Bicycles were important to me as a child. They were how I got to school much of the year and marked a first step in independence for a farm boy; the means of getting further, faster than one could comfortably walk without parental assistance. My CCM Imperial Mark II was my most prized possession before my high school years, even if its cherry-red colour, white handlebar grips and saddle and chain guard marked it as a bit effeminate (school yard bullies called ti sissy). It got me around the neighbourhood and I spent hours cleaning and polishing it and, well, we were both sissy. I just didn't know how sissy or that it wasn't such a bad thing.
Like most boys, I drifted away from the bike during high school and college. For high school, I had the school bus and it was too far to bicycle. In college, I lived on campus and had no need for a bicycle, or place to store it in my small residence room. But as soon as I had my own apartment and the urge to explore Toronto parks and ravines, I got a new Raleigh bicycle (fire engine red this time) and was back in the saddle.
A succession of upgrades, stimulated by longer and longer rides and men in tight cycle shorts, led me to group cycle touring. Along the way, I came out and joined a gay cycling group and got into century rides (metric century = 100 km; immoral century + 100 miles; I did lots of the former and a few of the latter in one day). My bicycle collection grew - a road racer and a touring bike - and spandex cycle shorts took over the market. I even imported a one-piece skin suit like the professionals wore and which was not available in Toronto stores. For several years, spring training for the annual Boston to Provincetown ride (one day, 210 km) dominated my evenings and weekends. And twice I travelled to Europe, France and Italy, to bicycle tour with groups of gay men, venturing without guides to the small villages, large towns and major cities. I grimaced and was inspired on occasion when we encountered the famous graffiti scrawled on the steepest hills to encourage riders in le Tour de France imagined I was with Greg Lemond (the Lance Armstrong of the 1980s) and the peloton. I still ride - mostly an off-road bike now (good for Toronto’s roughest streets and park riding) - while the racing bike hangs in the basement like a museum piece. All it takes is one spin of the crank and the rush of wind through the helmet and I’m back in France
So is it any surprise that Le Tour de France is my all-time favourite professional sporting event? My heart beats faster as the TV cameras zoom in on the race leaders in the sprint to a stage finish. I feel the pain as the riders conquer mountain stages and remember crossing the Pyrenees. I ache watching time trials. And always there is that marvellous scenery of the French countryside.
The drug scandals, or at least the media attention given to them in recent years, have dulled the excitement somewhat, but the Tour remains a highlight of my summers and is about the only thing on TV I plan time around. With so many riders forced out this year, there has been talk in the media that this should be the end of the road for the Tour. I think not.
Rod Love is not a person you will find me quoting often, but his piece for The Globe and Mail today, It’s more than a bike race, it’s the essence of a county captures the magic of the Tour and explains why, after 100 years, it must keep in rolling. With apologies to Love and Armstrong, it’s about way more than the bike.
Allez! Allez!
Like most boys, I drifted away from the bike during high school and college. For high school, I had the school bus and it was too far to bicycle. In college, I lived on campus and had no need for a bicycle, or place to store it in my small residence room. But as soon as I had my own apartment and the urge to explore Toronto parks and ravines, I got a new Raleigh bicycle (fire engine red this time) and was back in the saddle.
A succession of upgrades, stimulated by longer and longer rides and men in tight cycle shorts, led me to group cycle touring. Along the way, I came out and joined a gay cycling group and got into century rides (metric century = 100 km; immoral century + 100 miles; I did lots of the former and a few of the latter in one day). My bicycle collection grew - a road racer and a touring bike - and spandex cycle shorts took over the market. I even imported a one-piece skin suit like the professionals wore and which was not available in Toronto stores. For several years, spring training for the annual Boston to Provincetown ride (one day, 210 km) dominated my evenings and weekends. And twice I travelled to Europe, France and Italy, to bicycle tour with groups of gay men, venturing without guides to the small villages, large towns and major cities. I grimaced and was inspired on occasion when we encountered the famous graffiti scrawled on the steepest hills to encourage riders in le Tour de France imagined I was with Greg Lemond (the Lance Armstrong of the 1980s) and the peloton. I still ride - mostly an off-road bike now (good for Toronto’s roughest streets and park riding) - while the racing bike hangs in the basement like a museum piece. All it takes is one spin of the crank and the rush of wind through the helmet and I’m back in France
So is it any surprise that Le Tour de France is my all-time favourite professional sporting event? My heart beats faster as the TV cameras zoom in on the race leaders in the sprint to a stage finish. I feel the pain as the riders conquer mountain stages and remember crossing the Pyrenees. I ache watching time trials. And always there is that marvellous scenery of the French countryside.
The drug scandals, or at least the media attention given to them in recent years, have dulled the excitement somewhat, but the Tour remains a highlight of my summers and is about the only thing on TV I plan time around. With so many riders forced out this year, there has been talk in the media that this should be the end of the road for the Tour. I think not.
Rod Love is not a person you will find me quoting often, but his piece for The Globe and Mail today, It’s more than a bike race, it’s the essence of a county captures the magic of the Tour and explains why, after 100 years, it must keep in rolling. With apologies to Love and Armstrong, it’s about way more than the bike.
Allez! Allez!
