The Solstice Ride or The Legend of the Teenage Crow

When both our partners told us our idea was ridiculous, they were right. They just didn’t know how ridiculous it was. We knew.

The Solstice Ride idea is simple. Longest day, longest ride. You drop a few pins in Komoot, transfer that to the new Strava route builder. It tells you it can’t go somewhere, you force it manually to take that little line drawn in the forest, export a GPX file to your Garmin, and tell your brain that everything will be fine. You don’t sleep very well at night. Maybe it’s the heat.

It’s not.

The solstice is on the 20th in 2020, a Saturday. You have to beat the chalet traffic, 0200 start makes sense. O-Two-Hundred also makes sense when you wanna ride five hundred clicks in the day. So you fly out the door. Avocado Bacon Bagel in the pocket. All kinds of fat dripping down your back.

The loop goes NE through Laval to Terrebonne, then NW towards Morin Heights, gets snaky up around villages that all seem to be named Lacs des something, rides past Montpellier and down to the river, around to Ottawa then back to Montreal cutting through the Eastern farmlands of Ontario.

Flying up Giuseppe’s KOMs in Terrebonne and leaving the city traffic behind in the darkness is certainly a high. Seeing your shadow up in the trees beside the road as your buddy swings around to give you bit of draft puts a smile on your face. It’s romantic. Resting your elbows in the new ENVE pads, hands up high at the top of the antlers, chasing the smell of coffee at a friend’s place near a lake, four hours into the ride with a thousand meters of elevation done. You’ve just woken up.

Soundscapes are different. Frogs calling out to their mates. Rubber compound on asphalt. Breathing. Your meditation app rings, reminding you to focus on the app telling you to focus on your breath. Your phone drops out of your pocket at forty kilometres per hour.

Your conversations have become silent. You see. Friendship. Trust. Care. Love. Silence.

The happiest I have been in a while.

A teenage crow screams.

The scream changes pitch three or four times. It lasts too long. It’s full of questions about what it’s going to do with its life. It’s annoyed at its parents for living a boring life in the trees of the Laurentians. It could’ve been an eagle of some kind. With dreams.

Has it been attacked?

No, it’s finding its voice.

The sun’s starting to heat up the back of your neck, the crow makes you laugh. First to yourself. Then comes a second and a third scream. You can’t keep the laughter inside. Your riding buddy four five bike lengths in front (Watts per KG and commitment) bursts out laughing. You ride another kilometre crying with laughter.

No words. Just a screaming crow… The smell of coffee. A long eighty kilometres per hour descent.

Can’t be happier.

The conversations start again. The first stage of the ride is done. The second stage is full of unknowns. We’ve never been that way. It’s two hundred some kilometres long. It’s scary. It kept you up at night for the last week. Turtles live here. Dinosaurs.

It’s the best.

Amazing rolling hills, great pavement, turning to awesome gravel roads with views over lakes and forests and climbing crags. The groads turn to ATV trails.

Mountain bike territory. Motocross territory.

Sand pits. Rock gardens. Roots. Swamps & black flies. Hills. Fifteen percent grade hills.

Twenty-five mm FMB Tubulars with PARIS-ROUBAIX stamped on the side glued to tiny carbon rims.

Exactly what we signed up for. The best ride of our lives. NO FLATS EITHER.

There’s only one way to go and we still think we’re lost. Because we kinda are. My brother sends me a text:

“-How lost? Like… Sharpen a stick and build a fire to keep the bears away lost or befriend a wolf and figure out where you land in the pack kinda lost?”

“I don’t know Ben…” says Aaron.

I laugh. It’s a different laugh now. It took me about two weeks to finally think that this four hour, twenty kilometre detour on the ATV trail was a great moment. At that time, it felt like a terrible choice. We were slow. Turtles were more efficient.

There was another nineteen kilometres of ATV trail towards Duhamel that would’ve ended around nightfall, if we didn’t ask the four guys in the pickup trucks for a bit of help rerouting.

KM 184.

The Knees. The knees start to hurt. My longest ride since last year was seventy-five clicks long. I guess my preparation wasn’t perfect. I put it down to commitment. I have a hard time with self confidence, knowing and owning what I think. I have a hard time finishing things. I usually end up quietly putting them aside, hoping no one notices, hoping I can buy my way out of it later.

I have not seen this place before. In my own body. A place where I hurt so much that I stop.

Our reroute takes us down a backroad highway thingy with too much traffic. I don’t feel safe. I hurt. I’m scared a truck will hit me. I’m slowing Aaron down. Putting him in danger now… and later. I become a crow, a teenage crow, screaming with every pedal stroke. My voice changes, it breaks. I see all my choices, all my dreams. Who am I kidding?

We stop.

I cry uncontrollably on the side of the road. I could make myself a nest here like a turtle and wait to go extinct. I could stop cycling, I’m not a cyclist. I want to be home. I forget. I forget why I was there.

We get to KM 260. In Thurso. Guy Lafleur’s Thurso.

I’m done. I call my brother, he’s on the other side of the river. I quit. At that point, it could’ve been the last time. Aaron chugs down a red bull, we share a mango. He carries on. I feel really bad. I made him so late. The numbers, the hours, we meant to ride into Rigaud by sunset. That won’t be happening. It’s not safe. I’m a failure as a cyclist, an athlete and a friend. Great.

Between 184 and 260, I went dark. And I didn’t come out of there for two weeks. I’m sorry.

I had dinner at my brother’s, backyard BBQ ribs. I cried some more.

Got a ride back in the car with a dismembered bike in the back seat. Talking about performance, life, family, emotions, becoming older, dreams & friendships.

I get back to an empty apartment in Montreal. I didn’t expect to drive in though. I text Aaron to see where he’s at.

Behind a dumpster at a McDonald’s puking GMO’d fries wondering if he should sleep for a few hours.

I say it’s a good idea.

I fall asleep.

My partner and my daughter come home around midnight. My phone lights up. I’m still asleep. We don’t answer. Aaron was asking for help. We missed him.

He figures he might as well get going and starts riding home.

It’s a hot night. At 0300, Meghann & I wake up. I see Aaron’s text. SHIT. Missed him. FUCK FUCK FUCK. That was so unsafe, I should’ve been with him.

“Where are you mate?”

Nothing. FUCK.

I FUCKED UP. What am I gonna say?

That he died doing what he loved? That’s cheap.

My phone lights up.

“Laval” (He’s not in Laval, but he texted back. So he’s alive. That’s good.)

Meghann tells me to get in the car and go get him. She cuts up watermelon, puts ice in water bottles.

“GO” she says.

I put the wheels on my bike and bring it downstairs.

“What are you doing?” she says. “Here are the keys.”

“He’s almost done. He’ll be right. He’ll cross Laval in like 15 minutes. I’ll ride him home.”

I almost fall down the stairs on top of my bike.

We meet at the Saint-Denis bridge around 0400.

It took more than fifteen minutes.

I am relieved. So happy to see his face. So proud of him. FIVE HUNDRED AND EIGHT kilometres in TWENTY-SEVEN hours. CRAZY RIDICULOUS KILOMETRES. He still drops me at every acceleration coming up Saint-Denis. The left turn onto Jean-Talon is especially painful. Five hundred watts, I reckon.

He told me it wasn’t about the distance. It wasn’t about the time it took. At first I didn’t understand. I was still down in the dark.

I understand better now. I matured, I suppose. I changed. As one does.

My screams are stronger, more powerful, they still break, the pitch isn’t perfect. The timing is still definitely a bit late… Whatever. I’m not fast yet.

You are a legend my friend. I cannot thank you enough.

I have another idea.

Let’s have a coffee.

You a sprinter or a climber?

I’m a mechanic.
That probably explains the three screws holding my hip together. And the broken helmets. Yeah helmets is plural. I suppose I was a mechanic. I still am, still like to understand how things work, why they work, I like making them work.

Even more interested in the stories. Now, not those stories, not the ones people do to satisfy their sponsors. The cheap labor of marketing. The stories you get to experience on the infield at the track. The stories on the way to the velodrome through a snowstorm with beer hauling road trains sliding all over the highway and ending up in the ditch both in front of you and behind you. The stories you tell yourself about your next bike. How it is your last bike. Your do-it-all bike. But then some mechanic is selling a sweet pair of tubular ENVEs you probably need a frame for.

Crashing is like meditation. My crashes focused my attention, allowed me to separate my consciousness from my body.

Questioned my day to day actions and pushed me towards living with intent. With awareness. With love and compassion. It took a while (read : a few crashes) for me to get that. Concussions aren’t necessarily recommended for humans with a tendency for depression. Crashes focused my attention on my family, challenged my relationship. My relationships with friends. Crashes desacralized my decisions. Crashes are a good story. They’re also annoying for your partner. You don’t need to have your friends call your partner in the middle of the night to say you’re going to the hospital, just so you can start living with intent. That’s just the way I did it.

I’m quite happy that I hit the barriers at 58 KPH and woke up in an MRI machine scanning my brain. It’s a good story. Doesn’t mean I’m going to go round the parc in Lachine this summer. It’s a story. I’m happy with it.

Content. Not content that pleases sponsors. I’m not that capitalistic either. I mean: I am content. (That sucks.) (It’s also a lie.)

Perspective shifts. Changes. Splits. So that both sides of the perspective are true. Always.

Consciousness.

Awareness.

Memories.

Stories.

Amateur track racing in Ontario in February. So serious. And dangerous. And fun.

I wanted to race. I wasn’t ready. I suppose you know when you are. You probably don’t know. You feel. Just like hitting the trigger on the camera. On the start gun. It’s not that serious. Is it? Can’t be. I’m still on the team.

This is what sport is about. Not about competition, or war, or money. It’s about teams. I don’t believe in individual sports. It’s about life. It’s a representation of life. Like art. It’s lifelike. It’s like life. It doesn’t really matter. We got a few stories.

Next time we’ll talk about doping.

dscf0037 — Never not fixed. Never fixed.

The Femoral Neck Fracture

Here’s a hashtag #FNF. Stands for Fucking No Fun.

I’m sad. Ain’t gonna lie. I’m sad. The triage nurse was right, under psychological state she clicked: depressive. Funny… she didn’t even ask how I was. I guess a 29 year old male in a lycra TMNT skinsuit at 2 in the morning in a wheelchair can’t be in any other psychological state, she still could’ve asked… I wouldn’t have lied.

I probably wouldn’t have said depressive, but that’s what I would’ve meant.

I really meant 8 out of 10 pain when I said my pain level was 5. I mean, I kinda knew my hip was broken but I wasn’t sure. I didn’t think I would die. You’d think they would teach the nurses not to trust a cyclist’s own assessment of pain. Especially if he wears a TMNT Skinsuit. At 2 AM. In a wheelchair. Oh and that drug called adrenaline… They should teach them about that too… And to use good judgment. I wouldn’t be at the hospital if my pain level was actually 5.

You know what I mean.

I wouldn’t lie to the nurse.

I lie to myself everyday.

I am now a 30 year old male with 3 screws in his left hip and I am absolutely aware that “this” is a “crise de la trentaine”. Absolutely freaking out about missed opportunities.

Absolutely aware that I am an idiot privileged white kid that pretended he could be more important, worthy of greater things without breaking a sweat. I’m sorry mom and dad. If I worked harder. Earlier. If I wasn’t delusional. If I wasn’t a bum. I wasn’t a real bum either, I wasn’t really anything. Just this weird guy, that people didn’t understand. I didn’t understand. I’m sorry parents.

Absolutely aware of my confidence issues.

Suicidal. Sure. But I decided not to.

There are a few reasons why I’m still here. They have names. Given and chosen names. They’re princess and dragon simultaneously. They’re dreamers, escape artists and magicians. They remind me to live intentionally. They reminded me with strong language or plain logic, fought with me until I looked up and breathed in. They don’t have to talk. I don’t have to talk. They listen. They understand. I understand. They dropped me a few times up those climbs in the morning, hard to lie to yourself when you can barely make the pedals go round; they also shut up about it. Or not. They are bears. They moved away and inspired me. They kept at it, when they were said no to. Over and over and over.

The stars I am gazing at.

They would be fine without me. It would hurt, but they would be fine. Maybe. Not.

The truth. I’m not fine without them.

“This” leads to now.

To Live Intentionally.

Life.

Ours.

The 100th RVV was the perfect race to introduce the non-cyclist to the sport.

So it’s autumn here in Australia (read STRAYA), which means that the only thing you hear about is Footy. AFL Footy. Australian Rules Fooball Footy.

It also means it’s spring in Belgium and, therefore, the best time of the year. The Spring’s One Day Classics are the most thrilling bike races to watch and there’s so many of them you get excited and start babbling nonsense to every living soul at the café. While nobody cared to explain to you why you still get a point in footy when you miss the goal; you find it important to explain to everyone how steep the Koppenberg, Taaienberg and Paterberg actually are and that they’re made of cobbles, and that it was better when the Muur-Kappelmuur was still part of the circuit, and that you’re going to stay up all night to watch the race on some illegal pixilated live-feed found through the dark-internet, because you CAN’T miss it.

Important note. NOBODY knows what 20% means. You don’t even know. You just make a slope with your arm and hand pointed approximately at 60 degrees (which is 40 degrees too much) and pretend you could ride up the Muur like De Vlaeminck or Merckx.

So the Ronde Van Vlaanderen is happening tonight and you have successfully coerced a non-cyclist sports enthusiast to come over and watch the race with you and your family. And you even found out that you don’t have to go to the dark-internet anymore. Just type RONDE VAN VLAANDEREN LIVE in youtube and you get to choose between Flemish, French, Italian or English broadcast. I mean, you still go to cyclingfans.com and steephill.tv for last kms, highlights, et cetera, but watching a live race without having to wait 30 seconds to close the ad with the hidden [X] is pretty cool. You select the english broadcast because you have a non-cycling guest over, but if you were alone you would’ve practiced your Flemish in case you go to Belgium next year.

It turns out the race is pretty interesting. You get to explain who the main protagonists are, why there is a breakaway, why Sagan is wearing a rainbow jersey, you know, regular discussion you need to have with non-cyclists. You are also drinking really nice Belgian beers so the non-cyclist interest for the sport increases rapidly.

CRASHES, NARROW ROADS, BERGS, ATTACKS, EVERYTHING.

The weather is fair, so the race is fast. It’s a good race.

The main protagonists are there. It’s a great race.

It’s the end, only the Oude Kwaremont and the Paterberg left. It is THE great race.

And then your guest asks you the dreaded question:

‘Why doesn’t one of them just ride faster then the other guys and win?’

Your sigh is not even completed when Peter Sagan goes WHAPAAA, and just like a freaking superhero does exactly THAT. Starts riding faster then everyone else.

SHEDS everyone, but Vanmarcke on the Oude Kwaremont and leaves him behind on the Paterberg like he was standing still. (I think he was actually standing still. 20% is that steep.) #SoPitted

Sagan goes on for 13 kms alone and wins. He had a great race.

Your guest had a great night.

The next day your guest sees you at the café.

‘Did you see the women’s Ronde finish?’ he says.

Your job is done. Next thing you know your guest will buy a Tarmac and a World Champion kit and drop you on your local berg.

#DoubleRainbow

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Double rainbow all the way. #sopitted

A post shared by Jon (@kitgrid) on Apr 3, 2016 at 9:11am PDT

Credit to Chainstay.com and @wtfkits for their general greatness at being awesome.

You should always win the sprint for your own city limit.

It is customary on group rides to sprint for city limits. The signs are easy to recognise and when you’re lucky the two cities don’t repair their streets with the same frequency, the change in tarmac gives the ideal finish line.

When you’re lucky you get an approximate distance to the next city a couple kilometres in advance which lets your ride partners (read ‘opponents’) describe the last k.

-‘So it’s a right turn, then little descent, 600m to go, intersection, you’ll see Dom’s Hot-Dogs on the left. The sign is 150m from there.’

The word ‘trust’ comes to mind during city limit sprints. There can be none of it.

Winning city limit sprints is not done through teamwork. Not describing the false flat uphill between Dom’s Hot-Dogs and the finish is part of your opponents’ strategy. But you’ve done your research. Strava’d the route beforehand, checked the segment’s gradiant, cross-referenced with street-view and you’re only peaking in two months so you paid Dom a visit and tried his best dish(es).

Épicurien.

After all, you spent three grand on a pair of aero ENVEs with Chris Kings. Your partner/wife/wallet won’t allow you to loose.

All rides being coffee shop rides, the winner won’t have to pay for his post-ride espresso and croissant. You won’t allow yourself to loose.

Right turn.

The new kid attacks. He’ll be reeled in almost immediately by Mat on the descent. Mat doesn’t drink coffee. So you quickly make an alliance with him. A simple nod suffices. He was there at Dom’s on your reconnaissance ride and you’ve been riding with for a couple years now, he knows how to lead you out. The best allie.

Intersection. None of those roundabout thingies.

The new kid attacks again. But this time Mat does something weird. He swerves quickly out of your way and looks back at you. He wants you to close the gap. He wants you to WHAT? The alliance is done. As quickly as it formed. You can’t close the gap, that’s like admitting defeat. You’re playing a very dangerous game here. You should go, the new kid looks like he’s got fresh legs. But you can’t chase and win. You’re not Gilbert Duclos-Lassalle.

Alex cracks first and jumps ahead. Good stuff. You’ve got a new lead out.

Dom’s Hot-Dogs on the left.

The catch is imminent. The false flat was not flat enough for the New Kid.

Shift to the twelve.

Full gas. All out. Around Alex. Fifty metres.

You got it.

NOPE.

A campagnolo wheel appears in your peripheral, and it’s going much faster than your ENVEs. Even your Davis Phinney-esque lunge for the line won’t be enough. Mat beat you. Fair and square. No celebrations, just a friendly tap on the back.

You see. Mat is a great cyclist, great style, good legs, amazing Power to Weight ratio. Plus during his finals at University, he started my coffee doping program. That espresso and croissant winning prize was all the motivation he needed. He wouldn’t allow himself to loose.

Anyways, you’re peaking in two months. You’ll get your chances.

Also why did they build the café at the top of the hill? Now you’ll get dropped on the climb and you’ll have to pay for the brownies as well.

I said I would.

I said I’d race.

Probably only to have the right to shave my legs. (Shave the guns, you look faster. Fast looks pro.)

It wasn’t a very long race. Just enough to know that I needed to dope. Or actually train. We’ll see about that. But basically, there was a small illegal fixie street crit, near the Blue Bonnets Raceway. @thePACKteam and its organiser Bruno Labelle were nowhere to be found, perfect for my diesel engine. Warm up. Meg used that time to wonder around the abandoned building. The sunset was so magnificent a cop car pulled up just to take a picture of it. Camo Pants, gun on the right thigh, pulls up beside me, gets out of the car, pulls a pink covered iPhone out of her pocket for the perfect #SunsetSelfieOfAnOfficerOnDuty or something. I suppose my beard did not hide the weird stare I gave her. Head down Ben, pretend you are warming up. She drives away.

Meg comes back, I’m not warmed up at all.

-‘Nice hippodrome. Nice sunset.’

-‘My grand-pa used to race horses here’

Only fitting that I raced my bike for the first time.

The rest of the racers show up slowly. Phil and Alex of CT/808, Josh T and Josh G of iBike, Bruno and kids of thePack, everyone else. Finish line is taped down a little further. Race is about to start. It’s almost dark. Lights on.

There’s a crowd and stuff. Very pro. Natalia and Brett are there!

FullSizeRender 2

Racers are making their final preparations. Some checking their chain, their tires, doping (smoking a joint, definitely not performance enhancing, illegal race remember?). Others commenting on the qualities of aluminum frames for winter riding, drooling over Josh G’s bike and his gloves too (leather, Captain America and all). Anyways, we all gather up at the start. I’m on 52/15 probably bigger ratio than most guys here. I’m a bit stupid. Looks pro though. I’m excited. I’m stressed. That’s weird. I’m racing with friends for fun, no pressure at all, but I’m still stressed. Heart thumping in my ears stressed.

The start is given with the stupid air horn. I hate this sound. I really hate it.

I can’t clip in. I tightened the spring before the race worried that I would unclip by accident just before the hairpin and cause a crash. It had happened to me in traffic on Ste-Catherine St just before Bleury. I had to avoid a couple of cars and run a red light with one foot in. I had sworn I would never unclip by mistake, ever again.

So I’m last after 3 meters.

A good start.

The race strategy was pretty simple. Hang on as long as possible. Get dropped. Get a beer hand up from Meg. Beer provided by Brett obviously. Drink it. Get off the bike. Watch the race.

First hairpin and I realise that it is much more technical than expected. These guys lean there bike so far over. I have a 170 mm crank arm and I’m wishing for a shorter one, not that it would help at all, I’m just scared to lean over that much. So I leave a gap, and I stand up on the pedals to catch up. Not very pro.

Every turn, it’s the same thing. 0 Watts to 1000 Watts. Over and over again. I’m not going to last. I know it.

Three laps in. The group’s speed has weeded out a couple of kids. I’m the next one on the list.

Caffeine kicks in. Baristas at Olimpico are serious about their stuff. I close the gap, putting the nail in the coffin of that wheelsucker that wouldn’t work with me. Left turn at the end of the straight, then chicane, then the crowd. Accelerate out of the chicane and almost run into the riders in front of me. I’m not going to slow down. Tactically attacking a group of 12 from the 12th position is stupid, attacking right when you close the gap is stupid, attacking when you can barely hang on is stupid. But I knew I was the next one to get dropped. So I attacked. The usual screams: ‘HEY, HO, HEY, HE’S GOING, HEY.’ They don’t know me. They never rode with me. They don’t know what I know. Next lap, I quit.

Phil is leading the group. We’re unofficially teammates, plus he’s a nice guy. So as soon as I go by him, he gives me the nod.

I take the hairpin aggressively (not really) and assess the gap. Off the front by a couple meters. Maybe fifty. Max. Full gas. Commit to the breakaway. You’ll quit when they catch up.

Le fugitif.

I can see the expression on Natalia, Brett and Meg’s face.

-‘How are you off the front? You were last?’

Big smiles. I’m hooked on racing. That’s it.

It was tactically dumb, but at least I’m having fun. Having fun is very pro. (Pros don’t abide by this rule so much, they are all caught up in training, meeting shady doctors and stuff. Taking themselves seriously. Not casually deliberate.)

I scream as I pass by them.

-‘Get the beer.’

Quickly, Meg grabs the beer. Left turn. Chicane. The line. I’m caught. The group spits me out the back. The wheelsucker flies by a couple seconds later.

Time for that beer hand up. Meg is a pro at that. Experience, I guess. It gets cheers from the small crowd. I feel like Adam Hansen.

Cool down lap. Cool down beverage.

Get off the bike. Sit with friends. Watch.

I don’t even have to explain myself. I get handed a second beer.

I’ll dope a bit more. The program: ride out to Olimpico earlier, fuel up on caffeine, go to the race and make sure that Dr. Brett brings a couple beers. Repeat. I should probably work on leaning my bike in corners too. God. I’m really hooked.

One more lap goes by.

The self obsessed, camo pants wearing, pink iPhone selfie artist/police officer turns up. The race is threatened. The crowd takes care of the distraction. The group slows down. They neutralise the race. They will to ride tranquillo until the last lap. And sprint.

Really shouldn’t have attacked. I’d still be in there. I would’ve sprinted.

I’m writing it here: I will ACTUALLY race my bike this summer. That’ll be fun.

Benoît C. Gauthier

Camera & Steadicam Operator

Author: Benoît C. Gauthier