Fixed wheeled commuters are now ubiquitous in most major cities throughout Europe and North America. While in Barcelona last week, I watched as riders skidded, bounced and dragged their feet before eventually stopping at traffic lights. While most fought to control their bikes like cowboys on wild horses, some rode with the finesse of a ballet dancer. They flew with grace through the traffic and made the chaotic motion of the city seem momentarily elegant. Watching the riders and studying their bikes I thought back to my first real city bike– a bike my Dad aptly calls a “treader”.

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.

A professional cyclist is rarely off of his bike in the off-season for more than a month.  Progressively, through the months of November and December I slowly ease back into the routine of training. With time, the distance and intensity of the rides increases. As the morning fog lifts with the chill of the damp night air, we meet at a café to plan a route over cortados and pastries. In the warmth of the café we linger and socialise. The races are months away, we know our fitness will come so for now we can simply enjoy the ride, the camaraderie and the environment.

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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A few weeks ago when the latest copy of Rouleur (issue 20) arrived in the mail. The cover  got me thinking about workshops. The cover shot was clearly staged but it sparked thoughts of real workshops, and specifically my father’s frameshop. There is something great about a work space where bikes are built from scratch. Creativity and the construction of something unique give a space an attractive element whether it is the back of a professional team’s truck or a dusty garage.

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.

Scott Mitchell sent me some more photos to post. They were taken during the spring in Spain.

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Throughout the Tour de France photographer Scott Mitchell followed Team Sky as he is working on a book with my teammate Brad Wiggins. Based on the work I have seen the book should be fantastic. Scott sent me some photos recently which I have posted below. I find it odd seeing photos of myself as the mental image I have is often far different from that which is captured in the photos. At times, I feel ragged but in a photo I look healthy while the opposite is also true as I can be flying on the bike but the dark rings under my eyes tell a different story. I find this interesting and it is one of the many reasons I wanted to write a book with photographer Camille McMillan.  In our book Le Métier,  we worked to tell the complete story of the cyclist’s life from both perspectives.

Here are some of Scott’s fine photos:

His legs turning over fluidly, my teammate appeared effortless compared to his rivals. They hung over their handlebars; ragged and limp like old cloth dolls. Their bodies lacked the potency to contest for the victory.  Riding alongside him, I was panting, as he breathed rhythmically. As we crested the climb, the time gap to the breakaway was announced. It was several minutes ahead of us. Our directeur sportif soon ordered my flying teammate to ride on the front in pursuit. As we moved forward to begin riding in the wind, I asked him how he felt. “Really good.” Could he win? “I think so.” Throughout his career he had ridden as a domestique. And now, with the legs to win, he was asked to once again ride in pursuit.

The directeur, working with the knowledge he had, made his decision. Based on the riders’ knowledge, it was the wrong decision. I dropped to the back of the peloton, spoke with the directeur, explained the situation, and he changed the plans. My teammate ended up winning a stage and finishing second overall. From the team car, the directeur sees little of the race and relies on instinct, experience and the scant information he receives over the radios.

While recently sidelined by injury, I had the opportunity to sit in the team car through most of the Montreal Grand Prix. The experience was eye opening as the race within the caravan is entirely different. During a race we, the riders, have a limited and singular view of the caravan. We return to the caravan for bottles and food, pass through it when we are dropped, use the cars’ slipstreams to chase back on to the peloton and drop back to the cars with mechanical problems. High expectations are placed on the directeurs as they must react to our movements. Cyclists assume they have the right-of-way in the caravan and usually we do. It is said that with experience we become acrobats on our bikes. In turn, the directeurs become magicians behind the wheel, as they seem to narrowly avoid tragedy dozens of times during a single race. Their skills are impressive. In a hilly race their senses are constantly engaged as the peloton splinters into groups and suffering riders weave through the cars in an attempt to return to the front. Continue Reading »

On September 10 and 12th two ProTour races will be held in Quebec City and Montreal. (www.protourquebecmontreal.com) The circuits, which wind through the city centres are hilly and hard. In 1974 the World Championships were held in Montreal on roughly the same 12 km circuit which we will race on in a few weeks. The major difficulty on the course is the climb up Mont Royal– a tough ascent which shadows the city centre. We will climb it 16 times.

In 1974 Eddy Merckx dominated and won the race. The World title was the final race he needed to achieve the triple crown of cycling: victories in the Giro d’Italia, Tour de France and World Championships. In 1976 the same course was used for the Olympic Road Race and then through the late 80′s and early 90′s Montreal held a yearly pro men’s World Cup. Through the 90′s, and until last year, the city hosted the Women’s World Cup on the Mont Royal circuit.

As I was looking through the piles of photos my father has from a lifetime in cycling I found a few he and a friend, Gil Smith, took at the Worlds in Montreal. Some of the pictures are from the track events and some are from the road race.

In the moment everything seems lost. I skidded along the ground, sliding on the tarmac as if I were seated on a sled but with only a thin layer of Lycra between skin and rock. The initial impact was brusque and jarring — similar to what a driver feels when rear-ended by another car. Then came the impacts every professional rider expects: Riders crashed into me from behind, colliding with my torso as if a thug was kicking it with fury. The riders whom I had crashed into, who were on the tarmac before me, would have felt the same impact.

For months, we had all trained meticulously, sacrificed, dieted and focused to be ready. A slick road, a nervous rider, a careless maneuver can end a dozen riders’ goals. Seeing riders fall in front of me, I feared it could be over. The fear is momentary.

On the ground, I feel the burn of torn skin. But before I look at the damage my body has sustained, I am looking for my bike. I get up, realize it is broken, look for the mechanic who is running towards me with my spare bike, adjust my torn jersey and prepare to climb back on. A dozen riders around me do the same.

The team cars have stopped in the middle of the road, unable to pass due to the crash, as the directors and mechanics look through the bodies and bikes to find their riders. A few lay on the ground holding their arms or shoulders while bleeding profusely. Their faces grimace with pain. From past experience I know that I will see most of them back in the peloton in half an hour. Riders will continue with broken, pummeled, bleeding bodies. Their will is too formidable to give. The sacrifice to prepare for the race has been too concentrated to resign to the pain of injury. Continue Reading »

Several people have asked me about cycling in Girona, Spain. Below is a travel article I wrote for  Canadian Cycling Magazine. I have also included some photos which my wife, Dede Barry, and friend, Jordi Cantal, took.