My SRM file from the stage is posted below. The stages are usually quick for the first hour and then, once the breakaway forges a gap, the peloton settles into a steady rhythm in pursuit. With ten kilometres to go we ascended a five kilometre climb. At the top, I went to the back of the group, which was in a long thin line, with my teammate Kjell Carlstrom to bring our sprinter, Davide Appollonio, to the front so that he was in position for the sprint. My final effort of the day was a surge on the front of the group with two kilometres to go. Spent from the effort I sat up and rolled across the line while Davide sprinted to 5^th place.

The stages in the Giro d’Italia are often technical. Fortunately, the organization provides fairly accurate profiles with detailed breakdowns of the climbs. Yet, a detailed breakdown in a book can’t fully prepare us for technical descents on gravel roads. The second SRM file I’ve attached is from the 5^th stage to Orvieto. The finale 40 kilometres of the course took us over sections of white gravel roads. The peloton fractured into dozens of groups as soon as we reached the roads as riders came to a standstill on the dirt climbs and crashed on the descents. It was clear which riders had experience riding on gravel. Unfortunately, I crashed just before we reached the gravel so I spent the rest of the race chasing to regain contact with the front of race.  The SRM files give an idea of the effort required on a rolling stage in the Giro. I’ll post some more files as the race goes on. The mountain stages should be interesting.

Stage 5: Piombino – Orvieto 191km

Stage 6: Orvieto – Fiuggi 216km

Here are a few photos of the team training before the start of the Giro d’Italia.

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Photo by: Camille McMillan

Winning a Classic means minimizing the amount of time spent in the wind. In the first hours of the race, a winner will rely on his team’s protection to save every watt for the key attacks during the finale. In a race where over 6,000 calories will be burned, every rider is on the limit and every watt counts.  Cyclists save.

Largely invisible to the television audience, there is a motorcade of cars and motorcycles at the head of the race. They capture us on video, ensure the road is closed to traffic and referee our movements. Although the vehicles aren’t directly in front of the group, they nevertheless create a slipstream for peloton, which increases our speed, reduces our workload and, from time to time, changes the outcome of the race.

During the finale of a race, the protagonists will attack into a crowd of motorcycles. On the key pavé sectors of a Classic, or in the high mountains where the roads are narrow, the motorcyclists fight for position so their photographer-passengers can capture the pivotal moment.  As they jostle for position and split the crowds of spectators, they are only meters in front of the lead riders. An attacker, a breakaway and a team who is chasing will all race for the motos’ slipstream to increase their speed. It is a part of the race we all accept. But, when drafting is prolonged rivals cry foul.

It isn’t only the motorbikes and cars, which disturb the air. The television and police helicopters, which circle above the peloton create turbulent air when then hover low altitude. Sometimes, the strength of their choppy downwash virtually brings us to a standstill and causes crashes. After the 1984 Giro d’Italia, the Frenchman Laurent Fignon protested that he had been robbed of the overall victory. Fignon felt that the organizers had manipulated the result of the dramatic and decisive final time-trial, so that his Italian rival Francesco Moser would win the overall classification. He protested that the television helicopter, which hovered directly behind Moser for the entire length of the stage, had created a down-force that literally pushed him to the finish.

Behind the peloton there is another caravan of team cars, motorcycles, medical cars, press cars and commissaries. They not only service the riders but also end up keeping the peloton together.  Using their draft, we can return to the group with relative ease after retrieving food and drinks, puncturing or stopping for pee. Jumping from car to car, slipstream to slipstream, we leapfrog our way back to the tail-end of the peloton. The commissaries only control the cars so that we cannot follow their slipstream to stay in contact if we are truly dropped from fatigue. At the back of the peloton, a commissaire vigilantly orchestrates the caravan like an air traffic controller. The drivers are penalized and fined if they don’t follow his commands.

But, even under his guidance the caravan is still a chaotic mess of riders, cars and motorcycles. Cars shuffle position to get to the riders who require service, motorcycles scoot up the left side of the road, riders with punctures stop on the right side, domestiques fill their jerseys with food and water to fuel their teammates, mechanics hang out windows to work on rider’s bikes and injured riders hold onto the medical car while their wounds are cleaned. Each individual is aware of the whole, which allows it all to flow somewhat harmoniously.

Photo by: Camille McMillan

On race day we fly. The tight fitting clothing, handmade cotton tubulars, race-ready bikes and aerodynamic wheels all increase speed and give us a mental boost. Everything is designed to cheat the wind, improve handling and decrease weight.  In contrast, while training the priority is the workload and improving fitness.

Before a race we often reconnoiter the courses to get a sense of the terrain and the technical aspects. During training, the hills on the course seem harder and the open stretches of road longer. In the race, small climbs become bumps as the peloton, with all its momentum, rolls over the undulations in the road like a thundering river through a rocky canyon during spring run off. We fight to hold the wheel in front and when the moment is right we use the momentum of the team, or the peloton, to launch an attack.

The only way to simulate the race while training is to motorpace. In the slipstream of the motorbike we can float along, spin our legs, surge over climbs and sprint at race speed.  Like in the race, the hard efforts seem more violent and ferocious.

In a time trial, over the race radio, the directeur often encourages his rider to chase the police motorbike, which opens the road ahead. Not only can the rider capture a bit of the slipstream but the motorcycle also gives him a gauge of how fast to take a corner. Like a greyhound chasing a rabbit, the moto can also provide a psychological boost as the rider has something to focus on and pursue.

Every cyclist eventually learns to look for shelter from the wind by finding the right wheel to draft and crouching low on his bike. Out of the wind we not only save energy, but also increase our speed.

After drafting off of the cars and motorcycles in the finale Nico Mattan came storming past Juan Antonio Flecha to win the 2005 edition of Gent Wevelgem. The commissaire should have pulled the cars and motorbikes out of the action before Mattan had the chance to sit in their slipstream. Here is a clip from that race-

The photos were taken by Camille McMillan.

Durant l’intersaison, nous nous renforçons au mental comme au physique, en sortant sous un temps froid pour rouler pendant des heures sous la pluie ou la neige. Dévolus au travail et à la poursuite de nos buts nous roulons sous des conditions qui gardent la plupart des gens chez eux. Dans les extrêmes, j’ai appris sur moi-même, et sur mes limites.

En hiver, je pédale sur un rythme stable tout en me hissant au delà des côtes avec ma surcharge pondérale. Il n’y a aucune urgence ; Je construis des fondations comme je le faisais adolescent dans le garage et sur les routes cernées de congères. «  Les kilomètres c’est comme  l’argent en banque » mon premier entraîneur m’aurait dit, « tu dois commencer la saison avec un gros compte que tu débiteras inévitablement à chaque course. »

Les kilomètres à rouler passent rapidement avec les amis à socialiser sur le vélo comme les travailleurs qui discutent tout en creusant les routes. Les repas d’hiver et les longues soirées avec force vins nous ralentissent sur le vélo, mais en attendant on a besoin de se vicier un peu pour échapper à la structure que nous endurerons bientôt. Un cycliste chérit les instants dont il dispose pour se relaxer, tellement ils sont rares au sein d’une saison chaotique. Nous savons cela, vient Mars où le travail exigera une focalisation sans failles.

Loin de Toronto, je vis et m’entraîne désormais à Gérone en Espagne. Conduit ici il y a presque dix ans par mes co-équipiers Américains, la petite ville Catalane est désormais mon domicile. Gérone s’est peuplée doucement de cyclistes professionnels étrangers qui furent attirés par cette ville pour sa proximité aux montagnes, son climat Méditerranéen, et son noyau grandissant de collègues d’entraînement. Rouler est plus facile avec des compagnons, particulièrement dans les mois déclinants de la saison ou lors de printemps humides : souffrir est plus facile lorsque vous êtes avec un ami.

La plupart de ces cyclistes ont une vie de nomade. Ils arrivent et partent ensuite de Gérone, suivant les flux touristiques et les oiseaux migrateurs- ils sont là quand le temps s’améliore et envolés à sa détérioration.

Les coureurs étrangers traversent les continents, laissant familles, foyers et amis à la poursuite de leur rêve. C’est un coup de poker. Pour beaucoup, la saison est trop longue et vivre dans un environnement étranger constitue un véritable challenge- ils rentrent à la maison, se retirent ou poursuivent leur carrière à un niveau moindre. Pour ceux qui connaissent le succès, emménagent et doucement s’adaptent à une nouvelle vie, l’existence se trouve colorée par une culture dont ils s’imprègnent. Nos vies sont rendues plus faciles lorsque nous sommes en mesure d’accepter un nouvel environnement et en faire notre foyer au sein de l’hiver. Posséder deux «  chez soi » sur deux continents développe en vous un sentiment permanent de déconnexion.

La saison cycliste prend fin. Alors que les feuilles tombent en prenant leurs couleurs d’automne, nous achevons nos dernières sorties d’entraînement avant que de nous éloigner du vélo pour une courte période. Mon partenaire d’entraînement, David Millar, veut déjà partir du point où nous avions commencé notre saison dix mois auparavant.

Tout au long des centaines d’heures que nous avons passé ensemble sur nos vélos dans l’humidité, le frimas de l’air hivernal, nous avons développé une prédilection pour ces séances d’entraînement. Les sorties représentent quelque chose qui nous manque durant notre fiévreuse saison de course, un enthousiasme qu’il est difficile de résumer après avoir accompli trois grands tours et des douzaines d’autres évènements. En hiver, à rouler pendant des heures dans le froid, nous discutons et construisons notre amitié en nous racontant des histoires imagées, en découvrant de nouvelles routes tout en prédisant de ce que sera faite la saison prochaine tandis que nous travaillons dans le but de réaliser nos objectifs.

En tant que vétérans du peloton, nous avons des anecdotes à nous raconter et des expériences à partager. Nos chemins ont été semblables : de nos maisons à l’étranger, aux clubs cyclistes Français et enfin vers le peloton professionnel, nous avons effectué dans le même esprit, des sacrifices similaires.

Nos vélos sont désormais plus lourds, ainsi pouvons-nous faire face à l’hiver. Le poids est rarement un souci pendant l’entraînement. La résistance est importante, ainsi de  la bicyclette qui doit résister à l’usure comme une paire de bottes de travailleur. Nos pneus sont plus épais et nos roues plus lourdes. Nous roulons avec des garde-boue pour éviter que les impuretés de la route ne lacèrent nos jambes et nos montures. Enfant, j’utilisais une bicyclette semblable, qui avait été construite par mon père- maintenant une entreprise me paye pour utiliser ses créations.

Tard le matin, quand le soleil est encore bas mais qu’il a mélangé le gel de la route à l’air chaud, nous nous retrouvons dans un café avant d’aller rouler. Après avoir suçoté des boissons chaudes comme les hommes d’affaires qui se rassemblent autour de leur espresso et d’un sandwich de jambon avant le travail, nous nous racontons des anecdotes sur la nuit précédente, les dernières nouvelles, et ensuite, après une brève discussion, nous décidons de l’endroit où aller rouler.

Les courses étant éloignées, nos plans d’entraînement restent flexibles et nous décidons de la route qui nous emmènera là où le temps est propice, là où se trouvent les routes les plus tranquilles et où nous pouvons trouver ce dont nous avons besoin : collines, routes plates ou terrain ondulant.

Nos routes sont  constamment changeantes car nous les morcelons ensemble pour réaliser de nouveaux grand huit de façon à pouvoir accomplir nos desseins d’entraînements tout en évitant le sublunaire ou le fastidieux. La plupart des cyclistes professionnels partagent la même appréciation de l’aventure et de la découverte. Nous sommes en recherche constante de nouvelles routes et de diverses bosses.

Les touristes qui peuplent les rues en été, qui nous encouragent et nous hurlent des commentaires sur le Tour de France, se font rares les mois d’hiver. Comme les commerçants et les étudiants, nous faisons partie de l’édifice qui compose la ville. Nous roulons doucement à travers le voisinage, saluons des visages familiers, et passons ensuite au travail, pédalant plus vite, nos jambes tournoyant d’un rythme stable de métronome tandis que nous dépassons les banlieues et roulons dans la campagne.

Les locaux savent ce que nous faisons pour vivre et ce que nous avons besoin d’effectuer pour nous préparer à courir. Ils comprennent nos requêtes et sont respectueux. Les Catalans sont des gens discrets et approchent rarement un champion qu’ils ont vu gagner la veille à la télévision. Il y a un respect sincère à Gérone, en contraste avec la vie publique des cyclistes en Belgique, où les tabloïds suivent chacun de leurs mouvements et les chaînes de télés leurs moindres défaillances.

My roommate, neopro and new Team Sky recruit Alex Dowsett, told me that after a few long rides  with the team he went from feeling like an alien to a teammate. The point of a training camp is not only to build the foundation of fitness but also to build the foundation of the team. As we log the hours and as the ride gets tough, the group becomes one.

After a few sips of tea and a biscuit I pulled on my jeans and sweater. From my room, I could hear the clink of the plates and chatter of voices as my mother prepared breakfast. With cup and saucer in hand I made my way downstairs. Chris, my good friend, was in the kitchen chatting. Dressed in his cycling gear, his cheeks flush from the cold air and the ride across the city, he sipped on tea as my mother spooned out the porridge. My father came down. Still somewhat asleep, we ate quietly. Finished with breakfast, the frozen air bit my skin as I stepped outside to load up the van. Two other club mates, Mike and Joe, arrived sweaty and out of breath from racing to make it to the house by 6:45 a.m.

We piled the bikes along with stakes, arrows and tape to mark the course into the back of the van while my father scraped the frost from its windows. Ready to go, the engine started and the music was playing. The weight of the race could be felt behind the frosted windows. It was the same nervous atmosphere I still sense on the lavish team buses that now drive me to the ProTour races.  The goal, the assured suffering, the finish line, the odds for and against;  all create a tension which we share but rarely speak about.

Under the rising sun, we neared the expressway and the conversation picked up over Creedence Clearwater Revival blasting from the stereo.

As we pulled into the conservation area where the race would be held there was one other car waiting.  Seeing our van, Jim shut off his engine and with Lisa, his wife, began unloading the car. Wearing rain jackets and boots we began marking a course through the woods and across the fields. We came alive with the day. We conversed, joked and laughed as the circuit took shape. We marked out challenges that we would have to face. During the upcoming hour of racing, we would switch from being friends to rivals.

Cyclocross in Ontario during the ‘80s and ‘90s was a fringe sport. In the 1960s my father, who raced the cross in England, organized the first North American events. The community remained tight and small for several decades. Few had specific cross bikes. Most people rode in sneakers and used converted road bikes for the autumn events. The races lacked the competitive, elitist edge that pervaded the road scene. The cross community transcended the competitive. In the 90’s, when elitism drove a wedge between mountain bikers and road cyclists, cyclocross remained the event where we reunited.

The picture on the left is of my friend Chris Mathias (in the blue and white) followed by Jim Sciberas. Pic on the right is of Chris Mathias, Brian Pedersen (National CX Champion) and Gary Timmons (in red). Brian’s Dad Jorn is wearing the black hat.

The faces on the start line were familiar. We all knew our strengths and weaknesses. The “runners” would love the muddy unrideable bits and the steep hills while the “riders” would excel across the frozen farm fields. We each knew where we would push hard to hold on and where we might be able strike the blow to open a gap. Everyone, regardless of their ability, had rivals. The veterans and neophytes raced each other at the back of the group while the near-professionals, who might even race the European events we had only read about, sailed away and lapped everyone.

Groups of bundled-up parents and friends walked the course. Their cheers of encouragement created clouds of vapor in the cold air. The frigid air seared our lungs with the intense effort. It lasted an hour, thank god, and not a minute longer. We finished soaked with sweat. Our toes were frozen from the icy water crossings and the sticky, deep mud.

As others finished we cheered them on and then entered the warmth of the van to clean up and change. Riders mingled around the parking lot like a congregation after Sunday mass. The course tear down was easy as half of the peloton helped out. As we walked the course, taking down the arrows and rolling up the tape, we discussed where we might meet for lunch on the way back to the city. Someone always knew a good spot where we could warm up, eat and lengthen the race day by another hour or two.

As the sun set, we dozed in and out as my father drove. The tension of the race had been replaced by the elation of the endorphin surge every cyclist knows. We were content. The cassette tape spun in the deck, the music was loud, and all seemed right.

The treader was the first bike project my Dad and I shared. When my mother worked late, we spent the evening down at my Dad’s shop building bikes and fiddling with my Dad’s old Lambretta scooters. The treader grew from a broken and bent Motobecane frame discarded by a customer after an accident. The shop was full of broken frames and bike parts. Up in the dusty frame shop, where every surface was thick with grime and metal filings, I learned to cut tubes, then braze, file, and sand them.  I was taught how to gauge the moment when the tubes were just hot enough for the brass to flow down into the seam. There was an aroma of burning flux, chemicals and grease. On the bench, among the tools and torches, sat our cups of tea, their handles dirty with fingerprints.

Slowly, we watched the bike take shape. Once finished, the frame and fork went to the paint booth. From a worn and grimy book of swatches, I chose an apple green (my favourite colour), and asked that it fade to darker shades around the frame’s lugs. Tony Beek, the painter at the shop, did a brilliant job. Perhaps it was too good for an 11-year-old schoolboy’s bike. On the top tube my name was hand painted in gold.

Onto the treader went mudguards, a generator and lights, CLB brake levers and Mafac Racer centre-pull brakes from France. I laced up the 650 B touring wheels and father made them true. The TA chainset was fitted, and then we riveted on the chain. By early spring I was flying to school on a custom, fixed wheel treader.

During the winter in Toronto, I was often the only boy riding to school daily, particularly when there was deep snow or icy, pouring rain. I loved riding and commuting but I was an oddball in a school of rowers and hockey players. I was also a bit shy and embarrassed to be seen on my bike. I was the only boy at school with tubular cement stains on his flannel pants from gluing on my training and race tubulars. But in the end my desire overwhelmed my social hesitation.  I rode a lot and everywhere.   Wearing a uniform of flannel grey pants, shirt and tie, and jacket, I would tear off to school, racing along Davisville Avenue and arriving just in time for class. Over time, the pressure on the pedals wore deep grooves into the sole of my leather shoes. I knew every corner, every bump to jump, and every short cut up a one-way street or an alley. I sprinted out of green stoplights and raced to avoid getting caught at a red.

While riding, my pant legs were folded tightly against my ankle with rubber bands to avoid getting snagged by the chain. Inevitably, they occasionally did get caught, making a mess of the pants. If I was lucky, the teeth of the chainring would shred little bits of fabric and stop there. But if the chain grabbed a sizeable piece of pant they would tear, get wrapped up in the drive and force me to a stop. Once I ripped every seam up one leg and half way down the other. The bottom of the leg looked like a dog had gnawed at it before it was dipped in grease. The pant seat was also torn, the zipper blown out. Thankfully, I was wearing a belt, which held onto what was left of the pants. With my stripped boxer shorts as the only thing truly covering me up and tatters of grey flannel blowing in the wind, I rode home as fast as I could with my nose to the stem in embarrassment (not a fun experience for a young boy).

Imagining she would be upset, I hid the pants from my Mom as soon as I was home. Obviously, she wasn’t. When she found them she laughed till she cried. The flannels and uniform are long gone but the frame still hangs from the ceiling in the workshop. There are bits of rust where the paint has been scratched.  Powell Peralta, Campagnolo Record and other stickers dating my youth cover different tubes. Like an old journal found in a pile of discarded books, the frame carries a few good stories and marks a period of a life.

Catalonia, and specifically Girona, is magnificent in the autumn and winter. The streets, which were once crowded with tourists through the summer are now spotted with locals who chat under the Christmas lights. The sun lies low in the sky creating long shadows and setting before the children arrive home from school.

We’ll ride for half of the day in a small group. There are no intervals pencilled into our programs or specific goals to meet. We rode as we did when we first started this sport ages ago. As David Millar wrote in the foreword to the update edition of the book, Le Métier,  “What was once the worst time of the year for me is now my favourite; Winter is now the time I enjoy most. During the Tour de France, Michael and I discussed how much we were looking forward to our December training rides. It’s then we get to meet in the morning and ride our bikes for fun, with an appreciation of our good fortune.”

Here are a few photos from a recent ride. Dominique Rollin is wearing the Cervelo clothing. Dom will ride for La Francaise des Jeux next season. Jordi Cantal, a local fireman, took many of the pictures and rides with us often. He knows the smallest roads and trails. And, he teaches me a little Catalan and Spanish as we ride.

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I’ve always been intrigued and enchanted by the builders as they brazed, filed and cut in my father’s frameshop in Toronto. Now, my lifelong friend, Noah Rosen, brazes and paints frames in the old workshop with the precision of a craftsman and the eye of an artist. He is passionate about his work and it is stirring to see his devotion to the job and his meticulous attention to detail.

Whenever I am back in Toronto, I relish my days in the shop and wish I had more time to learn from the artisans and artists who work there, as chat they over tea and discuss the things we love.

For the same reason, I also like watching the team mechanics at work on our bikes. They methodically check tires for cuts, true wheels, tape handlebars and pay attention to all the details that make the difference between good and great. Committed to doing their jobs properly, they rarely join us for dinner as they opt to stay out in the truck, late into the night, working on our bikes or preparing equipment for the coming days of racing.

Although he’s now retired my father was asked to build another couple of Mariposa frames for artist Paul Butler. The job was one that was worth firing up the torches for as he was asked to build a replica of Greg Curnoe’s Mariposa. Curnoe’s painting of the bike is now in the National Gallery in Ottawa, Ontario. And, Curnoe who died on his bike when he was hit by a car was a close friend of my father’s.

Below are a few recent photos taken by Dan Bereskin of the workshop, and my Dad building the Curnoe replica. The others photos are of different workshops my father has had over the years and a few of the mechanics, painters and builders at work.