Sometimes we can't taste success on the first try

Like it was for the 4,000 other participants, it was the unique challenge of cycling 120km from Vancouver to Whistler that first attracted me to the GranFondo Whistler. I’ve driven the Sea to Sky Highway countless times, but to do it on a bicycle would be an entirely different experience. And so for the past five months I’ve excitedly been waiting for the day of the event. That it would end prematurely on a stretcher in the Medics tent was not how I imagined it to unfold, but more on that later.

As I mentioned in a previous post I had never been one of those real cyclists, clad in Lycra, but over the past four months I followed a training program that would make it easy to climb the hills and cover the distance to Whistler. Physically I was feeling great. I had lost a few pounds and was in better shape than I had been in years. I felt a great sense of accomplishment about 6 weeks ago, when I completed a 170km ride in Washington. Sure my legs felt like they had been hit by a truck when I finished, but considering I had been pedalling for more than seven hours, it was to be expected.

But soon after that ride, I would learn that my iliotibial band (a tough group of fibers that runs along the outside of the thigh; connecting the gluteal muscles and the tensor fascia lata muscle to the tibia, just below the knee) had become irritated, causing pain and discomfort in the knee.
I hoped that with rest, visits to the physiotherapist, and exercises specifically designed to strengthen the muscles in my legs and butt, I would be able to ride the GranFondo.

The day couldn’t have begun any better, as I joined the more than 4,000 cyclists crowding the start on Georgia Street, with the sun rising behind us. Soon I was rolling through the Stanley Park causeway and onto the Lion’s Gate Bridge. I admired the stunning view, while chatting with some other cyclists.

My legs felt great climbing Taylor Way in West Vancouver, and I was pleased with my time, when I hit 20 km, near Horseshoe Bay, in a little less than an hour. As I snaked along the Sea to Sky Highway I took care of my legs by resting them and not pedalling down steep hills. I nursed my left knee by pushing harder with my right leg--a strategy that I would later learn may work on a short ride, but would not stand up on a long one.

As I rounded a corner at Furry Creek, the first large hill rose up like a giant towering in front of me, as if daring to challenge its might. On the side of the road a group of supporters cheered on riders. Two women held a sign with a Lululemon logo on it that read, Do one thing a day that scares you. I overheard one cyclist say, “It doesn’t scare me... it just hurts.”

I was buoyed by the halfway sign, near Squamish and felt that despite some discomfort in my knees I was going to make it. After downing some pizza and pasta at the Squamish rest stop, I continued on and felt confident tackling what many would consider the most challenging part of the ride, a continuous climb that goes on for more than 7 km, and rises more than 1,000 feet.
“What a damn hill,” I heard a woman next to me mutter, as a line of cyclists, looking like a group of mountain climbers scaling a peak, pushed higher. Further on, I said to that same woman, “Are we there yet?” She replied that the hill had to end sometime.

I got off my bike at the fourth aid station, and I could feel that the ride was taking a toll on my knees. But after a quick rest, I set off again, and with just 30 km to go, I thought I could eke it out to the finish. I even imagined sending an, I DID IT text message to two of my friends and former colleagues, who are always keenly interested and supportive of my worldly exploits. But in the end I would never send that message.

As I soldiered on, the pain in my knees became sharp, and I winced each time my legs struggled to push down on the pedals. I knew a rest stop was only about 5km away, and I thought that maybe, just maybe if I could make it there, I might be able to get to Whistler.

But as I passed a sign on the highway marking 100km, the pain was excruciating and I could no longer will my legs to push anymore. I climbed off my bike, sat on a concrete barrier by the side of the road, and called my wife, who was waiting for me in Whistler.

“I can’t do it,” I said to her sounding defeated. “My legs won’t go anymore.” I asked her to come and pick me up. But just then two motorcyclists doing first aid duty stopped, and when I told them I couldn’t go any further, they called for someone to pick me and my bike up.

I stood on the side of the road, and as other cyclists passed by me I thought about success and failure. And while I was disappointed that I didn’t reach my goal, I tried to console myself with the fact that I gave it everything I had. And I reminded myself that sometimes we don't always taste success on the first try.

It was more than an hour later before I would arrive in Whistler, near the finish line in a small bus. I tried to stand to get off the bus, but I couldn’t. I tried again, but fell back into the seat. My legs had seized up and I couldn’t walk. Someone came to the bus and said they would get a wheelchair and a doctor. I was helped off the bus, and wheeled to a stretcher in the Medics tent, where they worked on my legs until they would move again. In great pain, I got into our car and my wife drove to our hotel. It’s not how I thought it would all turn out.

If my body will allow I’ll ride again next year, and try and slay this beast.