It's fun to be a Fred
February
15, 2001
© Darrell Noakes
In
summer we spend our trips talking about winter camping. In winter
we spend our time talking about cycling adventures. So it was a few weekends
ago, when Bruce and I and our wives got together for an evening. The conversation
soon turned to a memorable trip Bruce and I had taken in 1993.
We were on our way out of town, riding fully loaded to join up with the Wascana Freewheelers in Tisdale, for the start of The Great Saskatchewan Heritage Bicycle Tour. We had two days to get to the start of the tour. Two other members of our club, Leigh and Tammy had made a 5 a.m. start, but Bruce and I decided to make a later start. We'd catch up with the others before the end of the day, and we'd all stay at a bed and breakfast that, as near as the proprietors could reckon, was at the halfway point to the start of the tour.
As we neared the university on our way through the city, I noticed a mountain biker ahead. Young guy with a backpack, latest styles from the mall, must be a student I figured. Bruce and I continued with our measured cadence, slowly gaining on the mountain biker, who was running an imaginary slalom course of parked cars, pedestrians, and driveways.
We were side-by-side with him just as he made one of his transitions from sidewalk to roadway without looking, and we gently moved sideways to avoid the collision.
He glanced at us without turning his head. It took him only a moment to size us up: two "old" guys on 10-speeds laden with stuff. A look of sarcastic disdain crept across his face. Without a word or a nod in our direction, he picked up his pace, under-inflated knobbies making "woo-woo" sounds as he mashed the pedals.
Bruce and I gently picked up our cadence, silently closing the distance the mountain biker had put between us. He was back on the sidewalk. As we glided past him, I could hear the "woo-woo" pick up a tempo of urgency, like the beat of a jungle drum, as the mountain biker again matched our pace.
Bruce and I shifted gears to bring our cadence back into line with our new speed, then nudged our pace a little higher. By now, we had travelled more than eight blocks since we first encountered the mountain biker. The "woo-woo" sounds drifted from my right ear to my left behind me as the mountain biker crossed over to the opposite side of the road, rising to the challenge not only of two loaded touring bikes but of oncoming traffic as well.
The mountain biker passed us, sweat pouring off his face.
Bruce and I pushed our shifters forward, then passed the mountain biker again. Another four blocks slipped by. We were approaching a major intersection. This is where we needed to turn east on the highway to continue on to meet our friends. The student would surely continue north straight through the intersection. The light was green, and Bruce and I slowed, turned the corner and pulled over at the side of the road. The mountain biker tore through the intersection on the wrong side of the road, teeth gritted and eyes fixed on his front wheel, then disappeared onto the university campus.
As we reminisced over this event last weekend, Bruce reminded me of the fierce headwinds we fought for the remainder of that day, trying to reach a B&B that turned out to be more than 60 km further than the proprietors thought they were (what's a hundred miles, more or less, when you've got a car?).
"We probably tired ourselves out for the remainder of the trip as a result of chasing that guy," Bruce said. "But it was sure worth it!"
What's a Fred, you ask?
From the bike slang dictionary (see definition 2):
fred n. 1) a person who spends a lot of money on his bike and clothing, but still can't ride. "What a Fred -- too much Lycra and titanium and not enough skill." Synonym for poser. Occasionally called a "barney". 2) (from roadriding) a person who has a mishmash of old gear, does't care at all about technology or fashion, didn't race or follow racing, etc. Often identified by chainring marks on white calf socks. Used by "serious" roadies to disparage utility cyclists and touring riders, especially after these totally unfashionable "freds" drop the "serious" roadies on hills because the "serious" guys were really posers. According to popular myth, "Fred" was a well-known grumpy old touring rider, who really was named Fred.
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