Two Wheels on my Wagon (5 page)

‘Paul, the article that I forwarded to you is an example of an isolated incident,' Bob wrote. ‘Generally, when you are travelling through the Canadian Rockies, you
must
stay at a designated camp-ground. It would not be advisable to stop at the side of the road and pitch your tent. First, it is illegal. Second, it can be dangerous. There are not just bears, but also coyotes, wolves and cougars. Cougars will definitely attack a single person.'

Nobody had mentioned cougars. A quick Internet search revealed four fatal North American cougar attacks since 2000. While I was at it, I also checked for fatal snake bites – also four – and lightning strikes – 33 in the first half of 2009 alone. Maybe bears wouldn't be my biggest problem after all. I decided to ignore the link to fatal bee stings.

‘In any event, bicycling in Canada is 100 per cent safe with regards to wildlife,' my friend continued. ‘No grizzly bear is going to come charging out of the bush and chase you down on your bike. The bigger danger is the possibility of being hit by a car as there are lots of idiot drivers. Hope you really enjoy your adventure.'

My other messages were less alarming.

‘Here is some advice from your children,' wrote Catherine. ‘Molly says “be second the best and don't die”. Benjamin says “be first the worst and second the best and don't fall off”. Thomas says “Thunderbirds” and Freddie says “please come down”. I don't know where you have to come down from but he was adamant.'

Suitably inspired, I decided it was time to put my bike together. Only one part of it was protruding from its box, which I felt was a good sign. Slowly, and by casting furtive glances to copy what Cadet was doing, I managed to put everything back in the right place, a slightly buckled wheel being the only obvious damage incurred during the journey.

The next day we went on a brief ride to make sure the bikes were fully functioning, joined by another British rider, John, from Newcastle by way of Milton Keynes. Not only had he assembled his bike quicker than I could eat my breakfast, he betrayed the self-confidence integral to success by having booked his return flight from Phoenix in Arizona over a week earlier than mine.

The seemingly gentle climb up to the Hot Springs that had provided Banff's original raison d'être in the 1880s caught us all by surprise. Either the altitude – Banff is the highest town in Canada, but still only 4,500 feet above sea level – or more likely the dryness of the air meant we rasped our way up the hill.

Then we undertook our first foray into the boundless woods surrounding the town, venturing the first few miles along the Tour Divide route. Bears might not have been the biggest actual threat to our safety, but they certainly exercised the greatest hold over our imaginations. Even though we were on a marked trail used by thousands of cyclists each year, the sense of having strayed into the wild was immediate. Elk nibbled on the grass below the imposing Banff Springs Hotel. Not for the first time I wondered quite why I'd wished so fervently for an adventure on this scale. Beware of what you wish for, it might come true.

Back at the hostel, I was simultaneously wishing for more and less carrying capacity. The way John had ridden up the hills on the track out of town made it clear what an advantage it would be to have less weight. Whenever I asked him if he had what I was just about to pack he invariably said ‘no'. Even a tent had been forsaken, in preference for a bivvy bag.

On the other hand, the growing realisation at just how inhospitable the terrain would be made me wish I could carry more. More food was certainly on the agenda if I could find room, even if stories of a bear's incredible sense of smell called into question the wisdom of carrying peanuts loose in the pockets of my cycling jersey as was my wont.

The vexation of trying to resolve these packing dilemmas was unintentionally exacerbated by the presence of the first Tour Divide groupie. ‘Crazy Larry' was something of a Banff character with a well-known passion for mountain biking. ‘Crazy Larry' was not just an affectionate nickname.

‘I've had my name changed by deed poll because I work with disadvantaged young people and they think I'm crazy,' he said proudly to a dormitory now filling with increasingly frazzled cyclists.

Larry – or maybe that should be Crazy – wore his hair in a mullet, and rattled his way around the room sporting a variety of bear protection devices. The most impressive weapon in his armoury was a machine to fire four bear bangers in one go.

‘It's just not worth taking any chances with those bears,' he said knowingly.

Crazy's favourite occupation appeared to be discussing bike set-ups and bemoaning the fact he couldn't join us on our ride.

‘Man, it's just gonna be awesome.'

He had hit the nail on the head, but my capacity for small talk is limited at the best of times, and I soon needed to find a quieter spot to continue wrestling with my logistical conundrums.

In between worrying about what I should and shouldn't take, I began to weigh up rivals for the prestigious
Lanterne Rouge
competition.
Lanterne Rouge
is the term used to describe the last-placed finisher in the Tour de France. As well as generating often much-needed sympathy from onlookers, thanks to the wearing of a red race number, it conveyed to the recipient a useful notoriety, facilitating invitations to the lucrative round of post-Tour criterium races that once constituted the major part of a professional cyclist's income. I wasn't sure whether completing the Tour Divide would open up similar remunerative opportunities, or even if the Tour Divide considered the
Lanterne Rouge
a legitimate race within a race, but it was clearly the only competition in which I was likely to play any meaningful part.

I also had to make sure I did my homework in case the competition developed along the lines of the equivalent award for finishing last in the Giro d'Italia. As befits the often controversial and partisan nature of racing in Italy, the battle for the infamous
Maglia Nera
was the source of great skulduggery. Shady deals were struck, long-cuts were taken, punctures fabricated – all for the sake of claiming a footnote in sporting history. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the official competition only lasted from 1946 to 1951.

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.

R
ace 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.