Two Wheels on my Wagon (6 page)

‘You boys are cyclists, ain'tcha?'

Clad in Lycra and clipperty clopperty cycling shoes, we were in no position to disagree.

‘Where ya headed?'

‘Mexico.'

For the second time that morning, pandemonium ensued. Also, and possibly for the first time ever, Hank and Chuck and friends were compelled to express admiration for cyclists.

‘That's one helluva trip.'

This brief conversation then inspired a demonstration of the North American penchant for spontaneous hospitality that can leave jaundiced Europeans choking on their cynicism (and their breakfast). We were offered a present to help us on our way. The present came in the form of an insulated coffee mug that our hosts thought might provide a useful means to keep our liquid refreshment cool in the New Mexico deserts. I was about to explain that it was probably a very good idea but one that wouldn't work in practice when Cadet, aware of the sincerity of the gesture, wisely accepted his gift.

‘It's very kind of you, ma'am, it'll do just great.'

I agreed and, after a refill of coffee, during which time the conversation around us returned to the burgeoning success of a Calgary footballer (American, that is, not Association), we left for the post office feeling more confident than we had any right to.

An hour later, the hostel was a hive of activity and poorly disguised anxiety. Cyclists with far too little or far too much luggage milled around, killing time. Very few seemed to have settled on what I had considered the happy medium. People took pictures and made last-minute modifications to packing arrangements. John tried to fit a specially commissioned map case that had been promised two months ago but had only arrived at 5 a.m. that morning. The Tour de France it was not.

I spoke briefly to Per, who, although actually Swedish, had put down London as his home town and had become British by proxy. The fact that he had only signed up for the race a few weeks before the event had been encouraging, tempering fears about the task ahead. Clearly someone, at least, felt the years of preparation of which some riders were now boasting was over the top.

Nervous wives and at least one husband, as well as other friends and relatives, gave well-intentioned but invariably superfluous last-minute advice (‘Don't feed the bears, honey'). Then merciful distraction was provided as the tandem arrived. Powered by the Petervary husband and wife team, the tandem itself was blue at the front and pink at the back. Any thoughts I had entertained that they could be among my rivals in the
Lanterne Rouge
competition were immediately dispelled. Apart from the fact that Jay Petervary was a former record holder for the border to border part of the route (and had once been described in a magazine article as having the internal energy of a small supernova), it was now clear that his wife – Tracy, or T-Race as she was better known – would hardly hinder his speed. Unlikely as it seemed, the ‘Love Shack' was in it to win it.

Winning the race was definitely not on my agenda, even if I did inadvertently contrive to give this impression.

‘First, to finish,' was my answer when asked by Aaron Teasedale, the one journalist in attendance, about my goals. Unfortunately, the comma seemed to become misplaced and Aaron interpreted my response as an assertion of likely victory. The way he then reacted to this interpretation made it abundantly clear that ‘likely' would be that last adjective he would use to describe a victory by me. I felt oddly disappointed, but hastened to correct the misapprehension.

‘No, I meant that my first goal was simply to finish. Anything else . . .'

‘Yes, I realised that,' said Aaron, a little quicker than was strictly necessary.

‘Why are you participating?' he persisted.

Slightly thrown by my earlier inarticulacy, the best I could manage in response was ‘Why not?'

What I had intended to convey, in a George Mallory ‘because it's there' kind of way, was that, once you had become aware of such an event – once you had become aware that such an undertaking was even possible – the pertinent question was not ‘why?' but ‘why not?' How could you not want to respond positively to such a hitherto inconceivable opportunity? It seemed to me as tenable to shun something like the Tour Divide as to not investigate a previously undiscovered room in your own house. What's more, as all the answers to the question ‘why not?' were inherently unsatisfactory, the only conclusion that could be reached was that there was no reason not to do the race.

I'll concede, however, that it wasn't immediately apparent that this was how Aaron had perceived my seemingly truculent response.

At 9.50 a.m., all 42 cyclists left the grounds of the hostel for the brief journey to the official start at the Banff Springs Hotel. The hotel was commissioned in 1886 by Cornelius Van Horne, the railway baron, to attract tourists to his recently completed Canadian Pacific Railway. The hotel's distinctive, castle-inspired design was created by influential US architect Bruce Price. The end result was certainly massive and imposing, in a way no doubt intended to mirror the grandeur of the surrounding scenery. Yet it also seemed perversely fussy and intricate, which the nearby mountains, with their endless seas of green trees and pure, clean lines, most definitely were not. Nevertheless, such was its stature and the beauty of its surroundings that television directors and team sponsors the world over could easily be imagined waxing lyrical at the prospect of staging a global sporting event against such a backdrop. The Tour Divide was not yet that event.

The hotel's rear car park was a different matter completely. Tucked discreetly behind the service entrances and recycling bins at the back of the hotel, the car park was no more than a flat area of gravel distinguished only by providing access to the start of the Continental Divide Trail. A dozen spectators and some bunting was the scant evidence of our imminent departure.

As riders once again milled around, uncertain exactly what was going to happen next, a racer bolted from the massed ranks and yelled behind him as he disappeared into the forest.

‘Let's go.'

Without further ado, the race had begun. There was just time to consider the fact that the rider – Matthew Lee – had effectively already stolen a 30-second advantage over those of us at the back of the field before we could start. I decided it would be churlish to complain.

I also resisted the temptation to make a fool of myself in the name of trying to lead the race, even if only for a mile or two. Instead, Cadet and I stuck to our recently developed game plan of ignoring the siren temptations to go too fast, too soon. Actually, suggesting we had the ability to succumb to these temptations would have been inaccurate, but at least the notion that we were going slowly through choice rather than through necessity made us feel better.

As we made our way south along the valley of the Spray River, the density of the trees increased as the riders surrounding us thinned out. The trail remained wide and accommodating, however, and progress was smooth. It was hard to believe that we were on our way to Mexico.

The impression that we were merely out for a spin in the woods was reinforced when, after an hour or so, we left the trail and rode onto a wide, gravel road bleached white by the sun. The glare and the heat gave a foretaste of challenges to come, and the endless ridges were spectacular: peaks of over 10,000 feet were visible on each side. But several day-trippers had parked up nearby, making it feel more like the Lake District than the Rockies.

This conundrum had not escaped the authors of the Canadian section of the route map. ‘This section of Great Divide Canada showcases some of the most magnificent scenery in the entire Rocky Mountain Chain. Paradoxically, the route feels somewhat more settled, or civilized, than many sections to the south in the United States. One reason for this is that Great Divide Canada passes through a string of national and provincial parks which, not surprisingly, attract a great deal of visitors.'

To our considerable surprise there were not just visitors but also some spectators, taking photos and shouting encouragement. To our even more considerable surprise, only a short distance later we encountered one of the icons of the Rockies: a trio of male big horn sheep licking salt at the side of the road. It was immediately clear that the name ‘big horn sheep' was something of a misnomer. These sheep did not just have big horns. They were big, full stop, and exceptionally muscular. Big horn, big sheep would have been more accurate, if something of a mouthful. In spite of their size they looked benign, though possessed of a self-confidence, bordering on arrogance, that shone defiantly from their unblinking eyes.

After several miles on the road, the route crossed over a dam and became rougher. Massive mountains reflected in the still reservoir, though the scene suffered from the reservoir having a dirty bath-ring around its edge, the blight of all reservoirs when not full. I hoped to catch a glimpse of the famed Mount Assiniboine, the highest peak in this section of the Rockies and, judging by the photos I had seen, as shapely a mountain as could be imagined. James Outram, the first man to reach its summit, certainly thought so. ‘Its massive pyramid forms a conspicuous landmark from almost every considerable eminence for scores of miles around, towering fully 1,500 feet above its neighbours, and by its isolation no less than by its splendid outline commanding attention and admiration.'

The first white person to record having seen the mountain, the Catholic priest and explorer Pierre-Jean De Smet in 1845, was even more effusive. ‘The monuments of Cheops and Chephren dwindle into nought before this gigantic architectural cliff of nature.'

A conspicuous landmark it may have been, but it remained hidden by the lower peaks on my right. Instead, I had to make do with the not insignificant consolation of Mount Shark and, later, Mount Sir Douglas, named after Douglas Haig, to admire.

Next came some rougher riding still, following a trail through dense woods. Cadet had dropped back, and I made a brief effort to catch some riders further along the shoreline in order to avoid tackling it on my own. To my relief, my new companions were more than happy to whoop and holler their way through such desirable grizzly country. Connoisseurs of the peace and tranquillity of our surroundings we were not.

The incongruity of the route again became apparent when the trail through the woods reappeared in another parking lot at the end of another dusty road. Aaron the journalist was there, along with Joe Polk, the creator of the MTBcast website that made the telephone messages recorded by riders while on the route available for friends and family to listen to. I sat and tried unsuccessfully to eat some lunch, waiting for Cadet. Joe asked if he could record an interview to post on his website, then Aaron suggested taking some pictures.

‘Shall we session it?'

I'd just started the world's toughest bicycle race yet I now found myself in the middle of a radio interview and magazine photo shoot. The extent to which the whole endeavour had skewed normality was confirmed by the fact that this unlikely situation seemed quite unremarkable.

Cadet arrived, having already eaten, and we continued our journey along the dusty road. It was far from difficult riding but we both flagged. Earlier, we had been carried on a wave of relief at having finally started. Now, the anxieties of preparation seemed to be taking their toll.

Half a sun-baked hour passed. A large dog, or so it appeared, ambled nonchalantly along the centre of the broad road ahead of us.

‘Coyote,' said Cadet.

‘Are they dangerous?' I asked, not feeling much inclined to put in a sprint if evasive action were necessary. The animal in front of us was two foot tall at the shoulder, maybe a touch more. It was rangy in physique, rather than muscular, but it possessed a disdain for other road users, including a car that had just passed by, suggestive of an absolute lack of fear.

‘Nah, they're no problem,' Cadet assured me.

We had scarcely returned to our previous companionable silence when Cadet spoke again in a slightly more urgent voice.

‘Look! Bear!'

‘Pardon?'

‘Bear!'

‘Where?'

‘There, down the slope off to the right.'

‘Oh, yeah!' I said, excitement temporarily getting the better of fear.

The road had been climbing for some while but had recently settled into a flat section carved across the hillside. On our left, the uphill slope, the trees abutted the roadside, but on our right, the tree line was occasionally broken by aprons of grassland. Sure enough, a hundred or so yards ahead of us, at the bottom of one such apron, was a small bear. At least, it looked small from such a distance.

‘What should we do?' I asked, Cadet having now become the arbiter of all things animal related.

‘Keep riding quietly, I guess.'

Along the roadside, between the road and the grass, was a motorway-style crash barrier that helped to partially obscure us from view. We rode cautiously, peering over the barrier to maintain a close eye on our furry friend. As we approached, it became clear it was not a small bear but a giant black bear. Well, medium-sized maybe. Stood quietly on all fours two thirds of the way up the grassy apron, 30 yards below the road, it was about 3 foot high at the shoulder and 4 foot long. Initially it seemed oblivious to our presence, but then it turned to look at us. Nothing happened.

As we neared the bear, we skirted briefly out of sight before returning to the barrier side. When we were in a position to see it again, it was still looking. Still nothing happened.

Another hundred yards along the road and the bear was out of sight. When, a few minutes later, it still hadn't come bounding along the road after us, we breathed again.