March 9, 2010 Sports

Ice race not so frosty

Cyclist enters event, looks towards childhood longingly

by Alan Macquarrie

Participants paid $6 to race in either the tortoise or hare race. PHOTO ALAN MACQUARRIE

It became apparent in the days leading up to Montreal’s annual bicycle ice race that the term “ice” might be misleading, and that the entire event would have to be re-adjusted on account of the massive thaw.

The date itself is a pretty big one in the cycling community, and people of all backgrounds and bike types show up with glee to tackle the shitty elements of the end of winter.
At its apex, the crowd neared 80, but only about 30 of the bravest paid $6 to race in one of two categories: tortoise or hare.

I was a tortoise.

The difference between the two categories was an extra 25 minutes of racing for the hares. When I saw the venue, I was reminded of a military training ground, so I decided to forgo the abuse.

Tony Alfonso, the organizer, marked off a figure eight track behind St-Henri’s École Polyvalente that would include a mountain of snow, a dirt jump, a foot-deep bog of mud and water, ice, rocks, tree debris and a rusty metal pipe adjacent to a flaming barbecue.

At the crux of the figure eight, two opposing lanes would merge at the foot of a small dirt mound christened “Heckle Hill” by those who stood proudly on it to throw empty beer cans and encouragement at the racers.

Let’s add wooden stakes. Tony was driving them in with a sledge hammer in order to outline the course, increasing the odds of cyclist impalement.

Veggie dogs were cooking on the barbecue that was strategically placed at a not-quite-safe distance from the course. Giant rocks were just hanging out everywhere, waiting to set you straight.

My initial assessment was along the lines of “fuck no, I’d like my six bucks back.”
A pair of ass cheeks mooned us from the school’s third-floor window. Perhaps they were the Saturday detention victims blowing off steam or the convivial welcoming committee.

From the fire exit of the gymnasium, onlookers exclaimed the “why” of it all. “Why do this?” said a rational person.

Events like these are about collectively accomplishing something inane, like getting dirty and badly hurt in the name of cycling.

Tony called my name and I joined a five-strong pack of tortoises at the starting line, at the foot of Heckle Hill. He yelled “go” and the pack unleashed.

We were funnelled into the first turn, a dicy little elbow of granular snow and water that made navigating your bike a contact sport. Elbows, knees and toes.

The second turn was all mud, with Tony’s wooden impalers on one side and the chainlink fence of a baseball cage on the other. Beyond it, the bog that sent me off my bike in the second lap seemed to get so deep it could engulf you and spit out your bones.

Between each near-bailout, I rekindled my childlike impulse to play in the mud and get dirty. When the muddy spray comes off the front wheel and hits your face, it reminds you that you are, after all, still an animal, and all the Blackberries in the world aren’t going to change that.
Pressing on through more obstacles and a steadily-degrading course, I completed my category without really achieving anything or winning a title. The only thing I got was chain lube.

I was a loser among tortoises, but I felt like a dog in the rain and decided to keep drinking with the bike couriers on Heckle Hill. Perhaps I would eventually dry off.

I even cheered a two-man collision as one cyclist failed to land the dirt jump and was greeted violently by Jesse, a bike courier. His 140 pounds of flesh and bone came down from a high-speed jump and totaled the fallen bicycle, rendering the wheels completely useless and the cyclist completely pissed.

Amidst the mud-stained and cheerful riders, the bright sun, the ass cheeks and the broken bicycle parts, smashing your bike and getting your face covered in the earth’s bounty is just about the most fun you can have on two wheels.