Apr 21, 2008

Paris-to-Ancaster Bike "Race"

Dave Henderson talked me into this crazy 60K some time last year, for which I'll never forgive him. In his defence, he says he'd never do it again, unless actively goaded by Gord Thibault. (Mr. Thibault, with a loaded handgun and nude pictures of me swinging a lightsaber could not induce me to repeat this.)

During what was considered the best weather in the race's history, the course consisted of:
  • pavement
  • gravel road
  • rail bed
  • dry dirt trails
  • many hills
  • molten lava with blaring rap music
  • mud so thick and goopy it probably contains unwary Neanderthals.
1139 started.
1064 finished.
I came in 940th, with a time of 3:39:27 (DH did a respectable 812th. Way to go, brother.)

Further break-down for me: 853/953 in gender, 264/288 in class (30-39 years old) and 2/8 in people who have never watched an episode of House.

Note: the slowest guy in the "70-79 years" class beat us both!

I managed to beat the first of three unicycles(!), and totally dominated every competitor in the "Blind-Incontinent-Amputees-Travelling Backwards-on-an-office-chair" category.

  • Sound of testosterone-fuelled superhero blazing up my left side at the 7K point, crashing into a bush. Sucks to be you, Lance Headstrong.
  • Making some kid's day by snagging a Wheat Thin off him in the middle of nowhere (which sat in my gut like a lump of tritium for the next 12K).
  • Offering an inner-tube to guy who needed it. Wrong size.
  • Wincing every time (half the race) my gears made a sound similar to that of a pepper-grinder operated by compulsive knuckle-cracker.
  • Wondering why there were 20 water bottles in the middle of the track, and then hitting the bump that put them there. Oh, I get it.
  • Ringing my bell for everyone who cheered us on.
  • Crossing the finish line and lying... down...
  • Coming home to my family, who had a Sunday chicken dinner ready for me.
Memo to self: riding bike for 3 hours without sunscreen in blazing sun results in body that vaguely resembles a barber pole.

Glad I did it? Yep.
Glad Dave talked me into it? Yep.
Gonna write on him with a Sharpie next time he's passed out? Two words: Gene. Simmons.