Shakeout ride

Friday's shakeout ride did not go exactly to plan. In fact, it didn't go.

I knew the tires would need some air. So I got to my bike locker 15 minutes before I was supposed to meet Rob, my riding buddy. I hardly got a chance to ride with Rob last year, on account of the knee issues, so I was looking forward to it. Rob says every cycling season I give him at least one story to tell (when I have nothing else to say, I'll tell you the one about the old man on rollerblades, in which Rob utters the timeless line, "I could tell by the look on your back something was wrong"). This year, it was on opening day.

See, not having ridden much last year, I hadn't had to put air in the tires. When I unscrewed the valve caps, I faced something I hadn't seen and didn't expect -- a Presta valve.

These are complex little European thingies, unlike the North American Shrader valve common to bikes and cars. This makes tires with Shrader valves easy to top up at gas stations, and those with Presta valves impossible to inflate without the kind of adapter that you know you're not going to find at any store that's open on Good Friday.

Thus the ride became a walk. Which was wonderful, actually. I'm a recent arrival to the neighbourhood -- I guess it's been three years now -- and we strolled through some areas of Cabbagetown, Regent Park and Corktown I've only skirted in the past. And I got the kind of history lesson they don't give you on walking tours.

Saturday was a write-off, but for the shoes (see BARGAIN ALERT below). But Sunday, I did get the tires inflated, put the bike on the ferry, and took my shakeout ride on Toronto Island. (I saw later in the day, on the news crawl, that there'd been some frayed nerves and hours-long lineups because the city was only running one of the three ferries, but I saw nothing of that. Must have been the Saturday.)

I love the Island -- my daughter and I would live there if we could -- so it's significant that the triathlon is being held there. I will be over there every second weekend this spring and summer, at least, which gives me a chance to scope out the course. I figured it would be a great opportunity to start the season on the track I'd be riding for the race.

Two words: expletive-deleted tourists. The place was hip-deep in people meandering over the bike paths, six or seven abreast, with no regard for the civilized notion that in North America, in any context -- road, sidewalk, escalator -- YOU KEEP TO THE RIGHT, dammit.

So, until I got out to Hanlan's Point, it was impossible to get up to speed without endangering life and limb. ("You don't want to hit people," says Heather, the bartender at my local, after I whine to her about it later. "Actually, I *did* want to hit people," I said.) Probably fine, anyway. I hadn't been out on a bike in a year, I didn't have the seat height dialed in, and there were other issues, so a flat-out sprint probably wasn't a good idea.

And, let's face it ... the Island isn't a place for rushing. Until the race.