Two Wheels on my Wagon

by Paul Howard

  First among my rivals, by his own admission, came Cadet. I had already explained my perverse desire to give up the Lanterne Rouge crown at the last moment – if possible – in order to be able to tell my children that Daddy hadn’t come last for once. Winning the Lanterne Rouge or not coming last would be a tricky choice.

  ‘I can be that guy,’ he smiled generously.

  Then there was Rick from Tallahassee, Florida. I didn’t dare suggest as much to him but, at 63, I felt as though there were reasonable grounds for thinking he might be nearly as slow as I anticipated being. Martin, from Austria, was younger but had such a capacious and immaculate set of bright red panniers that speed didn’t seem to be his priority. There were others, too, with less-easily-quantified Lanterne Rouge credentials. Would the tandem go twice as fast or twice as slowly as us singletons? Would the mechanical simplicity of those riding without gears outweigh their obvious benefits?

  Some riders would clearly not be involved. Along with the superstars of the event, like last year’s winner and race organiser Matthew Lee, and John Nobile, record holder for the race from the US border to Mexico, Alan and Steve had already established just how strong they were on the South Downs. John had done likewise in our short spin around Banff.

  The two Italians who arrived one evening in Room 101 also looked seriously speedy. Small Italian Bruno, bald-headed and lean, looked how Marco Pantani might have looked had he lived longer and eaten more pizza. The circumference of his thighs must have been at least twice that of my own. Big Italian Dario was well over six foot and had thighs twice as big again. Maybe the extra weight would count against him.

  To make myself feel better and improve my aerodynamic efficiency I went for a haircut. A very attractive lady, originally from Toronto, first washed my hair, then gave me a delightful head massage. This level of luxury felt rather like a cranial version of the Last Supper. Showing a degree of attention to detail and pride in her work that had escaped all those who had previously been let loose on my scalp, she concluded by asking if I would like my eyebrows trimmed. I’d always been quite proud of my bushy brows, inherited from my maternal grandfather, but now they felt rather incongruous. Besides, having never been asked such a question before, it seemed possible I would never be asked it again and a unique opportunity would have been spurned. I said yes.

  All that remained was to attend the eve-of-race barbecue on the banks of the Bow River. As befits a pack of hungry cyclists, burgers were consumed with relish, both literal and metaphorical. In spite of the bravado, however, they were accompanied by relatively little alcohol. Most people were too intent on trying to understand how to make sure their GPS SPOT tracker units worked to want to cloud their brains with beer.

  ‘To send an OK message you press the OK button,’ said Matthew. ‘To switch the tracker on press the on button and then hold the OK button for five seconds. OK?’

  I hoped so.

  We also tried to digest the last bit of route information provided to facilitate our riding through a new section, the beautiful but wild and rarely visited Upper Flathead valley. With the Upper Flathead being comfortingly known as the Serengeti of North America due to the density of its big game, which to me meant bears, it seemed quite important to know where we were going. The route cards contained much less detail than those for the rest of the route. Nevertheless, when combined with the photocopied map of what was deemed to be the tricky bit – a 1-mile ‘connector’ between forest service roads – they seemed adequate. Besides, now was no time for doubt.

  After the barbecue had run its course, cyclists scurried hither and thither in varying degrees of panic. Alan captured the prevailing mood.

  ‘What are you doing? Should I be doing it?’

  When I confessed to wrapping my new route notes in clingfilm he seemed less concerned to emulate me. I, too, wasn’t sure if it set quite the right, heroic tone. Finally, the frantic activity began to diminish, even if sleep remained a distant prospect. The noises and disturbances caused by four young children were as nothing compared to the frantic attempts at relaxation of a dormitory of cyclists about to embark on such a ludicrous endeavour.

  CHAPTER 4

  A HORSESHOE FOR LUCK

  DAY 1

  Race morning dawned clear and fresh. To remove ourselves from the hothouse and enjoy the early morning sunshine, Cadet and I decided to consume breakfast away from the hostel. Elk grazed by the Bow River as we walked into town.

  The Jump Start Café was not Banff’s coolest café location – it boasted little in the way of world music and organic cookies – but it had the considerable advantage of being right next door to the post office. Along with most of the other racers, we both needed to send superfluous clothing and kit home before departure, and the last thing we wanted was to be at the back of the queue.

  More importantly still, the Jump Start had the calming demeanour of a place frequented by pick-up-driving locals rather than frenzied cyclists. Accordingly, Cadet and I ordered our oatmeal, pastries and coffee while Hank and Chuck and friends (it could have been Jim and John, but Hank and Chuck seemed more appropriate) ate their own vast repasts and bantered with the staff.

  With pre-race nerves growing in spite of the tranquillity of our surroundings, Cadet responded to a call of nature. His departure through the door behind the serving counter prompted an unlikely flurry of activity.

  ‘Have you still not put up that horseshoe?’ asked Hank (or it might have been Chuck), motioning to the empty space above the door.

  ‘Gee, I need a man to do that for me,’ said the lady behind the counter, clearly accustomed to recognising an opportunity when it presented itself.

  The response was like sticking a pin into a bear.

  ‘Well, why didn’t ya say so . . .’

  If there wasn’t an actual scrum to get out of the door and be the first to return from the fleet of pick-ups parked nearby with hammer and nails it was only because the cumulative effect of years of large – one might say ‘man-sized’ – breakfasts meant the reaction times of some of the café’s regulars had begun to slow. Nevertheless, here was Banff Man in his element. Not only was there food, company and conversation that focused solely on the sports section of the local paper; now there was also a chance to show off the tools kept in the trunk of the pick-up truck.

  In fact, here was a justification for a whole way of life that to more sensitive eyes might have seemed a rather ostentatious display of machismo and rampant consumption of the earth’s finite resources. Following the natural presumption that it would be unmanly not to be able to help a damsel in distress, and aware that just such a crisis as the absence of a lucky horseshoe could happen at any moment, in the most unlikely surroundings, it followed as sure as night followed day that a man must have a big truck full of tools. How else could he be reasonably expected to supply a hammer and a tin of nails at short notice (and all the other accoutrements that are required to perpetuate a certain concept of manliness)? Accordingly, in less than the time required for Cadet to return, the requisite tools had been provided and a long-overdue portent of good luck had been installed.

  Unaware of the level of activity that his departure had unleashed, Cadet was slightly bemused to discover we had now become minor celebrities. He had, of course, just become the first person to walk under the newly installed horseshoe, an achievement for which he was roundly congratulated. When I topped it by becoming the first person to walk under the horseshoe in both directions – success in our forthcoming endeavour was now assured – curiosity finally got the better of our fellow Jump Starters.

  ‘You boys are cyclists, ain’tcha?’

  Clad in Lycra and clipperty clopperty cycling shoes, we were in no position to disagree.

  ‘Where ya headed?’

  ‘Mexico.’

  For the second time that morning, pandemonium ensued. Also, and possibly for the first time ever, Hank and Chuck and friends were compelled to express admiration for cyclists.

&n
bsp; ‘That’s one helluva trip.’

  This brief conversation then inspired a demonstration of the North American penchant for spontaneous hospitality that can leave jaundiced Europeans choking on their cynicism (and their breakfast). We were offered a present to help us on our way. The present came in the form of an insulated coffee mug that our hosts thought might provide a useful means to keep our liquid refreshment cool in the New Mexico deserts. I was about to explain that it was probably a very good idea but one that wouldn’t work in practice when Cadet, aware of the sincerity of the gesture, wisely accepted his gift.

  ‘It’s very kind of you, ma’am, it’ll do just great.’

  I agreed and, after a refill of coffee, during which time the conversation around us returned to the burgeoning success of a Calgary footballer (American, that is, not Association), we left for the post office feeling more confident than we had any right to.

  An hour later, the hostel was a hive of activity and poorly disguised anxiety. Cyclists with far too little or far too much luggage milled around, killing time. Very few seemed to have settled on what I had considered the happy medium. People took pictures and made last-minute modifications to packing arrangements. John tried to fit a specially commissioned map case that had been promised two months ago but had only arrived at 5 a.m. that morning. The Tour de France it was not.

  I spoke briefly to Per, who, although actually Swedish, had put down London as his home town and had become British by proxy. The fact that he had only signed up for the race a few weeks before the event had been encouraging, tempering fears about the task ahead. Clearly someone, at least, felt the years of preparation of which some riders were now boasting was over the top.

  Nervous wives and at least one husband, as well as other friends and relatives, gave well-intentioned but invariably superfluous last-minute advice (‘Don’t feed the bears, honey’). Then merciful distraction was provided as the tandem arrived. Powered by the Petervary husband and wife team, the tandem itself was blue at the front and pink at the back. Any thoughts I had entertained that they could be among my rivals in the Lanterne Rouge competition were immediately dispelled. Apart from the fact that Jay Petervary was a former record holder for the border to border part of the route (and had once been described in a magazine article as having the internal energy of a small supernova), it was now clear that his wife – Tracy, or T-Race as she was better known – would hardly hinder his speed. Unlikely as it seemed, the ‘Love Shack’ was in it to win it.

  Winning the race was definitely not on my agenda, even if I did inadvertently contrive to give this impression.

  ‘First, to finish,’ was my answer when asked by Aaron Teasedale, the one journalist in attendance, about my goals. Unfortunately, the comma seemed to become misplaced and Aaron interpreted my response as an assertion of likely victory. The way he then reacted to this interpretation made it abundantly clear that ‘likely’ would be that last adjective he would use to describe a victory by me. I felt oddly disappointed, but hastened to correct the misapprehension.

  ‘No, I meant that my first goal was simply to finish. Anything else . . .’

  ‘Yes, I realised that,’ said Aaron, a little quicker than was strictly necessary.

  ‘Why are you participating?’ he persisted.

  Slightly thrown by my earlier inarticulacy, the best I could manage in response was ‘Why not?’

  What I had intended to convey, in a George Mallory ‘because it’s there’ kind of way, was that, once you had become aware of such an event – once you had become aware that such an undertaking was even possible – the pertinent question was not ‘why?’ but ‘why not?’ How could you not want to respond positively to such a hitherto inconceivable opportunity? It seemed to me as tenable to shun something like the Tour Divide as to not investigate a previously undiscovered room in your own house. What’s more, as all the answers to the question ‘why not?’ were inherently unsatisfactory, the only conclusion that could be reached was that there was no reason not to do the race.

  I’ll concede, however, that it wasn’t immediately apparent that this was how Aaron had perceived my seemingly truculent response.

  At 9.50 a.m., all 42 cyclists left the grounds of the hostel for the brief journey to the official start at the Banff Springs Hotel. The hotel was commissioned in 1886 by Cornelius Van Horne, the railway baron, to attract tourists to his recently completed Canadian Pacific Railway. The hotel’s distinctive, castle-inspired design was created by influential US architect Bruce Price. The end result was certainly massive and imposing, in a way no doubt intended to mirror the grandeur of the surrounding scenery. Yet it also seemed perversely fussy and intricate, which the nearby mountains, with their endless seas of green trees and pure, clean lines, most definitely were not. Nevertheless, such was its stature and the beauty of its surroundings that television directors and team sponsors the world over could easily be imagined waxing lyrical at the prospect of staging a global sporting event against such a backdrop. The Tour Divide was not yet that event.

  The hotel’s rear car park was a different matter completely. Tucked discreetly behind the service entrances and recycling bins at the back of the hotel, the car park was no more than a flat area of gravel distinguished only by providing access to the start of the Continental Divide Trail. A dozen spectators and some bunting was the scant evidence of our imminent departure.

  As riders once again milled around, uncertain exactly what was going to happen next, a racer bolted from the massed ranks and yelled behind him as he disappeared into the forest.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  Without further ado, the race had begun. There was just time to consider the fact that the rider – Matthew Lee – had effectively already stolen a 30-second advantage over those of us at the back of the field before we could start. I decided it would be churlish to complain.

  I also resisted the temptation to make a fool of myself in the name of trying to lead the race, even if only for a mile or two. Instead, Cadet and I stuck to our recently developed game plan of ignoring the siren temptations to go too fast, too soon. Actually, suggesting we had the ability to succumb to these temptations would have been inaccurate, but at least the notion that we were going slowly through choice rather than through necessity made us feel better.

  As we made our way south along the valley of the Spray River, the density of the trees increased as the riders surrounding us thinned out. The trail remained wide and accommodating, however, and progress was smooth. It was hard to believe that we were on our way to Mexico.

  The impression that we were merely out for a spin in the woods was reinforced when, after an hour or so, we left the trail and rode onto a wide, gravel road bleached white by the sun. The glare and the heat gave a foretaste of challenges to come, and the endless ridges were spectacular: peaks of over 10,000 feet were visible on each side. But several day-trippers had parked up nearby, making it feel more like the Lake District than the Rockies.

  This conundrum had not escaped the authors of the Canadian section of the route map. ‘This section of Great Divide Canada showcases some of the most magnificent scenery in the entire Rocky Mountain Chain. Paradoxically, the route feels somewhat more settled, or civilized, than many sections to the south in the United States. One reason for this is that Great Divide Canada passes through a string of national and provincial parks which, not surprisingly, attract a great deal of visitors.’

  To our considerable surprise there were not just visitors but also some spectators, taking photos and shouting encouragement. To our even more considerable surprise, only a short distance later we encountered one of the icons of the Rockies: a trio of male big horn sheep licking salt at the side of the road. It was immediately clear that the name ‘big horn sheep’ was something of a misnomer. These sheep did not just have big horns. They were big, full stop, and exceptionally muscular. Big horn, big sheep would have been more accurate, if something of a mouthful. In spite of their size they looked benign,
though possessed of a self-confidence, bordering on arrogance, that shone defiantly from their unblinking eyes.

  After several miles on the road, the route crossed over a dam and became rougher. Massive mountains reflected in the still reservoir, though the scene suffered from the reservoir having a dirty bath-ring around its edge, the blight of all reservoirs when not full. I hoped to catch a glimpse of the famed Mount Assiniboine, the highest peak in this section of the Rockies and, judging by the photos I had seen, as shapely a mountain as could be imagined. James Outram, the first man to reach its summit, certainly thought so. ‘Its massive pyramid forms a conspicuous landmark from almost every considerable eminence for scores of miles around, towering fully 1,500 feet above its neighbours, and by its isolation no less than by its splendid outline commanding attention and admiration.’

  The first white person to record having seen the mountain, the Catholic priest and explorer Pierre-Jean De Smet in 1845, was even more effusive. ‘The monuments of Cheops and Chephren dwindle into nought before this gigantic architectural cliff of nature.’

  A conspicuous landmark it may have been, but it remained hidden by the lower peaks on my right. Instead, I had to make do with the not insignificant consolation of Mount Shark and, later, Mount Sir Douglas, named after Douglas Haig, to admire.

  Next came some rougher riding still, following a trail through dense woods. Cadet had dropped back, and I made a brief effort to catch some riders further along the shoreline in order to avoid tackling it on my own. To my relief, my new companions were more than happy to whoop and holler their way through such desirable grizzly country. Connoisseurs of the peace and tranquillity of our surroundings we were not.

  The incongruity of the route again became apparent when the trail through the woods reappeared in another parking lot at the end of another dusty road. Aaron the journalist was there, along with Joe Polk, the creator of the MTBcast website that made the telephone messages recorded by riders while on the route available for friends and family to listen to. I sat and tried unsuccessfully to eat some lunch, waiting for Cadet. Joe asked if he could record an interview to post on his website, then Aaron suggested taking some pictures.