When I first started riding (for the second time, after having given it up in high school) I was barely 30 years old, 50 pounds heavier and wrestling with a pack-a-day habit. I’d just realized that the ten years between my teens and my thirties was mostly just momentum that mother nature had created for me. I’d also just realized that the momentum wasn’t likely strong enough to carry me over into my 40’s.
So I picked up my bike and rode around the block, mostly out of fear. Fear that if I didn’t change a few key things that I’d be dead of a heart attack before I even hit middle age.
My first ride was about 10 minutes long. I rode to the park as fast as I could, exhilarated by the wind in my face, tasting just a little bit of being a kid again. And amazed that the effort didn’t kill me.
I rode twice again that first week.
My 10 minute journeys turned into 30 minute treks, which slowly built into hour long adventures. Rides were no longer measured by the block, I started to talk about cycling in terms of kilometres.
35k, 50k, 100k... I felt huge pride with every milestone. And was quietly amazed that the effort hadn’t kill me.
Metric centuries became real centuries - 100 miles! - and even though they took me the better part of 8-9 hours to complete, I finished. Always proud of the accomplishment. And amazed that the effort didn’t kill me.
A co-worker eventually talked me into “an epic challenge of a lifetime” - Ontario’s Tour For Kids. A 4 day, 800 kilometer cycling adventure to raise money for kids with cancer. It was awesome. I struggled every inch of the way past the first 160 kilometers. I’ll never forget how much the last 5 kilometers of the first day hurt - not so much because I’d just ridden 185 kilometers, but because my speedometer was telling me that I was supposed to have finished already. I couldn’t break free of the notion that I should be done already, even though the end was nowhere near in sight. I resented every inch beyond what I thought we were supposed to have ridden that day. The second day was even worse. All rain. I shared a special moment towards the end of the second day with my new friend Shane. He taught me about a different kind of suffering as he told me stories about surviving cancer. I didn’t feel as sore after talking with him about his struggle.
At the end of the four days, I looked back on the ride, amazed that the effort hadn’t killed me.
In 2008, I rode across Canada in 19 days with a group of cyclists as part of the Sears National Kids Cancer Ride. We were blown around by the wind in the foothills, baked under the sun of the prairies, rained on and chilled by the sullen rains of northern Ontario, comforted by the calm night skies of Quebec and welcomed by the warmth of the maritimes, every inch of the way slowly growing stronger and more confident that we would finish.
When I reached Halifax, I immediately began to question, what I would do next. Every step of the way previously had been a challenge as I struggled with cycling on a scale that threatened to crush that little thing inside me that told me I was strong enough to finish - the voice that told me to “just keep pedaling”. But sitting in the warm sun of the Halifax harbor, I realized I had a small problem on my hands. At 36 years of age, I couldn’t exactly turn pro - I was too old, and frankly, too slow - but cycling was deep inside me, and that little voice inside me hadn’t been crushed yet - it kept telling me to “just keep pedaling”.
I struggled with my questions for weeks until a plan started to form. I had come to realize that just cycling further wasn’t necessarily the best way to challenge myself. I had come to realize that I needed to challenge that little thing inside me even further. It wasn’t good enough to “just keep pedaling”, it became clear that I needed to “just keep pedaling faster and further, without stopping”.
No longer was doing a century good enough for me, the question became, could I do a century non-stop? How fast could I do a century? Could I do 4 centuries? How long would it take? Would I need to sleep? The questions coalesced into a challenge that I could give to the little voice - how far can you ride without stopping?
My first attempt was a double-double. 640 kilometers with a 48 hour cut-off. I cheated a bit and slept for a few hours between each leg. It took me almost 36 hours and I suffered for almost every inch of the second 200 miles. But it didn’t kill me. If anything, it made the little voice just a little bit louder. Gave it conviction.
My second attempt was the Sebring 24 Hour race, a UMCA sanctioned race in Florida. I rode solo for almost 618 kilometers in 24 hours - and in comparison, there was very little suffering. Dare I say it, it almost felt good.
Which brings me to the cross-Ontario record attempt. Why am I doing this ride? Because I think I can. Because I think that as people - as human beings - we can accomplish a lot more than what we allow ourselves to think we can. We have a reach that exceeds our grasp, and also a remarkable capacity to bridge that gap. I am doing this ride because I know that it won’t kill me and that for just having tried, I will be a better person.
