January Orange

Check out the cassette on my winter commuting bike. We’re half-way through Edmonton’s endless winter, and the snow, slush, and snirt have done their seasonal business on my drivetrain. The chain, sprockets, and cassette—the whole meal deal—is now thoroughly oxidized, rusted to a startlingly bright orange. The chain, which I lube frequently in winter, doesn’t actually look too bad. But the rest of it? Flaming rings of fire, baby. Forget Kiev’s orange uprising. Cyclists only have to look down between their legs to see an orange revolution. Who needs fancy LED light on one’s spokes? In the right light, my sprockets glow like the elements in my toaster.

Prunella

This is Prunella. She’s a Haro sidewalk cruiser, and she belonged to my friend Karen, who died a couple of weeks ago, and whose funeral I will attend this afternoon. Karen, a writer and editor, was 56 and died of a rare, incurable neurological disease. She was one of my favorite people to be around.

Karen wasn’t a serious or even a semi-serious cyclist. In fact, in the years I knew her, I don’t think I ever actually saw her ride her bike. But it was always proudly displayed in her apartment, and when we visited her place, Karen would sometimes say to me, knowing my fondness for cycling, that she adored her bicycle. “I love Prunella,” she’d tell me.

On-One Fatty: Preliminary Report

I’ve only had my new fatbike for a couple of weeks and only gone for a couple of  substantial rides, but here’s my early report: I like it. A lot.

At this point, I won’t even pretend that I can offer much useful feedback on how it rides. I will have to get some miles under it and test it out on a variety of conditions before I’ll be ready to pronounce on that side of things. (I’ve only ridden it on packed snow; we haven’t had a dump of the white stuff since the boxes arrived. Can’t wait.) But there are a couple of things I can report on.

Garage Band

Given the sounds emanating from Val’s garage—a cacophony of thumping music, spinning rollers, whirring fans, and occasional yips and yells—passers-by might assume that a band, maybe a bunch of pimply teenagers, is jamming away in Val’s garage, perhaps with dreams of one day making the cover of Rolling Stone.

Except for the fact that it’s 7:00 am—a time that no teenager has ever played a note in any garage. In fact, we—that is Val, Penn, and I—are not a garage band but rather just three middle-aged guys spinning on their bikes in front of a blaring Spinervals video, trying to work off some winter weight and keep our legs from atrophying completely. It’s January, and garage spinning is what we do around here come January.

The Look Ahead: Iron Horse Trail Preview

Smoky Lake's Pumpkin Park: Possible Pit Stop along the Iron Horse Trail

At the top of my to-do list of rides for the 2014 season is Alberta’s Iron Horse Trail (not to be confused with the Iron Horse Trails near Seattle or Waterloo and I’m sure dozens of other places; let’s face it, it’s not the most original name for a converted rail trail). This 300km, gravel, multi-use trail (part of the Trans Canada Trail) stretches along a Y-shape north-east of Edmonton; the western starting point is near Smoky Lake (an hour from the capital) and the eastern tips of the Y are at Cold Lake and Heinsburg, close to the Saskatchewan border. The trail runs through farmland, boreal forest, and a series of small Ukrainian towns and villages (Vilna, St. Paul, Glendon, Elk Point) in a pretty part of the province known as the Lakeland.

A Fat Bike Vow

I, Jasper Gates, do solemnly swear that in purchasing this brand spanking new On One Fat Bike, hereafter referred to as “FB” (and which is, apparently, to be delivered to me some time in the next 6 days, possibly even by Christmas!), I will

Strive, at all times, to remember that I am an adult, with obligations and responsibilities, and cannot spend all my free time riding the aforementioned FB, even though riding a FB has a way of making me feel like a kid on Christmas morning;

Not allow said FB to interfere with my pursuit of other wintery leisure activities, especially those I enjoy doing with my spousal unit, to wit, cross-country skiing and skating and walking;

Not cause my spousal unit to become a fat-bike widow, whose husband disappears into the river valley for hours on end after every snowfall;

Occasionally allow the car to also be parked in the garage along with the FB;

Not neglect the other bicycles in my garage, that I will continue to love them equally in each’s own special way, even though the FB will obviously be my favorite, at least for the foreseeable future; 

Not scoff at bicycle tires less than 3.8” wide;

Allow, on special occasions, my teenage son Gil to ride said FB, though only under certain very carefully controlled conditions;

Remember that there are fun, meaningful, fulfilling activities in life other than riding my new FB.

Dated December 18, 2013 in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada

Vélivre: A Bike Ride: 12000 Miles around the World

I love the modest title of Anne Mustoe’s 1991 cycle-travel classic. “A Bike Ride” suggests a jaunt, a lark, a spin maybe—so even with the much more impressive-sounding subtitle, we know we’re in the hands of a writer who, despite her impressive accomplishments, doesn’t take herself too seriously. It’s an endearingly British thing, this self-deprecation.

Mustoe’s story really is inspiring: at age 54, a widow with grown up step-sons, she left her job as headmistress of a girls’ boarding school in England and decided to head off around the world on her bicycle. She was, by her own admission, “not athletic”; in fact, she was “overweight, out of condition.” Although a seasoned traveler, she had never been “a keen cyclist.” Yet she got the idea in her head one day that cycling was the perfect way to go, offering the freedom and simplicity she was yearning for: “I should be breaking free, not only from my responsibilities but from life’s clutter.” Her goal? Simply to “dawdle in beautiful places.” It’s a narrative angle many of us can appreciate, if not emulate. To her credit, Mustoe soft-pedals the “personal journey of discovery” bit and simply gives us her informed, thoughtful, witty observations on her extremely long “bike ride.”

Edmonton Ice-Up Rides

It happens quickly, sneaking up on even long-time Edmontonians. One day the river valley is brown and bare and the water is gently skiffing along. The next week, it’s all white fluff and chunks are beginning to form and bunch in the North Saskatchewan River. That week or two when the river ices up is a perfect time to grab the camera and go riding on the river valley trails. I went on three short ice-up rides over the past 10 days. Here’s what I discovered.

An Impromptu Shave

“One day, wishing to get rid of the several days’ growth of bristling beard on my face, I took out my shaving apparatus, hooked the leather strap to the brake handle, honed the razor, found an old can, brought some water from a brook near by, pinned the pocket mirror on a tree, and got as clean a shave as I ever had, washing my face with one corner of a handkerchief, and drying it with the other end.”
 --George B. Thayer Pedal and Path: Awheel and Afoot across the Continent (1887)

George B. Thayer was on the outskirts of Chicago, in the middle of the westward leg of his solo journey across America in 1886, when he succumbed to an overpowering impulse to get off his high-wheel bicycle and shave his face. I imagine there are, at this very moment around the world, many Movember-weary cyclists who can appreciate—and are perhaps jealous of--Thayer’s bold, some may even say rash, “IMPROMPTU SHAVE.”