Spirits remained high during challenging day of cycling

The pedal and crank arm fell clean off the bike, clattering onto the uneven pavement before skidding to a stop. Undeterred, my friend and riding partner, T.C., kept pedalling with one leg, fuelled by frustration over our failed repair and his general stubborn nature.

“Don’t worry,” I called ahead as T.C. pedalled awkwardly on, “I’ll get it.”

I thought it was a funny line but T.C. wasn’t smiling: we had 16 kilometres of mud and hills left to go and no way to fix his borked bike. To make matters worse, Sluggy, the third member of our riding trio, was showing signs of fatigue: it was shaping up to be a grim finish to what had already been a challenging day.

We had signed up for the Bruce Gravel Gran Fondo months ago, hoping to put an epic exclamation mark on what had been an excellent year-and-a-bit of riding. Throughout the pandemic, the three of us had ridden together constantly, providing a muchneeded physical and social outlet during challenging times.

We even formed our own tiny bike club, complete with custom outfits. We call it GearsB4Beers, a nod to the fitness-followed-by-fun ethos of the whole thing. Our typical ride involves a stop at a microbrewery or a bakery and postride beers in someone’s garage — sometimes all three if we’re doing it right.

The Fondo was the first “official” event we’d ever done, given that pretty much everything was cancelled during the pandemic due to public-health restrictions. It wasn’t a race — there was no timing or results posted — just an opportunity to ride through the spectacular Bruce Peninsula with other members of the cycling tribe.

Then it rained. A deluge the night before turned the dirt roads into soggy soup and a steady drizzle the day of the event kept us soaked and mudsplattered. The bikes were caked with gunk, grit and water working their way into every nook and cranny of both man and machine.

T.C.’s bike is a 25-year-old mountain bike that we’d painstakingly restored during COVID. But the worldwide shortage of parts meant that I, as chief mechanic, had made some questionable decisions involving cheaply made online knock-offs — one of which was now tucked into my jersey pocket instead of being attached to T.C.’s bike.

And yet, somehow he made it. The crazy bastard pedalled 16 km on one leg, Sluggy and I doing our best to provide encouragement and offer the occasional shove uphill. The sense of camaraderie we’d built up over the countless hours together on the bike (and on various patios) kept our spirits high and by the time we crossed the finish line, we laughed our asses off at the sheer absurdity of it all.

In the beer garden afterward, we sat there, still covered in mud, surrounded by people like us who’d found their way to finish after hours of cycling and following days and months of COVID-induced adversity. It was tough but we’d made it and even found ways to enjoy it, one pedal stroke — even with one leg — at a time.