to steal a late summer weekend and enjoy some of the island’s most scenic clearcuts.

Unfortunately, I can’t really go on and on and on about how epic this ride was, because there were more than a few really serious nutbars who stopped with the rest of us who were weeping, gnashing our teeth, pulling cramps out of our legs, and eating cheeseburgers… and then waved goodbye and kept going all the way back to Victoria, almost 300 km.. I firmly insist that the majority of us who chose to stop got the better end of the deal. The Wheelers packed our bikes lovingly into a truck and packed us lovingly into a school bus equipped with a genial driver and coolers of tasty adult beverages and then propelled us all down the island. By the time we got back, the bikes were neatly racked and ready to take home. Very carefully.

But I digress, possibly because one of the very best things about this ride was stopping. I might have handled it better, except I spent last week playing very hard on the shores of Lake Superior, kayaking, cycling long empty roads, and crashing a rented MTB through sand pits and into trees with abandon. Those chickens came home to roost right around Jordan River when the whole girdle of insulted core muscles announced they’d had enough and seized up shockingly quickly, shockingly painfully. I stopped, snivelling, waved the little group I was with onward – and waited for the sag wagon. But after about a minute of self-pity and stretching, I felt kind of OK again and discovered I’d bought myself another 45 minutes or so. So I soldiered onward like this for the next 100 kilometres. Start, seize, stop, stretch, lather, rinse, repeat.

Sadly, one of the most painful things to do was holding a stable position while descending, which robbed the screaming, rip-roaring plummet into Port Renfrew of much of its joy. Rolf and Marcus managed to cover their dismay as I limped into the Port Renfrew fuel stop but agreed to let me tail along the rest of the way. I mean, how hard could a mountain pass with 110 km in the bag possibly be? And 30 of that on rollicking riverside?

So, up we went, Rolf, Marcus, and I, knowing the group of Wheelers who were sweeping were tactfully staying back about two turns in the road so we couldn’t see them. But I knew they were there. The road is spectacular as it winds up and over into the Cowichan Valley. There were a surprising number of cars and trucks sharing the road with us but every last person was understanding and patient.

Which also goes for my companions. They each helped so in their own ways. Marcus is an unstoppable diesel. He manages pace perfectly and got stronger the whole way. Rolf opted for head-games, alternating teasing, cajoling, outright lying about the upcoming terrain, and feigning tiredness of his own. That, and he shared the very best can of lukewarm Coca-Cola ever bottled.

It all came to a head for me with only seven kilometres to go. Even riding downhill, I couldn’t pull any more and I just hurt everywhere. Even my right shoulder (?!) was screaming. When the sweep started to smell the barn, they rode up and over us, encouraging us – even (thank you so much) giving me a push on the saddle back toward the wheel slipping away from me – but that last burst of effort broke me and I started bawling there in the middle of nowhere. I waved the pack on, snivelling, and they vanished from sight. But when I looked back: there was Rolf, still pretending he was Very Tired. He stuck it out with me to the very end and I’m so grateful. I’m chalking it up to the Tripleshot spirit of “no-one left behind” and will make sure to pay it forward.

If I ever get on my bike again.

That beautiful Pank bike of mine was stolen from a locked rack on the back of my car last night.

I am so bitterly disappointed.  It’s probably in parts and sold for drugs by now, but my dear son has gone all Avenging Angel and is combing the city for a flash of Hot Pink Bike.

*sigh*

It’s the only one in town like it – a 2006 Specialised Epic FSR Marathon. DT Swiss Wheels, Juicy brakes, SRAM bits, Rox Shox suspension. drop me a line if you happen to see it go by…

“I have this great idea,” said my friend Simon on a ride a couple of weeks ago. “I’m going to celebrate the summer solstice by doing a century ride…”

“That sounds cool,” I said.

“…around Beacon Hill Park‘s 1-mile loop 100 times.”

“I take it back,” I said. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. I’m in.”

Continue reading “One Hundred Miles of Beacon Hill Park”

So, I thought I’d try out the Sidney Time Trial as part of my elaborate summer plan of, “fart around on bikes and have lots of fun.”  It’s a two-loop 17.4 km course with two tight corners and a few very gentle rollers.  Gentle, that is, until you hit them when you’re tired. Continue reading “Sidney Time Trial Trial”

Dawn. Tuesday Morning. I hate my alarm clock.

It is time for the Tripleshot Cycling sprints day.  I’ve managed to mostly avoid this workout, but now that I’m admitting that I am 1) really enjoying cycling and 2) really terrible at racing bicycles, this workout is the one I need to get a little punch into my diesel metabolism.

Continue reading “Magical Mailbox”

It has been a week for watching time pass.  I had a blast racing the clock at the time trial.  I’m taking a remote course this week that means I’m effectively living on Eastern Daylight Time (dang, 8:00 EDT is early).  And my son graduated from high school a week ago and is launching himself into a grand new adventure.  So, of course, I think about time.

I think about the eighteen years since I landed in Victoria, carrying this baby.  I think about the time that has passed from this boy’s start in school.  Now, he’s teaching me.  He spent another evening at Hartland with me last night, helping me get my mojo back after a really tough series of crashes on Sunday.  (“Dude, are you dead?!”  –the mountain biker who rolled up behind me and wouldn’t leave until I demonstrated that my brakes and my brain were all still working).   Continue reading “Tempus Fugit”