Merino + Bike

Dear Icebreaker,

What happened to your cycling gear? It was the bomb.

No, seriously, I love it.

With the number of prestige Cycling brands currently backing Merino product in their ultra 'spensive lineups, I find it curious that the ultimate Merino brand has taken themselves out of the game.

I'm willing to bet it's the result of poor sales. Can't produce something if it doesn't make a profit! Entirely understandable.

Here's the thing, though: You scuttled ship too early.




(Via: Your Own Marketing. He is on a GRAVEL road!)


Icebreaker Merino is perfect for Cyclists in the fall, spring and winter. Even on a cooler summer's day, it keeps one warm without overheating. The nature of Icebreaker's New-Zealand wool is an incomparable advantage. The sheep spend their sheepish days in a multitude of conditions -- stormy, sunny, snowy, dry. Their wool reacts accordingly. It's an all-natural substitute to the myriad synthetics who claim to do the same thing, but not nearly as well.

Lycra is cool but wool is where it's at.

A fall or spring day on the road can start out cold, but jump many degrees in a short period of time. Alternatively it can be a warm start at noon, but fall rapidly as the sun heads west. The Merino wool will keep cool when it's warm, and warm when it's cool. Moisture-wicking abilities mix well with its anti-bacterial properties, allowing it to take the worst of one's sweat and stand up against the stink.

It's got a no-itch guarantee, as well. Killer.

I’m not the only one who thinks so. A simple google search pulls this review from Canadian Cyclist, back in 2012: “The bottom line is that if you are looking for comfort and performance over fashion, then it is very hard to go wrong with the new Icebreaker cycling kit.”

Or, see also your own myriad links from 2011, on the Icebreaker Blog. From here you sent readers to many more rave testimonials.

And now, in 2015… nuthin’.

Consider this: You just targeted the wrong bikers.

Right now Cyclocross and Fatbiking are taking off in a big way.

Just over a week ago I geared up in a fully Icebreaker kit (top/ bottom + baselayer) for a Cyclocross race in Nova Scotia, Canada. The thermostat chilled comfortably at four degrees celsius. I didn't have a care in the world. Within 45 minutes I had warmed up considerably between the extreme aerobic workout and rising sun. A five degree jump turned me into a sweaty mess by the end, but I remained comfortable and cool.

A couple days later I threw on my Merino Jersey and struck out on an easy-spin road ride. Nothing crazy, just 60k of rolling coastline climbs and drops. With a threat of rain, I opted for arm warmers and a waterproof layer. I was warm and toasty throughout the entire ride, with 'nar sensation of overwhelming heat or debilitating cold. It was perfect. The temperature hovered between four to eight degrees, depending on windchill. No worries.




(Merino Selfie)


I'm looking forward to testing my IB layers on the fatbike this coming winter. Considering its ability to shine on a day of Cross-Country aerobics, I'm anticipating good things.

It's the magic material.

With the rise of fall Cyclocross racing and deep winter fatbiking, it's time for you to bring back your superior cycling line. People in either of these disciplines need a layer to react to their constantly fluctuating environments, and you have the key -- especially with your recent adoption of windproof synthetics mixed into your cold weather activewear. A pair windproof merino full-length bib tights (with chamoix) would make a killing.

If you just took the Bodyfit Zone tech and take off the long sleeves, you have a one-piece aerosuit -- perfect for Cyclocross enthusiasts.

Fat Bikers are likely already suiting up with your baselayers. Get an ambassador to attest to this fact, and BOOM.

Or rather, BAAAA.

So, please. Pretty please.

You are the hero cycling needs right now, whether we know it or not.

Sincerely,

RDB

Another Cyclist, Gone

Photo: Ray Bradshaw of Global Halifax

A family has lost a loved one, friends have lost a companion. The cycling community of Halifax was somber yesterday, as riding buddies messaged one another to see if they were 'ok'. They too have lost one of their own -- a tight knit community of enthusiasts who love the feeling of two wheels, and the open road beneath them.

May she rest in peace.

Internet comments and observations are never a positive barometer of general consensus or thought, but are nonetheless disappointing. On News-sites and Facebook, some were blaming cyclists for being unsafe -- again. Others blamed drivers for being careless. It is a repetitive chorus.

As always, laying responsibility accomplishes nothing.

I cannot imagine the conscience of the truck's operator. They have inadvertently taken a life. A police investigation will discover the course of events, but we must calm our vitriol and remember this driver is human, as well.

It was an accident.

Another accident, following a string of collisions within the last few days. The last few months. Years, even.

It's easy to say Cyclists should be more cautious and drivers should be aware, but in the end everyone is using the same roadway, with nothing to separate them but a splash of paint (sometimes). We're in it together, but cyclists are the ones being seriously injured, or dying, in the resulting collisions.

The problem lies within the poor infrastructure, and bureaucracy that applies band-aids instead of meaningful change.

Halifax roads are unsafe. To make them safer for both all commuters, we need protected bike lanes.

Sure, the roads are old. So are the innumerable cities and towns in Europe where cycling is commonplace, or even the dominant form of transportation.



Morning Ebb And Flow from jim slade on Vimeo.


This lazy excuse is inadequate. The trouble is money. Luckily, the Halifax Cycling Coalition has figured out how much. Go take a read. They even address the common myth that roads are not wide enough.

We also need mandatory guards on the undercarriages of big trucks. The Halifax Cycling Coalition is also calling for this. It isn't the first time they've made such recommendations. Hopefully it is the last.

These precautions will save lives. They will encourage more people to cycle. This, in turn, could create a more positive relationship between motorists and cyclists. It would also equate to a healthier, more active community. In some cases, it's helped the economy.

Around the world, communities have flourished with these implementations. Halifax could very well do the same.

Email your local councillor and ask them for a safer and more inclusive Halifax roadway system throughout the whole of HRM. Don't settle for debate or assignment of blame.

Mostly, though, send your condolences and thoughts to the family and friends of yesterday's victim. Hopefully, she will be the last.

407 Is Destroyed

Ski Wentworth, as seen after the race. To the right, a straight shot up. That was ascent #2.

"Beat To Snot" was the name of the trail race.

More on this in a second.

As I crested the first ascent and turned the corner to a sharp downhill of Ski Wentworth, I had to take a second and forget about heartbeat, cadence, or the quiet burning sensation in my legs (it would get a lot worse). 

It looked like I was running towards the edge of an abyss. Closer to the end, it was obviously not the case, as a snow-less ski trail opened up beneath, with a visible trail of dirt and muck leading the way where others had tread down the precipitous slope. Trees were changing colour along either side of the descent, wet and lush from a rising fog which had soaked me on the way up. The valley below was barely visible through the mist.

It was beautiful. 

I remarked as such to the man ahead of me, with whom I'd barely been keeping up. 

He agreed, and added: "It's a good time for a snack!". 

I took his advice, and pulled out a strawberry Gu Gel from the pack in my pocket. Sucking on the sweet (not?) artificial gummy flavouring, I smiled. Good workout. Good view. Good people, even. This was pretty cool. 

Suddenly the man shot off down the descent, disappearing into the mist like that dude from the Polar Express. Or as my grandmother might have put it "like a fart in the wind." 

I tried to keep up, but couldn't. Not nearly enough stability or ability in my legs.

Turns out I'd be doing much of the race like this. Alone.

Oh well.

Post-race. Soaked. 

A glance at my Garmin marked the 2k point, and with a sign I continued onwards. One foot in front of the other. This wouldn't be over any time soon. 

I had no idea this Saturday race was titled "Beat To Snot". At least, I didn't know 'till I took a first look at the terrain, on Friday night. 

Only a couple of days before this, I had been asked if I'd be interested in participating. Without a compelling reason not to, I figured "sure!". It would be a good excuse to get out. Jeffery Zahavich, owner of Kinesic Sports Lab, was the one who had extended the invitation. He estimated he'd be in the same boat; undertrained, but enthusiastic. I didn't point out the difference between undertrained and no-trained, which was my case.

The longest I'd run this summer was 10k, on pavement. 

Oh boy.

I justified a 16k trail run as a great way to see some more Nova Scotian countryside. Who cares if I had never fun this far ever before? Who cares if it's on a ski hill? 

I sure didn't. That is, until I reached the bottom of the second descent. A volunteer was waiting, taking pictures with her iPhone, cheering everyone on. 

Between enthusiastic hurrahs, she yelled "5k runners, head to finish!". These racers were all done, and welcome to head straight on to the ski lodge behind her, with its warm and cozy interior. 

The temptation to spring forward was strong. Who would know? I could say I'd meant to sign up for the 5k. Jeff might rib me, but I'd be able to walk later. And I'd be dry.

Nope. With a sigh, I turned right and headed back up the hill -- straight line up a sharp incline, alongside the chairlift supports. 

Chairlifts. What a novel idea. 

The route was not exclusively confined to ski paths. Some sections cut between runs using flowy, mossy singletrack. Soft, and grippy. The fourth ascent was particularly fun, reminiscent of a Mountain Bike Trail, complete with berms and bridges. 

By now my Salomon Speedcross were soaked, and muddy. Along the first ascent, some burbling brooks and marshy pits were too wide to hop, so they were cristened early. Bought during the spring before, these kicks hadn't actually seen a whole lot of trail (any, really) until now. They were stellar. Impeccable grip, and quick to shed moisture. They're still drying in my apartment, but during the run my feet were never uncomfortably wet.

Finally muddy. 

A big part of my comfortable toes were the Multi-Sport Icebreaker socks I'd purchased the day before. Incomparable. 

Keeping my core warm was a light-blue Craft Cross-Country Ski jacket. I honestly can't remember its name, but it's kept me comfy for about two years now. I've used it running, cycling, skiing, and casually. It's held up in each instance, and proved to be perfect for Saturday. With a simple Icebreaker Running T underneath, I was never too hot or cold as the wind whipped drizzle around Wentworth's higher elevations. 

I had been nervous at the start, seeing som efolks dress up in shorts and a singlet. Others sported tights and Arc'teryx shells. Most everyone had some kind of a water-pack of some kind. I felt pretty dopey, carrying my single cycling bottle. Something to remember for next time. 

By the 10th km, the ascents were more like hikes for me. The downhills were starting to burn my thighs and glutes. 

It was hella-fun. 

Every climb lead to a beautiful vista, and every descent was a win, 'cause I didn't succumb to temptation and just roll down. 

Heck, just being there was a win. 

As the second hour rolled around, the mist disappeared from the higher elevations, leaving behind a thick dew. Gusts of wind chilled the spine a litte here and there, but it never got too cold. 

Lana Del-Rey was stuck in my head. 

I was keeping pace with a couple of people behind me, and one woman in front. She would blast off on the downhills, and my long legs would help catch her on the way up. The others stayed firmly behind, always in view. On the second-to-last descent, though, this pattern started to fall apart as my thighs began to stiffen up in protest of the abuse they'd been dealt. 

The head game had begun. Surprisingly, though, I didn't feel like I'd hit "the wall" at any point. It simply became a negotiation within myself: "keep putting one foot in front of the other, no matter how fast or slow. At the end, there could be cookies." 

Mmmmmm, cookies.

Gimme. 

The final rise was fairly tame compared to everything that had preceeded it. A mix of more singletrack, and a few overrun woods roads with tiny rolling hills. Cresting each rise deserved a smile, and got one. 

Then, down again... one last time. 

By now, the downhills were a gritty chore. My thighs were screaming. I stopped more often than I'd have liked, just to give them a break. 

One foot in front of the other, though. Keep on keepin' on. 

I passed the final Volunteer with about a kilometer and a half left, and he topped me up on water. 

"You've got about a mile left!" he told me, encouragingly. "It's all downhill from here!" 

Oh great, my favourite, I thought. 

More singletrack. More flow. I desperately wished for two tready wheels to carry me down, but nothing magically appeared. It was just me, and the mulchy earth beneath my shoes. With my Garmin reading Two Hours and Fourty minutes, I began to chant "Less than three, less than three..." 

One foot. Another. Run, run, run. Up, down, up, down. Turn left. Turn right. Cross the bridge. Hop the root. 'round the tree. Repeat. 

"Less than three..." down, down, down. 

Ouch. 

2:52:00, I passed a house. Hobbling along, I saw the trees breaking onto a cleared hill -- the bottom of another Ski run, with a muddy trail through the grass headed towards a gravel parking lot. 

Hitting the flat, finally, brought another smile. Turning left, I could see the finish next to the lodge. 

Less than three... 

I'd made it. A 16k trail run. Holy shit. 

Jeff was at the end, bundled up in a sweater and sweats. He'd finished a little more than half an hour before me. 

"What number are you!?" They asked me as I crossed the finish. 

"Four Oh Seven!" I replied. Ecstatic. Exhausted. 

To my left, the fog had lifted and revealed the top of the hill. I just ran up that, I thought. Several times. 

Woah. 

Jeff smiled at me, and offered a fist bump. "How are you feeling!?" He asked. 

I just laughed. 

Beneath the Salomon timing tent, Jodi (one of the awesome organizers) was grinning at me. He nudged Jeff. "I have something to show you, and Ryan too..." 

He pulled out his phone. 

"One of the volunteers texted me a little while ago." He scrolled, toggled the text, and then showed it to Jeff and I.

"Number 407 is destroyed. Well done." it said. 

Indeed I was. Destroyed, and happy. Beat to a snot.