If you spot the 2018 Canadian Cancer Society Cops for Cancer Tour de Rock team out for a ride, you’ll find us in matching spandex on super slick and speedy bikes.
We’re a constant line of communication. We call out hazards like “car back” so no one veers left into that oncoming vehicle, “walkers right” signalling a caution for pedestrians, “pace” if we need to slow down the pack, or “slowing” when anyone in the group is tapping on their breaks even if it’s just slightly.
It’s critical information, because we’re riding close together switching between single-file and peloton formations, depending on the amount of space we have on the road. The bike in front of you is your guide. You do what they do.
We aim for an average speed of at least 26 kilometres per hour and train three times a week.
In other words, you may be thinking we look and sound like pros. But I’m so far from it.
My bike handling skills were once laughable at best.
I don’t really know how it happened – as a kid I have fond memories of riding bikes with my sister navigating gravel roads in our small town. But after a significant hiatus (thanks to a thief who stole my bike), I really became terrible.
That became clear when my husband bought me a bike for my birthday a few years ago. It was old, something to get me from point A to point B without being attractive to thieves, which is just what I had asked for.
I largely refused to shift gears. It made more sense to suffer through any uphill or spin out going downhill than risk somehow popping off the chain. (Third gear was my sweet spot, if you were wondering.)
I’m also majorly left-handed. So until a move last fall that inspired routine bike rides to work (now on a snazzier cruiser bike) to accommodate the longer commute, I really didn’t ride alone because I lacked the confidence to lift that arm off the handle bar to signal any moves to traffic.
Then the upgrade came to a road bike with what felt like 85 gear options and clip-in pedals. The latter not being as scary to figure out as one may think.
My application for Tour de Rock was in. It was time to get serious and quit acting like a rookie.
Athletically speaking, I wasn’t worried about the physical demands of the more than 1,000 kilometre ride against cancer. I’ve been active all my life.
But technically, you can see it’s been a journey.
Today the baby steps continue. I still use the elevator to take my bike downstairs at work despite the availability of a ramp contraption to roll it down the stairs. I’ll take an uphill climb over a nerve-racking blast downhill any day. (How some of my teammates consider the downhill part a reward is still beyond me.)
But I’m hardly the cyclist I once was. Gears are incredible. If you’re using them correctly, they make everything easier. (But of course, you knew this.)
Yes, I can signal my way through traffic.
And really, if I didn’t tell you any of this you probably wouldn’t even know how laughable my bike-handling skills once were.
But the incentive to change my stubborn attitude for good was easy. Why wouldn’t I want to take on a two-week ride raising money for pediatric cancer research and support programs for children with a history of cancer?
Figuring out a bike is the least I can do.
