The Long Ride

 

For some weeks now I have been threatening to do ‘a long ride’. The figure I had in mind was 100km. Susan and I have put in several respectable jaunts of 40-45km but as I had a free weekend last Sunday, I decided to go for the big one.

I could cram a light rain jacket, sandwiches, lip balm, phone and some minor medications in the back pockets of my cycling jersey but wanted to take a couple of extra items. So I fashioned a curious cargo holder out of two cut-down plastic pop bottles, one sliding just inside the other. This contraption fitted in one of the bottle cages on my bike and held full gloves and a gel seat cover (in case).

With my tyres pumped up like granite, GoPro fitted to the handlebar mount, chain and gears cleaned and lubed and a half litre water bottle chilling in the fridge, I set my alarm for 5:30am and slept like a baby. Or I would have done if I hadn’t developed a head cold and sore throat. At the crack of dawn I arose, made coffee and convinced myself my cold was not bad enough to abort my mission.

At 7:00am I checked my pockets for keys, spare GoPro batteries and the previously mentioned accoutrements and carried my bike down three flights. Under a grey sky and with my rear light pulsing deep red, I set my phone’s Strava app to record and pedaled off into the dawn.

Sunday morning at daybreak would be the quietest time to venture onto Route 2 on two wheels hence my early start. At 7:20 I peeled off the Lower Malpeque Road onto the Highway and headed west, trying not to think about the vast distance ahead. My destination and first planned stop was Kensington some 46km away. In my car that is no more than a forty minute blast up hill and down dale. But those hills are a different proposition on a bicycle.

After a couple of minor climbs I hit the trip’s real test, the road up out of Hunter River. You can’t get a run at it as there are inconvenient bridge works and temporary traffic lights in the dip so I dropped steadily through my gears until I had no lower cogs to try. For the cognoscenti the smaller of my two chain rings is 43 and the largest of seven rear cogs is a measly 26. Professional riders in the Alps have friendlier ratios! Nonetheless, and with a perfect Tour de France grimace, I wound my way to the top huffing, puffing, grunting and gasping. My heart was hammering as I crested the rise and swore to the sky.

More hills followed, lots of them, but none as arduous. Every so often I thumbed the record button of my GoPro and shot clips for the record. At Springfield I slowed to change camera batteries and noted that my average speed was a respectable 22kph. After two hours and fourteen minutes I rolled into Kensington and trundled through the old railway station which is now nicely decked out with diners and small boutiques and a pretend platform. A short stretch of track remains as does the hulking mass of an old CN locomotive standing forlorn in a perpetual siding. Passenger trains haven’t run here since 1969 and freight trains not since 1989, hence the fantastic cross-island network of hiking and cycling trails.

After a brief stop to drink water and feast on peanut butter and jam sandwiches I remounted and rolled out of Kensington on The Confederation Trail. Although the return leg would be longer at some 57km I was looking forward to the absence of trucks and cars, and hills. However, all was not rosy; I veered into a stiff headwind which eased periodically to a crosswind as I followed the trail’s meanders.

At times I thought about stopping to install the gel seat cover which I had thoughtfully packed but the padding in my cycling shorts seemed sufficient and I banished any notion of a pit stop. In fact I did not stop again until I reached the 70km mark, somewhere near Fredericton. I sat on a bench and ate one of Susan’s delicious peanut butter and choc-chip cookies, washed down with most of the remaining water. As I refueled, an old man ambled by on a sit-up-and-beg bike with his nose in the air.

I swapped my dying GoPro battery for the third and final replacement, swallowed two Tylenol and swung my leg over my trusty steed. My bike, by the way, is a Raleigh Quadra manufactured in 1986 by Raleigh’s special racing division and not entirely suited to trail riding with its 23mm tyres. Since I acquired it ten years ago I have replaced tyres, tubes, seat, brake pads, chain, rear cogs and gear cables. I have fitted new clip-in pedals, a cycle computer and a miniature seat bag with essential repair tools. Within five minutes I had caught up to the old boy and whooshed past him at better then 30kph.

When I came to edit my video footage a day or so later, I realised just how much talking out loud I had been doing during the final 30km. I was keen for the ride to be over and told the trees, the trail and the sky as much and often. My sit bones were complaining too and my head was stuffed with a cold.

The wind kindly shifted and gave me a helping nudge towards the end. I rolled off the trail and hit the tarmac once more for the last 5k and pedaled into the parking lot of my building with great relief. I pulled out my phone and saved the Strava account of my route which stood at 104 km and 5 hours 14 minutes of moving time. The sting in the tail, as ever, was the need to carry my bike back up three flights before I could close and lock my door on a most eventful day.