Bike stud?

It took place in the middle of a trail called Coyote Corridor. This trail is part of a ravine near my house, and indeed, coyotes do in fact roam that trail from time to time, almost as if they know that this trail is named after them. But this story is not about an interaction with a wild creature.

Instead, it was when I met up with a group of 7 fat bike riders. They were flying down this trail, and I decided to stop and watch this beautiful parade of high quality bikes and winter tights. As the lead rider approached me, cresting a short punchy climb, he said to me, “Good day for spiked tires, eh?”

By reflex, I proudly shouted back at him, “I don’t use studded tires.”

I think he shouted something back at me, like “Are you a complete idiot?”, but his voice was lost in the wind and the sound of metal spikes scraping the sheer ice beneath.

When they passed me by, and after I encouraged the last rider (I think I said something clever, like “The best for last, eh?”), I proceeded with my ride. But even though the riders had passed me by, his initial statement stuck with me as I negotiated the trails for the next couple of hours.

Much of the upcoming singletrack was either snow covered, flat, or even bare ground, due to the ridiculously warm temperatures we had the past week, and the riding was quite easy for me. And all the while, I congratulated myself for maintaining naked tires and experiencing the trails in their real state. It has been my opinion for years that going without studs provides the best opportunities to work on my balance and technical skills, anticipating slick spots and making the necessary adjustments to stay on the bike and to stay moving. I believed that it made me a better rider when I rode in the spring and the summer.

In short, I felt that I was the bike stud. When I drink my own Kool-aid, I like to think that my balance on the bike is second to none (well, apart from ridiculous athletes like Macaskill and Wibmer) and that it is sufficient to navigate difficult trails, even when they are shrouded in ice. And as long as the track is straightforward, as it was for the next little while, this illusion is upheld.

But then I come to a climb that is either completely icy or interspersed with icy sections, and I quickly rediscover that no matter how good my technical skills are, physics will beat me every time. No friction, no traction, and thus no climbing. My bike will come to a halt, and when I put my feet down, I end up sliding backwards with my bike in tow, which is not a very fun proposition.

And the trails that we have made in the nearby ravine have lots of steep climbs, which meant that I often had to get off my bike and try to hike-a-bike it up to the top. Often, this is no easy task, since I am walking on ice and I have no spikes on my winter riding boots. So I am slipping and sliding like a 1920’s slapstick comedy, and I barely make it to the top with my ego and body intact.

But these are not even the most challenging sections when there is ice. That honour goes to the downhill portions that go around a corner, with the trail being off-camber. When a bike goes around this kind of corner, all physics conspires against the rider and wants to throw him off the trail and down the bank, often directly into a thorn bush or headfirst into a tree. Seriously dangerous!

Again, the ravine has more than its fair share of such features. When I get to the top of them, I feel my heart rate going up and I know that there is a good chance that I am going to crash my bike in an awful way.

There are usually two strategies that I employ in such situations. The first is to take the uphill foot off the pedal and keep the foot out while I slowly … ohh so slowly … go down the track. If ever I feel my back end starting to slide out, I would put my foot down and make sure that my bike doesn’t topple and have me sledding over the edge of a cliff. There were moments when I came so close to doing just that, my bike on the very edge of the trail and the downward plunge just looming, ready to welcome me into its deadly embrace. On this ride, I proved to be lucky and when I emerged on the other end of the section without suffering damage, I would shake my head, smile sheepishly, and whisper to myself, “I live again.” So stupid!

The other strategy, especially when the trail is particularly treacherous and the consequences of failure would be mortal injury, is to get off the bike and to carefully lower my bike down the hill, trying very hard to keep my feet on the adjacent hillside so that my feet do not slide out on the trail’s slick surface.

I used both strategies far too often on that ride, and all the while, I was considering the wisdom of that rider’s statement: “Great day for spiked tires, eh?” I had to admit, when faced with the many life-threatening moments of that icy ride, that I was not enjoying myself. Not only that, when the ride was finished, my lower back was really feeling it, due to the frequent surprise jerks and yanks that come from riding on such an untrustworthy surface. It would have really sucked if, after suffering a terrible fall, I toasted my lower back and was unable to ride for the weeks to come.

As I rode the bike path back to my home, it had become clear to me that my future in fat biking would have to parallel the evolution I have experienced in winter commuting. Last year, I was so proud of myself for being able to ride the icy sidewalks on the 3 inch knobby tires of my hardtail, but there were times when those tires had slid out on me and if it wasn’t for my quick reflexes in getting my foot on the ground, I would have painfully slammed my entire body into the ground. So, I decided to put studs on my commute bike, and from then on, I have really enjoyed riding on ice, amazed at how stable my bike is on even the slickest of surfaces. It was a deal changer.

It looks like the next purchase for my fat bike will be a pair of 5 inch studded tires. They will offer the best of both worlds: big knobbies to give me traction in the soft snow, and plenty of studs to dig into the ice. I may not have as many opportunities to test my balance and reflexes, since the bike will be far more stable on the trails, but this will be more than made up for by the facts that I will be able to climb the iciest of hills and that I will not have to worry about dying. I will have fun, and I will return home safe and sound, able to ride again on the following day. The older I get, the better that sounds.

Being a stud is such an antiquated and male chauvinist concept anyway. Far better to be studded, and when I ride my future trails at their iciest, I will be sure to say to any rider that I pass, “Great day for spiked tires, eh?”

Backed up logic

All I did was bring my gloves up to the main landing of our house, and when I laid them on the floor, I felt the dreaded twinge in my lower back. Dammit!!!

I figured that my bike ride was done and over with, and I was about to change my plans and get on the stationary bike (because let me tell you, biking was going to happen, one way or the other!!!). But the pain subsided quite quickly, and pretty soon, there was only a tightness there. So, I proceeded to do some deep knee bends, over and over again, while assessing how my lower back responded to them. And it seemed okay.

Decisions, decisions. I suppose a wise person would have taken the safer path, choosing to do the stationary bike, knowing that at any moment the lower back pain flares up, then I could simply get off the bike and proceed to heal.

But no one has ever accused me of being wise, especially when it comes to biking. To me, pain is an inherent part of biking and its presence does not necessarily spell the end of a ride. On many occasions, I have been surprised to find the pain would dissipate as I pushed the pedals, suggesting some sort of cycling panacea, and I figured that I had to give my body a chance to heal itself and restore its health while I have fun on the trails.

So, my decision was made, especially when I was able to haul my fat bike up the stairs and deposit it at the front door. I mean, if I could do that, then certainly I could handle the rigours of fat biking on the snowy trails. (Like I said, bike and wisdom are mutually exclusive in my world.)

I raced out the door before I did too much thinking, since that might spell the end of my outdoor biking opportunity. And it was beautiful out there, with fresh new snow and quite mild winter temperatures (-12 degrees can be considered mild when we have been through temperatures dipping to -40 degree wind chill!). So I was on the bike and pedaling into a head wind, pain-free, thought-free, wisdom-free.

It was a risk, no doubt about it, and for the first 2 hours, it seemed to have paid off. I was riding fine, albeit quite terribly in the dry powder with absolutely no traction, and there were no more twinges in my lower back area, even when I had to do some big pushes up steep hills. I felt vindicated with every glimpse of snow-filled trees and with every successful navigation of a portion of the singletrack path.

But when I emerged from my trails and was crossing 34 Street to move over to the other trails, I could feel a tightness in my lower back again. I stopped for a bit so I could eat my frozen sandwich (there is nothing better than frozen peanut butter and honey … well, maybe anything is better than this, but it was still nutritious and provided me with much needed energy). While eating it, I moved my legs around, did some torso twists, and I even stamped my feet on the ground, all in the attempt to ascertain how much damage there was.

There was no doubt that I had injured my back in the process of my ride, and again, a cautious rider would immediately return home and begin the rehabilitation process. But I am not most riders, and I am certainly not a cautious rider. I was going to keep on riding.

Here was my logic (if you can call it that … maybe rationalization is better). My back was already toast, and whether I rode further or not, I would have to go through the same rehab. So, why not get as much riding in as I can, and then, when I returned home, I would have to hang up my gloves and cycling shoes and work on getting better. Fool proof logic, right? Or was that foolhardy?

Regardless, I got back on that bike and hit the trails. I got in an extra 1.5 hours of riding, and I enjoyed much of it. And on the way home, as a big middle finger to the medical industry (and to rational thought), I even pulled a couple of wheelies. I mean, why not? I was throwing caution to the wind, so why not have some fun in the process?

So, here I am at home, writing in my blog. My posture is extra good, and my right foot is only slightly numb. I am actually healing up pretty well. At first I had trouble walking around after sitting for a significant period of time, but now, my walk almost looks human. And when I look in the mirror, my torso is not disfigured with a scoliosis-like curvature in my spine, caused by tightened back muscles to protect my spine.

All ‘s well that ends well, right? Hey, be careful when you shake your head so vociferously. You could hurt your neck!

Bittersweet Reunion

Reunions are a bittersweet blend of amnesia and wishful thinking.

For the past three months, I have been dreaming about winter fat biking. Trails blanketed in snow, tricky narrow paths, and challenging uphill climbs, fat biking seemed to me the epitome of all bike riding and I could not wait to experience it again.

But the winter was so very long in coming, and as I rode the cold, bare trails with casual competence, the anticipation of winter’s true challenge grew and grew. I would be bombarded by many memories of past rides. I could clearly see the sweet solitary singletrack in a backdrop of snow-laden spruce trees, where I felt like I was the only person in the world and that the forest was my own personal playground. I remembered the paths that were the width of a fat bike tire, which I call winter skinnies, that tested my balance and mental endurance as I strived to keep my tire firmly planted on the track and never deviating into the surrounding snow walls. And I reminisced about the punchy climbs that were just within my reach, and when my ability was matched with sheer resolve and a little luck, I would emerge at the top in pure triumph, basking in my olympian feat. They were a near-endless succession of positive reflections and they left me squirming, praying for the white stuff to fall from the sky like frozen manna from heaven.

Until now. We have received a healthy dose of snow here in Edmonton, and after a delay of about a week due to extreme cold, the temperatures have finally warmed up enough to allow me back on my trails. I was so excited on Saturday morning as I donned my winter gear, turned on my glove liners, and pressed play on one of my favourite mp3 playlists. My dreams were about to come true!

The wind was a bit chilly when I rode towards the trailhead, but I did not mind because I knew that once I plunged into the forest, the wind would no longer be an issue. It would just be me, my bike, the snow and gravity.

The snow was the purest of white as I entered the first trail, and since there were practically no tire marks or footsteps to be seen, I rode in my lowest gear and exulted in inscribing my marks into the snow, writing my own personal hieroglyphics of joy on a wintry tabula rasa. It was everything that I dreamed about, and it confirmed all of my expectations. This was what I was born to do!

But then reality began to set in. This snow was very dry powder, which meant that there was almost no traction, even for my highly aggressive 5 inch Maxxis fat tires. If there was any tight turn, any off camber section, or any hill with a bit of steepness, my tire washed out and I was walking my bike. This did not happen too often at the start of my ride, since the path as a bit easier, but after the first hour, the going got tough and I was spending more time walking than riding.

It was failure after failure after failure, and I could feel the frustration rising inside of me. I had forgotten how infuriating this process could be, and even though it had happened to me every winter since I had started doing fat biking, it surprised me and left me a bit bitter about the whole thing. This reunion that was supposed to be pure pleasure and delight had soured on me, and it had me wondering how I had ever thought that this was a worthwhile thing to do.

And the sheer core work required was much more than I had anticipated. It was not just the hauling of the bike up the steep slopes and the sudden slipping of my boots on uncertain surfaces, but it was also the incessant demands on my body to keep that bike upright and on path, which proved almost impossible with the many unseen bumps and dips lurking under the snowy surface and trying hard to bring me down. My hips were constantly moving side to side, in vicious jerks, while my handlebars were turned abruptly over and over again to provide crucial counterrotations when my bike began to spin, and all the while, my inner abdominal and lower back muscles needed to contract powerfully to keep my body firm while my legs powerfully thrust at the pedals. And this was on the flattest of terrains! The demands were even higher when the path made vicious turns and the steep hills came out of nowhere, with me having little or no momentum to compensate.

It took twice as long to navigate my trails, even when I had avoided a few of the most extreme parts that were exclusive to summer riding, and when I emerged from the ordeal, I was fed up with blazing new trails. So, I then moved to the other side of 34th street and did trails that were more packed down due to increased foot and bike traffic. I needed that so much, just to remember what it is like to ride the bike for longer than 50 metres without getting off the bike. It was such a relief and it helped me remember that I did indeed know how to ride a bike.

Now, based on the above descriptions, it would be tempting to think that winter fat biking on singletrack is sheer torture and should be avoided if one is to maintain sanity. And sure enough, during this reunion with deeper powder, I was at times lamenting the lost days of summer, when the trails were fast and techy, offering an amazing workout and allowing me to ride for the entire time.

But here is the strange thing. When my ride was over and I was doing wheelies on the bike path on my way home, I had a big grin on my face. There were moments of undeniable agony and mind-numbing drudgery, but the moments in between, when I was actually riding the bike and successfully navigating the trails, were absolutely glorious. And the pristine white snow that surrounded me was picture perfect, straight out of a Hallmark card. That combination of near-impossible physical challenges and exquisite pastoral glory is pure cocaine for me, heightening my love for life and keeping me craving for more.

So, believe it or not, it was a great reunion between me and true winter fat biking. The pleasure far outweighed the pain, which is saying a lot since I hurt my back during the process! And I am sure that when following winter comes, I will completely forget the painful grind and hold on to the many positives of this inimitable experience. Amnesia and wishful thinking, two integral components of this annual cycle of reunion.

Tragic trifecta

I had just come off two really enjoyable fat bike rides, and there was no reason to think that the next ride would be any different. I mean, it is the same bike, the same rider, and the same singletrack path. But if chaos theory has taught us anything (and really, I am not sure if anyone really understands chaos theory), it is that you can have the exact same initial conditions and a completely different result. That was my ride yesterday.

It was a colder day than it had been for many weeks, and I figured that I would do the wise thing and go with electric heating. So, I donned my relatively new electric socks that my wife got for me from Costco, and I also wore my electric glove liners from Power in Motion from Calgary. And when I hit the trails early Thursday morning, my arms and face could feel the cold, but my fingers and toes were nice and toasty.

Well, until I was about 30 minutes into my ride. I was out of the forest for a bit, and so I was getting hit by a pretty cold wind, and I noticed that the toes of my right foot were getting a bit chilled. This was strange, since my left foot was still comfortable. So, at the next convenient location, I stopped the bike, rolled up my right pant leg, and checked out the status of the lithium battery that was tucked high in my right sock. Sure enough, it was turned off, thus verifying that this battery had a mind of its own, and clearly it did not feel compelled to keep my feet warm at this time.

I had a remote control in my left pocket to control the settings for both sock batteries, but I decided to do this manually, to make sure that the battery would operate properly. My toes were quite chilled and I did not want this condition to progress any further. I mean, I love biking, but I don’t love it enough to have any toes amputated. So, I pressed the button directly on the battery and I made sure it was at the highest heat setting, and I was back on the bike. The good news was that it remained on for the rest of the ride … the bad news, though, was that my toes never really warmed up. They did not get colder, but they never really were restored to a comfortable temperature. Bummer! So, let’s just say that the socks were subsequently returned to Costco (thank goodness for its easy return policy, eh?).

Honestly, the ineffectual sock battery was not a deal breaker when it came to the ride, and I would have been fine if that was the only negative incident. But a mere 30 minutes later, something far worse happened. My music died. And to make matters worse, when I brought out my back-up mp3 player, I found that it was also dead, since I had forgotten to charge it after the last day of school in 2023. I would have to ride the remaining hours without any music whatsoever. Dammit!

Now I know what you are thinking. Many cyclists ride without music and they do just fine, thank you very much. Truly, I tried to embrace this perspective and appreciate the new experience, where I could hear the wind as I blasted full speed down the straight stretches, I could hear the crunch of the crusty snow as my fat tires broke through untouched snow, and I could hear my panting as I exerted myself on the difficult sections. And I absolutely hated it!!! Music is my constant companion no matter what I do, and its absence left a terrible vacuum in my cycling experience that could not be countered – not with positive self-talk, not with sounds of nature, and certainly not with me humming excerpts of my favourite songs. Anything but that!!

So there I was with cold toes and an awkward silence, and as bad as these things were, they could not take away all of my joy from a fat bike ride. In fact, I was able to reach a zen feeling on much of the ride, where I lost track of time and feeling and sound (or the lack of it) and simply biked completely in the zone. So, it could still have been a wonderful and memorable ride, except for the last and most brutal tragedy of the trifecta. My legs were wet noodles.

I had really exerted myself on the previous day, and to my surprise, my legs had not yet recovered from the relentless pushing. My weaker legs did not have much of an impact on many of the sections of the trail, which was why I was able to reach a zen state quite often. But any time I came to a particularly challenging climb, especially one that was quite technical, my legs completely gave out on the toughest section and I was doomed to complete the walk of shame, pushing my bike up to the top in abject failure. Now in my defense, these trails are pretty tough, and so it is expected that I would have to get off my bike a couple of times when things got particularly difficult. But on this terrible day, it seemed like I bailed on every challenge, surrendering to gravity and technical difficulties with very little fight.

On that ride, I really learned the value of fitness and leg strength when mountain biking on my local trails. My legs were probably operating at about 80%, which should have been sufficient for many of the climbs, but it turns out that at the most challenging moments of the climbs, there is a real need for brute strength to keep those wheels moving up the incline and over those roots. I did not have it, and as such, the ride was terribly deflating.

So, the ride was a doomed thing, in the end. They say that bad things come in threes, and sure enough, this ride was no different. It was a ride not to be enjoyed, but rather to be endured.

It was a big relief when I reached the end of the trails and I was back on the sidewalk, on my way home to a hot lunch and the company of family. I celebrated by performing some really good wheelies, salvaging what I could from a difficult ride.

Tomorrow I am going out there again to fight that good fight. But this time, I will be using heat pads for my toes, which rely on chemical reactions and not electricity, which means they are guaranteed to work. My two mp3’s are freshly charged up, so I will be serenaded with music for the entire ride. And I have taken much of this day off, resting and relaxing with my wife, so my legs should be strong and ready to tackle the most difficult of challenges on the trail.

Fresh snow, fresh mp3 players, and fresh legs … it will be the terrific trifecta.