I Would Have Oliver's Cake: Part Two
Click here to read Part One...
We completed our Montana loop back to the Whitefish Bike Retreat where I literally changed gears, transitioning from fat bike to gravel grinder Salsa Cutthroat. We packed up, hopped in the car and made our way north for Canmore, Alberta. I had a couple of days before the start of my 700km race, packed with 11,000m of climbing through the mountains of British Columbia and Alberta, Canada.
Swapping out from a fully loaded fat bike with attached chariot to the Cutthroat streamlined for race mode was like pulling up anchor and dropping oversized lead training wheels. At the start line, I felt pretty good. Relaxed. Focused. My legs were definitely tired from our trip but alas, this is what I signed up for. This was part two of my adventure.
After about ten hours into the race, I settled into my rhythm and found myself alone out in front. I was feeling good, happy with my placement but more importantly I was happy with my pace and progress. My goal was pretty simple: finish the race in two days-something, before or on Oliver’s birthday, ideally at a reasonable time of the day, and not in the unceremonious hours before dawn.
As I cranked out mile after mile, it was inevitable that I got one song stuck in my head for the duration of a race. Worse yet, one looping line from a song. It was as though my cranks were attached to an internal gramophone, generating only enough power to repeatedly skip over and over. After the multiple evenings of family bikepacking, huddled in close quarters inside our tent, it was inevitable that tune would be a children’s song used by my wife to soothe Oliver to sleep each night. Grinding it out over rough gravel with gritted teeth and the perpetual frown of determination, I chimed along to Raffi and the dulcet tones of “Baby Beluga”.
In the end, I crossed the finish line in 58 hours and in first place. More importantly, it was 4pm and well before the setting sun. Waiting for me were Sarah and Oliver and the feeling of a mission accomplished.
After a brief victory picnic on the grass, we retreated to our campsite. I gingerly eased myself to sitting as Sarah delivered a cake with a single flickering candle to celebrate Oliver’s first birthday. He stared awestruck at the small orange glow. I smiled, the insignificant pain and sleep deprivation washing away. Whether shock, awe or the second IPA, a calm, content feeling rushed over me as the sun dipped behind the tall, slender, lodgepole pines and sharp peaks of Kananaskis Country. The cool breeze hinted at the approach of fall. Everything had gone to plan. We had made the most of our last week of summer. I could smugly relish in the fact that I had not bitten off more than I could chew. I would have Oliver’s cake and eat it too.