Tag: Mario Bartel storyteller newspaper journalist

This article was originally published on Tenth to the Fraser

With apologies to the Eagles, there’s a new kit in town.

Actually, the Fraser River Fuggitivi road bike group has been rolling up and down the hills of New Westminster and beyond for about five years. But this spring the squadron has achieved a milestone coveted by every collective of roadie riders; they’ve got kit.

That’s cycling speak for fancy custom-designed jerseys and shorts emblazoned with the team’s name as well as the logos of various local sponsors. They’re not just riders anymore; they’re rolling billboards for an elite selection of supportive businesses. They’re also ambassadors for the city (minus the talent competition or commitment to wave from a parade float).

The Fuggitivi was formed by New Westminster roadie and New Zealand expat Guy Wilson-Roberts. He lives along the Quay and he got tired of trudging up the city’s interminable hills and rolling all the way into Vancouver to join a peloton of like-minded weekend athletes. By the time he got there, he was already pooped and of a mind to head back home.

So he put out a call on social media for fellow riders to come to him.

A few did. Those early pelotons were pretty modest; sometimes Wilson-Roberts’ group ride was just him.

But his persistence paid off; the group is growing.

This year there are about about 20 Fuggitivi (it’s the Italian word for fugitive) escaping the responsibility of their everyday lives twice a week for a few hours of freedom on the road; the group does a long ride of about 80-100 km every Sunday morning and a shorter, more intense climbing ride on Tuesday evenings.

There’s plenty of advantages to riding with a collegial group:

1. Camaraderie

In a group, you never ride alone. Unless you’re off the back early on a major ascent like Mt. Seymour. Then you’re left to the bears.
Actually, a good group ride will often splinter into smaller pelotons to accommodate different paces. And confuse the bears by giving them too many options.

2. Beer

The FRF’s official hashtag is #moremilesmorebeer. And more refreshing than the Wayans’ brothers’ movie Mo’ Money.

3. Mechanical assistance

See how the group pitches in to help a fellow cyclist who’s flatted get back on the road as quickly and cleanly as possible. Face it, best to leave the complicated repairs to the expert wrenches at The Original Bike Shop (shameless sponsor plug #1)

4. Beer

Yes, some FRF rides make pitstops at craft breweries. Heck one of the group’s sponsors is a brewery!  It’s in our DNA.

5. Aerodynamics

Riding into a cool headwind, it’s actually an advantage to be off the back. Because that’s where you’ll be able to take advantage of the rest of the group slicing a path for you through the breeze. You can conserve about 30 per cent of your energy that way, giving you more endurance to bend your elbows for no. 6. Some group’s call such opportunists a “wheel suck;” in the FRF, that’s just smart riding.

6. Beer

Really, it’s just a four-letter word for carbo-loading.

7. Sightseeing

Every week a new captain is responsible for the ride’s route. That means discovering new ways to reach familiar destinations. And sometimes subjecting your lithe road bike to knee-rattling gravel. That’s called channeling your inner Flandrian.

8. Um, beer

A traditional post-ride beverage favoured by cyclists is a radler. It’s a refreshing mix of beer and fizzy lemonade. It originated in Bavaria, where the drink was called a radlermass, which means “cyclist mass.” Lore has it an innkeeper just outside Munich was running low on beer during a cycling party, so he extended his dwindling kegs by mixing in lemon soda. BTW, Steel & Oak mixes a killer radler (shameless sponsor plug #2).

9. Food

Cycling burns calories. We know this because our Garmin computers tell us so. Ride 100 km with your buddies and eat whatever you want the rest of the day. Especially if you crave delicious tacos at El Santo (shameless sponsor plug #3).

10. Yup, beer

According to Bicycling Magazine, beer is an excellent natural source of folic acid, which helps reduce the chances of developing a cramp as you ride. If you stay cramp free, you’re less likely to try to ride through it and risk injury because your suffering body wasn’t up to the challenge. Unfortunately that means you won’t need to be taking advantage of the excellent rehab care at Trailside Physio anytime soon (shameless sponsor plug #4).

11. Cool swag

Cyclists were wearing cycling caps long before it was cool to wear cycling caps. FRF’s cycling caps are amongst the coolest around. They’re even made by one of the group’s own members, Richard Lee of Red Dots Cycling (shameless sponsor plug #5). Richard also designed the FRF’s stylish new kit.

12. Navigation

When you ride with the FRF, you never get lost. Especially in Delta, the Bermuda Triangle of Cycling. Nobody gets lost in Delta. Ever.

13. Beer

You’ve read this far; you’ve earned a beer. Then, oil the chain on your road bike, join the FRF and enjoy more beer.

To learn more about the Fraser River Fuggitivi, check their website or follow their Twitter feed @frfuggitivi. Cap’s The Original Bike Shop also conducts group rides on various days.

The following article was first published on The Big Ring

Strava has forgotten who I am.

It’s six days into June and I’ve yet to throw a leg over the Lapierre. And already my mileage barometer has forsaken me.

I’m working again. That means trying rediscover a balance between working, riding and life.

A new job means adjusting to new routines that have a ripple effect on other aspects of our busy lives, like getting Little Ring to and from daycare, when to get groceries, managing household chores, finding time to binge-watch Silicon Valley. Too frequently in the past few weeks, it’s been the riding that’s been left behind.

My mileage on the bike is taking a hit.

In the months after my newspaper closed, I settled into a pretty simple routine; I still got up at 5:30 a.m. to shower and prepare breakfast for the family, get the household going. Once their days were established, I put time into scanning job sites, targeting possibilities, preparing resumés, drafting cover letters as well as crafted stories for my various blogs and freelance accounts to maintain my writing and social media chops. If there weren’t any other pressing errands, I was then free to ride.

Minus the niggling little problem of no income to replenish a dwindling bank account, it was a good routine that kept the household in order, my spirits up, my legs fit and my Strava account active.

While searching for new employment, I kept an eye out for opportunities that might allow me to commute by bike. As a journalist, I’d been denied that chance my entire career because we’re pretty much on the job once we step out the door, and during the drives around town or on the way home. That meant packing along the camera gear in case I was diverted to some sort of breaking news story or last-minute assignment. Or just scheduled to cover something on my way in or from the office because it was convenient.

A number of FRF members are regular bike commuters. I look at their Strava accounts with envy; those 20 km pedals to and from work really add up. And inevitably they’re the guys off the front during our weekly recreational rides.

My new gig is a 400 metre walk from home! Which is awesome! But doesn’t afford me the chance to join the bike commuting culture.

I’m four weeks into the new position and I’m still getting my legs under me. Now I just have to figure out how to get those legs pedalling more frequently.

Cyclists can  define the stages of their lives by their bikes.

The first significant bike I remember was an orange Chopper-style bike from Canadian Tire that arrived under the Christmas tree when I was 7 or 8 years-old. It was a sweet, tricked out ride, with an elongated black seat supported by a low-rise “sissy bar,” a three-speed “stick” shifter mounted on the wide top tube and, of course, the obligatory hi-rise handlebars which I occasionally adorned with streamers. It was a bad-ass ride; apparently I liked to channel my inner Easy Rider when I was a kid.

When I outgrew that, I convinced my parents to spend $89 on a Shields road bike from the Consumers Distributing catalogue store with proper curved handlebars and a four-speed internal hub gear system. It weighed a ton; I think the tubes were cast from iron. But it took me on adventures to distant parks, gave me my first taste of freedom on the road.

In high school, I started to get more serious about my cycling endeavours. I saved my allowance money and eventually accumulated enough to purchase a real Peugeot road bike from a real bike shop. The grey steel frame was accented with chromed forks. The downtube shifters connected to a bonafide 10-speed derailleur. It weighed about a third of the clunky Shields, but it was no thoroughbred by any means.

When I caught the occasional glimpse of the Tour de France highlights on TV, hosted by John Tesh, I cheered for the riders on Peugeots.

I rode far, and tried to go fast on that bike.

In university I kicked my bike game up another notch.

A chance visit to a local Italian bike shop to kill time while getting new tires put on my dad’s car introduced me to a beautiful Rossi stallion. It’s chromed Columbus Aelle tubing glinted in the sunlight. The Campagnolo Nuovo Record group sounded exotic, but was renowned for its simplicity and durability. The Mavic wheelset gave it racing cred, although I had no intentions of testing my legs in that way.

The $900 price tag was a major kick to my meager student finances; but I was in love. The next Saturday, she was mine.

Astride the Rossi, I was a “serious” cyclist. She took me on epic 100 km rides. She carried me on cycling dates. I upgraded parts, affixed a fancy set of red Look clipless pedals.
She was my ride and joy for about 10 years, although I hung onto her long after she was retired. Her lithe silhouette had a place of honour in my bachelor apartment, a piece of gleaming chromed kinetic sculpture leaned against a living room wall.

When I moved west, the Rossi and my Kona mountain bike mounted on the Thule roof rack upon my red Toyota Tercel, I rewarded my assurance of a new job by heading to the nearest high-end bike shop. I picked out a sweet Cramerotti frame with a red, white and blue fade paint job on the Columbus SLX tubes and, of course, chromed stays and fork. I cherry-picked the groupset, brakes and wheelset to build her up. She was practically a custom bike, my dream machine.

The Cramerotti carried me up and down the local mountains with ease. She took me out to the countryside and navigated busy city streets. And when I signed on for a cycling tour to accompany the 2003 Tour de France, she was to transport me through the streets of Paris, up the legendary Pyreénean climbs of Col d’Aspin and Luz Ardiden.

That was the plan, at least; until a fateful detour after a visit to the bike shop to get her pedals removed in preparation for packing her into a travel box took me under an overhang that was too low for the Cramerotti mounted on the roof rack of my car. The thud was sickening, the damage heartbreaking. And terminal. My flight departed in 36 hours!

A panicked visit to the bike shop set me up with a Specialized Allez Comp. Not my first choice, especially the wild and crazy zebra-stripe livery; but it fit, and the shop could have it set up for me by the end of the day.

The Allez performed admirably in France, turned heads even. My attachment to her stiff, responsive ride and assured ascending grew. But ours was an ill-fated relationship; a week after returning from France I was hit by a car turning left and the bike was bent out of alignment.

Insurance set me up with my next ride, a bright orange and blue Orbea.

I was enamoured with the Spanish brand after watching their bikes perform for the small Basque team, Euskaltel-Euskadi. They were a plucky bunch, scrapping their way up mountainsides amongst the best climbers, then faltering miserably against the time trialing machines like US Postal and ONCE. They were a regional outfit playing in the same sandbox as multinational big boys. And Orbea is a co-op, where the workers each own an equal share in their employer.

The Orbea’s bright colours caught admiring glances, her unusual brand sparked conversations. Her light aluminum frame climbed like a demon and she descended on a rail.

Orbea and I spent more than 32,000 kms together. I knew her every quirk, her every squeak and squeal. She carried me to my wedding. She was my ride of choice on my first Gran Fondo.

She would have been my forever bike, until my heart was stolen by a sassy French Lapierre.

Each of my bikes (well, I’m not so sure about the clunky Shields department store bike), or at least parts of them, went on to another life. The Cramerotti’s pedals were ported over to the Specialized. When it’s short life ended, it’s components were installed on the Orbea, which is still being ridden by a friend.
The beloved Rossi, after years of collecting dust interrupted by occasional service as a winter trainer bike, became a throw-in when I sold an old mountain bike to another buddy; it sparked another’s love for the road.

The chainring of life…

My Cramerotti looked much like this one, but with a red/blue fade at the tube junctions and marble blue bar tape.

The Orbea was beloved, and it is still loved by another cyclist.

Imagine this sleek Rossi frame with proper curved drop bars, downtube shifters, brakes and a 10-speed drivetrain.

The Specialized Allez Comp saw a lot in its short life.

My Peugeot was grey, but it shared this model’s chromed fork and stays, a must-have feature that followed me through two subsequent bikes.