Expert's Luck
A set of cautionary tales in a single bike ride!
I think that I shall never see
A coachee more engaged than me
And if that coachee should appear
This coach will buy said saint a beer
As a coach, my failures, I think, tended toward self-doubt: could I have motivated my athletes more effectively? Should I have written hyperbolically inspirational newsletters, devised workouts less difficult and devious, accepted human frailties as the norm?
Perhaps. Nevertheless, when none of your charges return calls, read newsletters, or appear for training sessions, a good example may not need to be shown, but damn it, why not extend the futility one more notch?
The following account elucidates some of the hazards encountered while failing with a good attitude.
The Ride:
I'm rolling by 6:45 and shortly discover I'm cursed with 'bad legs'. No zip. No zing. No power. Achy. Ate well, slept well, have ~145 km mapped out, so I carry on confident that they'll come around in time as they often do. Over the Queensborough Bridge, down River Road, up and over Arthur Laing, Marine Drive...blahrg. I feel like shit. I'm seriously considering packing it in after UBC and heading home when my phone rings: it's the team's coordinator, Veronica. Two of the fundraising guys have recommitted, with the gals that's 4 total, so I begin to feel better about life. Had they shown up to train I'd have been happier, but at least I spent hours mapping, editing, printing, and laminating route slips no one would see. Perhaps that's appropriate training for coaches.
Legs still feel like crap, but I decide to continue to Whytecliff with my newfound positive attitude. Take it easy, work on cadence, and grind out a classic long endurance ride. Prior to getting out of bed I'd been assailed by 'looming disaster' thoughts and visions: bikes crashing, me cursing at careless drivers as I lay on the road smashed up, that kind of thing. ‘Coach stuff’. Traffic is light, though, just a few cyclists and pedestrians to keep an eye on, so dread has moved to the back burner. I get through Stanley Park, and while crossing Lion's Gate Bridge hear 'on your left', so I let him by and allow a gap to open. We reach the bottom of the bridge doing 45 km/h or so when this guy suddenly hammers the brakes without warning, coming to a near total stop and blocking the entire sidewalk before he exits onto an obscure trail. I learn a new exit. 'Excuse me, sir, I was expecting to be killed by MOTORISTS this morning' isn't exactly what I muttered to myself as I rolled by.
I've left West Vancouver proper behind and I'm cruising along Marine Drive, out to where it gets curvy and fun, when I hear a sizable cluster of talkative female cyclists gaining on me. They're almost on me when we hit a descent and suddenly they're gone, off the back. Weird! I think to myself. They only go fast uphill! And they chatter like budgies as they descend. They sure ain't guys. Being a guy, I figure I'll start working harder and try to 'win' out to Whytecliff, which I do. The girls show up, and one of them, sporting a race number-plate on her bike, invites me to ride with them on the return leg. "It's more fun with a group! At least I think so!" she says. Okay, says I, thanking her for the invitation, and anticipating fun. I don't know it yet, but I've just accepted admission to a cycling 'Twilight Zone'. Another rider suggests we go down to the beach, which makes me wonder 'why?' but the beach is just down a short, steep, paved trail, so I tag along. Lovely location, this rocky beach, we all agree, as a diver, looking absurdly aquatic with his walrus whiskers, flippers his way towards what must be a 'group dive'. I suspect there's less chatter underwater, and briefly envy him.
We cruise back up the trail, continue on to the main road, and I spin along with friendly racer girl and companions until the first downhill stretch, at which point they're on the brakes again and become fading background natter. Never one to avoid free speed, I continue on alone downhill and then soft pedal up the next few hills until the chattering is again audible. We regroup, I drift to the back for a guzzle and nibble, and it happens: the dread returns. I'm sipping behind them and call out 'car back' as several have accumulated behind me, but they keep chatting away taking the entire lane. A louder reiteration of 'car back' is similarly ignored. They pay no attention to what's behind them, including me. It hits me that they simply DON'T CARE in the slightest. As a polite fellow under the sway of enhanced caution, I *do* care, knowing irate motorists can ruin my day with a brake check or a dangerous pass, so I elect to sprint around this pleasant if oblivious crew and abandon the group ride life.
I reach the sidewalk at the base of Lions Gate Bridge and see it’s been repaved, with a nicely beveled edge on the curb, so I carefully roll up it onto the sidewalk, only to hear pssh pssh pssh pssh...and I have a flat rear tire. The cut is so severe I have to install a ‘boot’ on the interior of the tire, and then discover to my immense delight that my pump is damaged. The rubber valve seal is oddly warped and protruding and won't allow me to insert the valve stem. Great, great, great, this is SOOOO F'ING GREAT!!! I rant to myself. I'm screwed if I can't fix this flat, as I’m still a good 40 km from home, with no one to call for a ride. After painful exertions and cursing that I try to limit to just below earsplitting, I manage to repair the pump, fill the tube, and get rolling again, relieved but wondering what else will go wrong. It seems it’s not just me that’s kept it ‘interesting’: I’m in a world of single-point failures, and they seem to be accumulating.
Upon reaching the city, I discover it's PRIDE PARADE day, with road closures in full effect. I’d noticed barriers erected here and there on the ride out, but had failed to absorb their deeper meaning. An angry traffic control cop is yelling at disobedient revelers to 'go there' and 'don't go there' and he yells at me to 'take the seawall!'. So, I do, because of course! I wanted to take the long way home. He’s right, though, and the bike route is busy but easily navigable.
Cruising down Burrard Street Bridge in the protected cycling lane relaxes me a bit, until I reach the weaving wrong-way family who apparently can't read 'one way lane' signs nor interpret directional arrows. That Bad Feeling is very persistent now. Must be time for another flat, or perhaps that float plane will crash into those yachts down below. I bounce around on the bike: tires are good. I glance over at the plane: it lands gracefully on the smooth harbor. Relax, dude! I tell myself.
Legs are working okay at this point but my heart rate zooms up alarmingly fast with any increase in effort. No need to look at the bike computer: thudthudthudthud tells me everything I need to know. I plug along, shift to the small ring, and the fingers that pushed the shift lever remain flexed. I have to manually straighten them. Hmmm. Am I dehydrated? This is no bonk. Even though it's farther, I command myself to stop at the first bathroom at Locarno or whichever watering hole looks least busy along Kits Beach. I turn off of 4th Avenue, and, wending my way down the curvy hill, spot some very pro-looking cyclists ahead. 3 of them, 2 without helmets, looking nonchalant and chatty and obviously taking it easy. They remind me of the racer gals. I figure I'll catch up to them for a look-see, check out their doubtlessly awesome bikes, and bring up the pace to make this happen before I reach the bathroom.
My prey hit the flats, turn the corner, and cruise along, gesticulating while they take in the sights. The black-haired curly-locked lead rider looks back, says something to his companions, drifts slightly right, and grins at them, though he is now aimed squarely at the rear corner of a black SUV in the parking lane. I suspect he’s clowning with them. He's doing probably 30 clicks, and is about to stop smiling. He finally looks forward, alerted by one of the others perhaps, but swerves left a moment too late. He shatters the tail light cluster of the SUV with his right hip in classic Trevor Linden hip-check fashion. Plastic flies everywhere as Linden arcs gracefully through the air on his way to breaking the road with his left hip. The helmeted rider takes this in far too slowly, t-bones the downed rider, pivots skyward on his now rotationally-challenged front wheel, and slams down on his head and shoulder, tumbling to a seated position on the pavement. I’m horrified by their abrupt mishap and concerned that they’ve been seriously injured. They went out for a casual ride, got a bit too casual for just a moment, and became casualties.
Their bikes clatter to a halt; I roll up, dismount, and assess the scene, directing motorists around the accident. The freshly crashed don’t look good: Linden is on his back, thrashing in pain and groaning in the middle of the road, while T-bone clutches his shoulder, looking painfully strained as he sits and hisses on the pavement, helmet askew. The third rider sits silently astride his bike, foot on the road, sporting an expression of great consternation. I tell Linden I know first aid and ask if I may begin to assess him, only to discover he doesn't speak English. They're Spaniards! Linden fumbles out some broken English as I assist him off his back, but the others are completely EUL (English as an unlearned language). Unfortunately, I am equally adept at Spanish.
Me and Consternado drag the bikes off the road, the crash victims drag themselves off the road, and they sit on the grass beside their similarly battered bicycles. I call 911, and after being on hold for a solid 10 minutes, dispatch tells me to expect to wait at least 20 more minutes because the paramedics are on strike and have limited capacity. I use this time to get to know the guys a bit. They're here for the World Police and Fire Games, representing Spain in the road race...or would have been. Just went out for a little spin to UBC, loosen up the legs, shake off some jetlag, you know, tranquilo. Paramedics finally arrive, have a look, and begin to assist the injured parties into the ambulance. Consternado indicates he'd like to join them, which is fine, but we're told the bikes must stay behind. This won't fly, I think, and it doesn't. No. "We will ride back to the hotel. Our papers are there anyways", says Linden in mutilated English. Yeah. Riding around in a foreign country, no ID, no money, no helmets. Okay, fine, ONE helmet, and how fortunate that T-bone was wearing it!
"And Bill, Bill will guide us back to the magnificent Fairmont Hotel, with its luxurious Corinthian Leather Lounge" - because they also have no map. And so it came to pass that I found myself soft-pedaling back over the Burrard Street Bridge in the sorriest group ride ever: The Sunday Spanish Suffer-Bunch. Alternatively: The Mangled Montalbanians. They were near-haltingly slow, two of them with swelling injuries and torn lycra. Even the uninjured one seemed emptied of strength and spirit. I was close to losing mine, and was relieved when they agreed to continue on alone once they’d recognized their surroundings, part of which was a conveniently located hospital.
I finally reached Locarno Beach, mixed up a couple bottles of sports beverage with protein powder, and pedaled off, glad it was a long summer day.
It wasn't until I arrived home that I realized I'd barely glanced at their bikes. Bottechi-what? Pure fluff, given the circumstances. I worked my way through the post-ride procedure: pour out bottle dregs, take a quick hot shower followed by a prolonged cold water blast on the legs to reduce inflammation, and uncap a malted recovery beverage. While I lay on the bed with my legs up on pillows, resting and plotting my million-calorie dinner, a nagging twitch became evident in my right hamstring. That's odd, I thought: so near the knee. When the left leg joined in and the twitching spread and intensified, I was reminded of an account I'd read of buckling legs and crippling cramps that had required immediate medical assistance, and realized I had no such assistance at hand.
I was soon fighting to keep my legs from folding up, wracked my brain for quick fixes, and remembered the treatment the cripple-cramped cyclist had required: intravenous hypertonic saline. SALT, NOW! Flexing my quads, I locked my legs straight, gymbaled awkwardly onto my feet, and peg-legged into the kitchen like a doubly-amputated pirate. Arrhh, how about this can of corn, then, Billy? I ripped off the lid, stirred in at least a gram of salt, and spooned some bland kernels into my mouth. I then added what seemed an absurd quantity of salt - until I could actually taste corn - and continued eating right out of the can.
I stood on quivering legs, nibbled my salt-encrusted delectable delights, and reviewed the day’s events, musing on the chaos that had infiltrated my carefully planned sequence of orderly events. As the tension in my legs eased, confirming the salt hypothesis, I felt happiness flood through me, and finally appreciated how well-prepared I’d been for a day as challenging as this one had become. I’d had so little control over much of what transpired. And strangely, it almost seemed as if this plethora of unexpected events had conspired to deliver me to the Spaniards just when I was needed.
Now, THOSE guys were lucky!
Oh my gosh Bill, it sounds like Murphy was your co-pilot that day. Glad you made it out relatively unscathed!