Even though wet and cold, keep up the fluid intake to avoid dehydration. Think dark thoughts to keep the adrenaline flowing.

It was a hard slog west on Highway 24 to the Cowboy Trail in light rain which evolved into a downpour for the grind south to Chain Lakes. Dark clouds obscured the Rockies. A thunder
storm rumbled to the west.

The threat of a lightning storm stimulates gluconeogenesis, although by then I was convinced my saddle had dropped off and I was sitting on the saddle post

Keep the pudendal vasculature flowing and the levator ani relaxed. Because of the inevitable proctalgia, every 500 meters stand up on your pedals and if no one is within ear-shot, let out a grunt: “Ooof…” – like top tennis players do while serving.There should be a special roasting grill in hell for the person who invented roadside rumble strips. For a cyclist, accidentally going over these is like a dental drill grinding into one’s ischial tuberosities.

Every so often one passed a glum rider at the side of the road with a flat tire – yes there’s sympathy and perhaps even a shout of “Need any help?” but then a short burst of schadenfreude:
Thank God it’s not me who has the flat.

Coming into Chain Lakes there was a crowd of on-lookers and cheerleaders roped in for the event. I cruised in Lance Armstrong style with a handlebar salute.

“Well done Alexander … woo-hoo….”

It was the same crew that was at the lunch stop. They were just doing their job.

“Watch the mud. It’s slippery,” shouted an older man.

I smiled. As the bike slowed in the squishy mud, I did the slick Charleston movement with the feet to unclip the shoes from the pedals. The right shoe came out fine but my shoes were looser than I thought and – panic – the left shoe did not release. The bike slowed to a stop in the deepest part of the mud.

It’s a helpless feeling when you know gravity is real and something bad is going to happen – please, not in front of all these people.

It was like that National Geographic movie where the antelope is being chased by the lion and there comes the point when the antelope realizes the game is up and he collapses to the ground and lets the lion sink its teeth into his neck.

It was pointless to struggle. I made a slow left-hand side pitch into the mud and lay there like the antelope. I was glad of the helmet – it saved me getting a full facial mud pack even though some say it’s good for the skin.

A woman and a boy came up:

“Hey, my son did something like that, didn’t yuh Brandon.”

Brandon looked about 12-years-old.

I churlishly refused a hand-up. When you do something stupid you don’t want any help emphasizing your stupidity. It’s human nature. Rising from the mud I looked like an Elizabethan theatre actor portraying night and day.

Oh, forget it.

It was now pouring rain which helped wash down my night side. I parked the bike. A soaking wet seat tomorrow was 12 hours away.

Tent A63 was at the furthest corner of the tent area. Sloshing along in the mud between the rows of tents like Slum Dog Millionaire in a Bombay monsoon, I located the tent, threw in my bag and took out my new air mattress.

“It inflates itself, mate,” the young Aussie had said at Mountain Equipment Co-op.

I waited for the magic to happen, gave up and inflated it by mouth, cursing all young Australians.

By now the rain had settled into a steady reliable downpour. Some riders wandered around wrapped in silver foil looking like Christmas tree decorations. Supposedly this keeps you warm. Others had their feet cased in plastic bags to keep the mud out. Many gave up on shoes and squelched around in bare feet.

Rain water poured off the edges of the canvas tent. The whole area was a mud pit.

Our team sat in the marquee chatting and drinking wine. The band played. I suppose it was like Woodstock in 1969 with Country Joe and the Fish on stage although there was no public copulation.

There were showers in long trucks. The shower was hot but of limited volume requiring a slow turning of the torso as if on a barbecue spit – glorious and warm with the spray on the front, cold behind. Back in the tent the rain hammered on the canvas.

“If I get up in the night I’m heading right,” said Dave, my tent mate.

We agreed we were not going all the way to the biffy in the middle of the night. In World War I trench mates looked after each other’s feet by massaging them. We did not do that. No cases of trench foot were reported to the medical orderlies.

We pushed in our ear plugs to the battering of rain and slept. Well, it was hardly like a night at Passchendaele – no trench foot, shells, bullets, lice or compo ration – but there was mud and a feeling of no escape, ever, from the damp and wet.

Sunday morning was misty at 5 a.m. with low-lying cloud and drizzle. The campsite was waterlogged. The rows between tents had mud up to the ankles.

“Anyone got sunblock?” shouted a wag.

Nature called – and it’s amazing how a trouble-free bowel movement can perk one up. It’s also amazing how sleeping bags are always much larger than the holding bag they came in especially when being rolled up in a wet tent. Yesterday’s gear was still sopping. I walked bare foot for breakfast, slithering in the mud.

Putting on wet socks over muddy feet and squeezing into soaked bike shoes was a low point. I settled onto the spongy bike seat and set off in the mist and drizzle with the 2,000 other riders for a fun up-hill grind. A crazy cement truck roared south down the Cowboy Trail.

“Random drug testing for truck drivers,” I shouted into the spray.

Clusters of supporters along the route held encouraging signs “You Can Do It!” and “Only 90 kilometers to go.”

After two hours of being passed by Tour de France types and athletic Valkyries shouting “On your left,” we reached Longview – Clint Eastwood country.

At Turner Valley we had a pleasant ride through the empty golf course until I felt a tap on my helmet. Someone wanting to pass? No. Hailstones. Loud thumping music announced the lunch stop. The cheerleaders at theentrance to the lunch stop were wet and weary but managed a low volume:

“Alex, Alex, Alex, yeah…”

Now north to Millarville. The Bow River had overflowed its banks and police waved us through a flooded road junction. My yellow plastic cape flapped in the wind. It was still needed for the rain but was becoming a hindrance.

“Yuh c’d fly across, buddy,” said a roadside half-wit.

“It’s Batman,” said a kid.

Ignore this type of comment. Focus on your spin rate. Try for 60/minute.

I had hoped the cape would act as a spinnaker wafting me east along Highway 22X with an extra couple of effortless knots. Perversely, the wind was now from the east. Even going downhill required pedaling to the cracking of the yellow cape.

The only athletic medal I ever won was third prize in the under-10 sack race at school. But cycling into the Spruce Meadows grounds you could hear the loudspeaker announcing each rider.

My inner champion, long dormant, perked up. My back-up car drew alongside and the mechanic leaned out and fine-tuned my rear brake (OK, kidding). I put on pace, rounded the
bend, entered the arena and crossed the finish line giving a dignified wave to the crowd.

For a fleeting second, hubris reigned, one understood the feeling of walking up the 18th fairway on the final day of the Open, being handed one’s putter and doffing the cap or swishing to a stop after completing an Olympic skiing slalom.

The ride raised $8 million for cancer research. We made $95,000 for our clinical research unit. But then I saw a boy, maybe 15 or 16 years old, head resting on his handlebars. He’d arrived just in front of me. He wore a yellow t-shirt. On the back, carefully sewn on with black letters were the words:

“This is for you Mom.”