by Pat Brill-Edwards
One of the pleasant aspects of riding is the serendipity involved.—I know what you're thinking. Is this guy crazy? A two hundred mile ride and this guy is talking about serendipity?—Serendipity is what makes the Hairshirt special. There are so many things to prepare, but in such a long ride, there are so many things that can go wrong. For one day, despite the best of planning, I have to count on mojo (the force that guides us to serendipity) to have a successful day. This year, as the mountain bikers I ride with would say, was moto mojo.
Hairshirt mornings are predictable. There are the usual nervous, tired riders sporting bed-heads from a restless pre-Hairshirt night. The familiar faces, the anecdotes from Hairshirts gone by, the discussions of new accessories and "secret weapons" that will make this the best Hairshirt ever (good thing there isn't a urine test at the end). Just before the start, I get introduced to a guy named Kevin. He tells me that he wants to ride a ten and a half hour Hairshirt. Beaucoup de mojo, I think to myself, you're gonna need mojo to the max, pal. The ride starts and within 20 km Mr. Ten-Point-Five drops out of the group. Gone. Vanished. I chuckle to myself for even thinking about a ten and a half hour Hairshirt—no one can hope for that much mojo.
By 80 km, there are only four of us. Well, 3.5 really, as one rider is smouldering and is likely to spontaneously combust soon. Time for a mojo check: weather is great, wind is perfect, no mechanicals so far. I briefly look up and vow not to be dropped, even if I have to permanently attach myself to Steve Kotlowski's seat post with my front teeth. Suddenly, Kevin is beside me. Incredibly, he stopped to help a friend at 20 km and has just done a phenomenal individual time trial to catch us. Could be serendipity, but it's too early to say. I'm afraid to celebrate mojo that isn't, lest the titans of mojo take it away.
At 150 km the clock says 4 hours and 27 minutes and I realize that we are inhaling and exhaling pure mojo. Kevin tells a couple of great stories and keeps us laughing. He also takes pulls (leads the pack) at 43 km per hour. Mojo, yes, but is it moto mojo? Oops, first sign that the mojo may be leaving us: Kevin announces he has to, er, ah ... go number two. Well, I think, there goes the chance for a sub five-hour first 100 miles. As he heads into the bush I remind him that poison ivy makes a poor substitute for TP and give him a brief description of its leaf. He sets an outdoor bathroom record and we're back on the road in a matter of minutes. When we catch Steve, he's off his bike at the side of the road. Rats! Bad, bad sign. Ah, but who can stop the flow of mojo, especially when it comes in Niagaran quantity? It turns out that Steve flatted at exactly 100 miles (time: 4 hours and 51 minutes), and Kevin, a former bike shop mechanic (is there anything this guy can't do?) has Steve in the saddle again in eight minutes without using a single tool to change the tire. For sure, dude, I think, this is a MOTO mojo day.
Steve and I are sagging, sore and covered in salt by 260 km. Inconceivably, Kevin has been big-ringing the last few hills, waiting patiently for Steve and I to crawl up in our teeniest gears. I ask Kevin why, and he calmly explains that his coach has told him to do sprint intervals every 15 km. Amazing. Steve and I wait 'til he sprints again and concur that he is a true cycling god. Thankfully, after each sprint, he gets back to taking his pull and we surgically attach ourselves to his bike shorts. Despite the pain, we realize we are lavishing in a sea of mojo: the wind is right, the weather perfect, and we're rolling home in the presence of a benign supernatural force.
The ride ends in ten hours and 24 minutes. As I'm gasping around in the parking lot, Kevin leaves to ride the extra 40 km home. I don't get to shake his hand, offer him a ride or even learn his last name. As I watch him ride away I realize that I will, sometime this summer, find him and thank him. I get to thinking about the day. I also get to thinking about whether I will ever find the time to be fit enough to ride the Hairshirt again. If I do, what are the chances that I would have this perfect combination of wind, weather and riding partners? Yup, I just love serendipity.