We Regret Nothing

Notes from the Final Day of Devil’s Week

June 21, 2025

Devil’s Week ended not with a bang but with a humidex warning. Four Port 200, scheduled for Sunday, was cancelled. Turns out our club insurance doesn’t cover spontaneous combustion.

That left Prettiest Town 300 as our closing act. A name so charming it almost made us forget that we were about to ride straight into a 75 km/h headwind. Almost.

But this isn’t a story about wind or heat. It’s a story about why I keep doing this to myself. Why we all do. About the reasons we ride, and how meaning blooms on the roadside when you're paying attention.

Nineteen of us clipped in at the start. A surprising number, given that most of us had spent the week chasing brevet cards across southwestern Ontario like overcaffeinated postal workers. The weekend crowd brought fresh legs and good energy. A few had missed the 400. Others were new entirely. And there I was, sleep-deprived, saddle sore, and not entirely convinced I should be there at all.

It had been just over 24 hours since I finished the hardest 400 of my life. I’d promised myself I might skip the 300. Rest. Stretch. Relearn how to sit in a chair without wincing. But I kept thinking about the previous ride: the shared headwinds, the tired grace of the finish, the story of it all. That’s what pulled me back in. That, and Fred texting me a single word: “Coming?”

So I showed up. Not because I felt good. But because I wanted the story. I wanted to ride it.

The first segment into London was joyful. Fast but polite. The group flowed smoothly through country roads and slowed onto the bike path. Nobody wants to be a pathlete.

Pathlete (noun)
/ˈpæθ.liːt/

• A cyclist who treats a shared multi-use path like a velodrome or a Tour de France time trial.
• A person who considers pedestrians, dogs, and small children to be moving hazards on an otherwise perfect Strava segment.

Meanwhile, the conversation bloomed. The energy was contagious. We weren’t just spinning out our legs; we were swapping stories.

There was laughter, snippets of past rides, loose talk of future plans. The kind of stories that start small and stay with you.

The pack began to splinter as people found their rhythm. Ride your own ride. I stuck with Fred, as I had most of the week. We know each other’s pacing and each other’s stories, which means we spend half the ride telling old ones.

People tell me stories. Sometimes because I ask. Sometimes because I listen. But mostly because I leave space for them to appear.

You have to, really. Stories don’t shout. They wait.

They arrive the same way wildflowers do. I’ll be working through a headwind or climbing a hill, lost in the blur of greens, browns, and greys: trees, ditches, shoulders. It all blends into one long smear of effort. Then I remember to look.

I spot a yellow bloom. A scrap of blue. Then a spray of white. Suddenly the landscape is riotous. Goldenrod in the ditches. Purple vetch threading up rusted fences. Human-made things flashing back into visibility: signs, jerseys, water bottles. The world reassembles itself in colour.

Stories work the same way. One moment you’re spinning. The next, someone tells you they rode across Canada. Or that they’re following Hannibal across the Alps. Or that they’ve done more 1200s than they can count. And just like that, you're not just riding your ride anymore.

You still have to earn the moment. You still have to be there. But sometimes, if you're paying attention, the story appears.

Here’s a story Fred hadn’t heard.

After the Nassagaweya 300, Jim, Marc, and I rolled into a McDonald’s drive-thru. I wanted a burger. We were sunburned, underfed, and in no condition to navigate alternative cuisine.

There was a kid ahead of us in a white Honda Odyssey, yelling into the speaker: “Hello? Is anyone there?” No answer. He pulled forward to the first window.

I tried the speaker. “Hello?” Polite. Hopeful. Nothing.

The kid was arguing now.

Kid: “There’s nobody in the drive-thru

Attendant: “There’s nobody in the drive-thru?”

Kid: “There’s nobody in the drive-thru!!”

He drove off. I pulled up. A teenager blinked at me from behind the console.

Attendant: “I don’t seem to have your order.”

Me: “You wouldn’t. There’s nobody in the drive-thru.”

Pause. Processing.

Attendant: “There’s nobody in the drive-thru?”

Me: “No. There’s nobody in the drive-thru.”

Another teen leaned in.

New guy: “Bob, what’s all the yelling?”

Bob: “There’s nobody in the drive-thru.”

New guy: “There’s nobody in the drive-thru??”

Back and forth like an SNL sketch that ran five minutes too long. I was crying into my handlebar bag.

Eventually someone took my order. I got my burger. It was delicious.

To this day, I have no idea what happened to the original drive-thru guy.

Eventually the story faded, and the road called us back. Exeter lay ahead, just beyond a bank of flickering storm clouds. The fast group had already come and gone. They had grabbed coffee, raided the Dollar Store for ponchos, and ridden into the storm like extras in an action film.

We looked at the forecast, then looked at each other. Bought another coffee. Sometimes you buy a poncho. Sometimes you buy time.

The rain passed quickly. The ride into Goderich was smooth – almost too smooth. Quiet country roads. A tailwind with manners. The kind of segment that tricks you into thinking you’ve figured it out. That maybe the worst is over.

It wasn’t.

We turned back toward London and rode straight into the teeth of the wind. It was the hottest weather of the week. The wind came back. Thirty-five kilometers an hour, gusting to seventy-five. Uphill both ways, or so it felt.

Fred and I rotated every kilometer, a slow-motion paceline of people trying not to melt. Holding eighteen kilometers an hour felt heroic. Downhills took work. Long stretches of silence followed, not the focused kind, but the kind where even complaining takes too much energy.

This is when the ride stopped being about fitness. Or pacing. Or time management. This was now a ride about persistence. And hydration. And holding on.

That’s when we saw them.

Two riders. Jerseys marked with experience. One had ridden Paris–Brest–Paris, the other a 1200 in Australia. But now they were red-faced, cramping, and clearly suffering. The heat had caught them. So had the wind. They were out of water. One was beginning to show signs of heat exhaustion.

We stopped. Of course we stopped. We always stop.

They didn’t know the area. Didn’t know anyone nearby. We were deep in farm country. No services. No shade. No taxis. Cell service was spotty. We were almost out of water ourselves.

We pulled out our smartphones and found a convenience store fourteen kilometers up the road. We offered to lead them there. They agreed.

We slowed to their pace. Rode in front to block the wind. Checked in every few kilometers. Stopped often. Encouraged hydration. Watched for signs of worsening. One rider could barely hold thirteen kilometers an hour. The other drifted behind.

Eventually we reached the store in Huron Park. It was an oasis of shade, shelter, and cold drinks. They sat. Rehydrated. Ate. Decided to call it. We helped arrange a ride home.

Ride your own ride includes knowing when to stop. It also includes knowing when to help someone else stop.

We rolled back out. The wind didn’t ease. The heat didn’t lift. But the store had done its job. We were rehydrated, recalibrated, and back on mission.

We caught up with three more riders on the final approach to London. No one said much. At that point in the ride, words feel expensive. But we rode together. A quiet little caravan of resolve.

Fred and I crossed the line the same way we’d started Devil’s Week: side by side. Tired but intact. Swapping old stories. Making space for new ones. Watching for signs that someone might need a hand, and offering it without derailing our own ride.

Brenda and Tim were waiting at the finish. Two more riders behind us had called it. I don’t blame them. It was a harrowing day.

But it was a good one.

The Devil went home. The wind never really died.

And the story, as always, was worth the ride.