Brewing Anticipation at Whitewater
Arriving at Whitewater Brewery in Cobden, I could barely contain my excitement. It was cold, and the last weather update promised overcast skies all day—perfect conditions for a fatbike race. The course looked freshly groomed and rock solid, which only added to the anticipation. I ducked into the brewery to check in and meet the other riders. Inside, the air buzzed with energy—cyclists gathered around tables, sipping coffee, digging into second breakfasts, and swapping stories and strategy. Once everyone had signed in, a quick safety briefing sent us out the door and toward the start line.
A Sunny Surprise
Lining up at the atart line, it became immediately clear: the weather had other plans. The sun was already climbing, the temperature rising faster than I’d hoped, and not a cloud in sight. Beautiful weather for just about anything—except a fatbike race. Warm temps meant the trail would soon soften, turning all that perfectly packed snow into the consistency of soft, mashed potatoes.
At 7:30 a.m., the race kicked off. We launched into the sunrise, hoping to bank some solid distance before the trail turned to mush. My studded tires crunched over the frozen surface as I pedaled from Cobden to Renfrew. The trail vibes were great—riders exchanging greetings and banter during snack breaks and at road crossings. The first 25 km flew by.
Decision at Renfrew
Rolling into Renfrew, I faced a tough choice. The trail was deteriorating fast under the sun, and I had to decide: turn around at the 50 km checkpoint and enjoy a beer and hot lunch back at the brewery, or press on another 25 km to Arnprior and chase the 200 km goal. I opted to continue.
Mallard’s Milk Bar—where the 50 km turnaround was located—was rumored to have good food and better vibes, and that gave me just enough motivation to keep going. But almost immediately, I began to regret the decision.
Into the Slog
This stretch of the Algonquin Trail always seems to have deeper snow and a softer base, and this year it was especially brutal. My pace slowed to a crawl as I tried to stay upright and avoid overheating. I was stripped down to a base layer, sweating buckets, while my bike wobbled and slipped on the mushy surface.
Signs of struggle were everywhere. I passed long stretches of footprints where others had dismounted to walk, and eventually even full-body imprints—riders wiping out left and right. Snowmobile traffic picked up, chewing up the trail even more. A few sledders revved as they passed, spraying me with loose snow. That little morale I had left took a hit.
Welcome to Mallard’s
After what felt like forever, I finally reached Arnprior. An unexpected bonus: the route file hadn’t been double checked, so instead of staying on the trail through town, it sent us down a paved road for about a kilometer. I took it—no complaints. Soon enough, I was rolling into Mallard’s.
I’ll admit, I had my doubts. Who picks an ice cream shop as a winter race checkpoint? But as soon as I arrived, all skepticism vanished. A small fire smoldered out back where riders parked their bikes, and inside, the vibe was perfect. Cozy and quaint. The ice cream bar was to the right, and a little lounge with a bar to the left. I grabbed a stool, spread out my gear to dry, and ordered a grilled veggie sandwich with a large coffee. The food was great, the conversation even better. For a moment, I didn’t want to leave.
The Turnaround
It was there I made the call: I’d cap the ride at 100 km. The trail was melting too fast, and there wasn’t enough weekend left to safely finish 200. I reluctantly packed up and rolled back out, dreading the return leg to Cobden.
The trail hadn’t gotten any better. It was soft and lumpy, and just keeping upright was a chore. My speed hovered around 4 km/h, and I was putting a foot down constantly—or just falling over. I passed more imprints, more signs of struggle. Then I noticed ski tracks. Someone out here was skate skiing, and I started entertaining myself with a new game: which was more efficient, bike or ski? I tried coasting along their tracks to see if I could outpace them. For a while, the game distracted me from the grind.
Company on the Trail
Eventually, I met the skier. He was on his way back to Arnprior, and we stopped to chat. He admired my setup, and I asked how his ski was going. Turns out, he was suffering just as much as I was. Misery loves company, I guess.
As darkness fell, the temperature finally began to drop—just enough to firm up the trail a little. But not nearly enough. I still had over 37 km to go, and at 4 km/h, that meant another 9 hours in the saddle. My new mental pastime? Calculating arrival times. When would I reach Renfrew? When would I get back to Cobden? Probably not the best way to boost morale, but at that point, I was running low on other distractions.
The Call to Quit
Eventually, reality set in. I could push through the night and arrive in Cobden at 3 a.m. for a cold leftover salad, or I could call my friend, get picked up, and be back at the brewery enjoying a warm meal and a cold beer in under two hours.
The choice was easy.
The main goal was to challenge myself but still have fun. And right then, riding wasn’t fun anymore. Spending time with a good friend I don’t see nearly enough? That sounded a lot better. It was not like I was racing for a podium spot and a sponsorship. The reward for toughing this race out is a fridge magnet. I made the call, let the race organizer know I was done, and pedaled to the nearest road for pickup. The moment my tires hit pavement, I felt like a new person. We were soon back in Cobden, laughing, eating, and watching the race tracker. Even the front-runner hadn’t made it much past Cobden yet—it was going to be a long one for everyone. I knew then I’d made the right decision.
A Different Kind of Victory
Normally, I’d beat myself up over quitting a challenge. I’d fixate on how I could’ve pushed harder or prepped better. But this time, there was none of that. I focused on enjoying the ride, embracing the moment. Yes, doing hard things is supposed to be hard—but riding bikes is supposed to be fun too. Maybe it’s because I finished the 200 km Wendigo last year, or maybe I’ve just mellowed out, but I felt good about pulling the plug. I’ll definitely be back to support the race—but next time, I’m signing up for the 50 km and riding with my friend. We’ll go hard, then spend the rest of the weekend catching up and making the most of the time together.
Because that’s what this is really about.
