Tour of Rice Lake 300K Ride Report: May 21, 2003
A Strange Day on the Road
Today marked a record number of strange events in my long-distance cycling career. These events include barking dogs, overly-friendly locals, a record number of flats, and my first "alien abduction." Because of the number of flats due to an unsightly and expensive gash in my relatively new $70 rear tire, I was unable to finish. Aside from that, I had a lovely day.
I pulled in to the Tim Horton's at 6:03 am, discovering most people had already left and only the ride organizer was still waiting for me. I did my best to stay with Alan on the ride out, but I lost contact with him a little before the long climb up the Oshawa ski club hill. After that, I was quite content to enjoy the company of the road with a clear view. I did miss his company, though, when they disappeared over brow of the first hill, then the second hill, then oblivion. However, a little later after I had been stopping to snap pictures here and there of the "flat" Ontario landscape, and I had fully come to terms with how enjoyable riding alone can be, I little Jack Russell terrier came charging at me about 4 kms out of Bewdley. I was coming to a stop anyway as there was a stop sign, but there was an instant that I feared the dog might be halved by my front wheel if either he or I continued on the present course. Once I stopped, I looked at the dog with a scowl and he immediately tucked tail and ran away. Immediately after that, who should roll up behind me? Alan, the ride organizer! How did that happen? I saw him disappear over the horizon about 45 minutes previous. The only logical conclusion is "alien abduction." (Thanks go to Lori Mathews for this term.) Thus far I had followed the route sheet to a T, and was showing slightly more than the usual drift between my computer and the route sheet instructions that normally accumulates on these brevets. I don't know whose computer it was, but your wheel size is incorrect, as it is slightly over-estimating the distance.
Reports by Cameron Ogilvie and Oliver Moore, photos by Cameron Ogilvie
by Cameron Ogilvie
As I once again rode with Alan, I heard a K-BLAMO! PFFFSSSSTTT! I had a flat. This was my first exploding rear flat ever. After removing the tire from the wheel, I noticed there was a huge gash that penetrated the rubber, the FIVE Kevlar plies, and the 220 TPI casing in the tire carcass. The only solution was to apply a tire boot to prevent a repaired tube from exploding through the hole. Thanks go to Alan for lending me a boot and waiting for me to make the change. There goes tube No. 1.
After a light snack and short rest in Bewdley, we pressed on around Rice Lake. After about 30 minutes of riding, the road felt rougher and bumpier for some strange reason. I looked down, and yep, the back tire was flat again. Once again Alan waited and lent me a tube patch, as I had just put in tube No. 2 seemingly only minutes previously. I thought there must have been a rock or some debris that I didn't sweep out of the tire before I re-applied it to the wheel when I replaced tube No. 1.
Once again, on the way to Lunch in Hastings, I lost contact with Alan, and I was once again left to my own devices, which as it turns out were insufficient to complete the ride. But, I made it to Hastings and enjoyed a light lunch by the Trent River and pressed on quickly so, if I once again flatted I would have somebody behind me lest I run out of spare tubes.
Sadly, my breakaway didn't last. Alan once again caught up, and pressed onward. Sadly after missing a TR/TL, which I read backwards, I was about 5 km off route when flat number 3 hit me. Once again, I stopped by the side of the road and made the change. Sadly this time I discovered the tire boot had split into 4 pieces and it was the boot itself that punctured the tube.
I tried to fashion a boot out of old Powerbar wrappers, but the slippery Mylar was my undoing. As it inflated, the rubber slipped on the Mylar and the tube burst through again, leaving me without any spares.
Thanks to my dad for driving out to the "middle of nowhere" Ontario a whopping 150 kms from home to pick me up. I had though of meeting him at the control and asking him to just bring a stack of tubes, but I was 15 km out of the control and having to hike that far in bike shoes would probably have put me beyond the time cut-off.
It was a fun day, and if I only had finished, it would have been a great success.
Wheel Misfortune
by Oliver Moore
Sod's Law being what it is, I should have known to expect bike problems on a ride that I absolutely needed to complete in order to have a hope of qualifying for France. And sure enough, the angry gods did not disappoint
The weather was fair, though never warm, and the 100-kilometre tailwind did not materialise. Instead I was forced to slog my way over the hills to Bewdley, teeth chattering from the rough road and the many miles of the fleche 72 hours earlier weighing heavily on my legs. I popped a spoke on the approach to B and, not having a replacement, jury-rigged a fix and carried on. About 40 kilometres later, as I was "enjoying" the monster rollers between Roseneath and Dartford, it all came apart at once as I screamed down a hill.
My rear wheel suddenly jumped way out of true, punched up against the brake shoes and kicked off the chain, which in turn became jammed between sproket and the frame, locking the wheel - all at something more than 50 km/hr. [In fact, the chain came off inwards, and became jammed between the spokes and the sprocket, not between the sprocket and the frame. This created further problems which I luckily did not notice until much later, damaging the drive-side spokes so severely that nine of them subsequently had to be replaced - OM.]
Although at the time it did not seem all that dangerous, in retrospect I assume that it is only the many thousands of hours of bike-handling practice that kept me vertical long enough to wrestle that Urbanite pig-machine to a standstill. Finally at rest on the bucolic country road, my heart pitter-pattering nicely, I pondered my next step and wondered how long it would take me to walk into town. As I ruminated, my hand brushed the valve stem on my front wheel, causing the criminally shoddy glue to crack apart and thus ruining that tube.
It was around this point that a nearby farmer - no doubt attracted by my blue-bordering-on-purple vocal outbursts - wandered across the road to offer his assistance. Well, actually, his opening gambit was more like: "Hmm, what you gonna do now?"
Dismissing the friendly farmer, I went to work methodically. Attacking the easiest first, I replaced the front tube before turning my attention to the rear end. Several minutes of judicious rim bending with my spoke wrench got the rim reasonably true (enough to clear the brakes, at least), though all I could do about the three inches of atrociously scraped rubber was slap a pair of boots on the inside of the tire. Having no more spare tubes, a missing spoke, a severely weakened tire and 170 kilometres ahead of me, including some gravel, I wheeled onwards with a certain cringe at every bump and creak.
Looking for a new tire and spare tubes in Dartford was of course hopeless, as were my inquiries in Hastings and Millbrook. Although encouraged by several helpful burghers to make the sidetrip into Peterborough, I didn't feel much like a 50-kilometre detour that would probably turn up only a MTB store. So I pressed on, hoping for good luck and trying not to think of my meagre options if the odds went against me
As it turned out, it got better from there. The wind shifted generally behind me after Hastings (152km), the store in Millbrook sold fabulous Haagen-Daaz ice cream bars and I didn't go off course once. Around 250, though, I began to fade seriously. Having worked until half-twelve the night before I'd only managed two hours sleep and was beginnning to fall to pieces. Pulling off at about the 260-kilometre mark, I plopped myself down in the ditch and put my head down.
For once avoiding the cries, curses and entreaties of yahoos and good samaritans, I catnapped for maybe 10 minutes and headed out much refreshed. The shut-eye kept me sharp as I jockeyed with rush-hour traffic coming into town and let me face the gravel before Churchill St. in a much better mood
Back at Tim's well before sundown, I put my feet up and enjoyed a couple of doughnuts. Two women at the next table suggested that it "looked like" I'd been on a bike ride. With 340km down and another 35 to go before I got home, I elected to just nod and not try to explain.