I knew I was different when I felt a thrill from crushing my finger between my cropped handlebar and the side view mirror of a taxi as I rode through Toronto's Yonge Street on my way to work four years ago.
I was riding my bike to my office job on the 34th floor of a Bay Street bank tower to ease my homesickness for the North Shore. Soon it wasn't enough and I started getting back behind my seat as I rode down the steps leading from my building, much to the surprise of the many blue-suited comers and goers who stood tree-like in silent astonishment.
As much as we enjoyed Toronto, it never felt like home, and after three years we decided to move back to B.C. Having often enjoyed backpacking around Squamish, the opportunity to live here screamed at us when compared to the existence that had faced us in the hinterlands of Toronto.
Getting used to a new town is always challenging, and Squamish was no different - but the one great affinity I already had was the labyrinth of trails that were now at our doorstep.
For over a year I was content to pedal around on my fully rigid chro-moly bike and take in the beautiful scenery. Soon, though, I noticed others were riding more often and farther and they all seemed to have a certain look in their eyes like they were seeing something I wasn't. As comfortable as Squamish was becoming, there was still something missing.
As months passed, I began to understand what "keeping up with the Joneses" meant in this town. For some, keeping up meant community involvement or being active in outdoor activities. For others, it only meant one thing - whether or not you were doing something called the Test of Metal.
I had always thought that I had some stamina, but here was apparently a test that was out to prove that I was nothing but a city slicker. I decided to commit. I upgraded my bike and bought one of the first entries in the early days of February 2003 (in later years I would discover that early entry was a wise move). Now I had an excuse to ride all the time and I didn't feel the alienation I had felt battling my way through Toronto's financial district. I pre-rode the course and discovered what I was up against. I dug deep, determined to finish what I had started.
On the day of the Test, an eerie calm overcame me as I rode to the start. I felt encouraged seeing so many like-minded people converging from all directions, seemingly ready to accept their fate. They all appeared to have the same nutbar hope that they might soon finally experience the feeling of having ridden far enough - at least for that weekend.
After just four hours I could finally hear the finish line. I had nothing left and was borrowing heavily from far into next week ever since achieving the zenith of Nine Mile Hill. As I crossed the finish line I felt my eyes well up. I had ridden so many miles since my run-in with that taxi on Yonge Street and now, at last, I was home.
