Fretori Gravel Ride

Posted By Gravel Union On the 26th July 2019

---

Fretori Gravel Ride

14 July 2019

170km

Ontario

Canada

1500m

80%

Borrowed Trek Crockett

I didn’t check, but around 38c

It was 9am and the heat was already feeling stifling to a Brit that prefers things on the cooler side. My open shirt was flapping behind me as I pedalled into a hairdryer headwind, a cloud of dust maybe 500m up the road being the only sign of the main group I had set off with. 40km down. 120km to go. For the second time in the ride I sat up, stretched out my back and settled back down in the drops, heat reflecting up from the pristine gravel.

The Fretori Gravel Ride isn’t a huge event. There were maybe a hundred or so riders in total. It is organised by a local rider (if a two hour drive to Toronto can be classed as local – I guess in a country that takes days to cross by car, everything is put into perspective), and founder of the Fretori brand – Charlie Bryer. So how did I end up there? I wasn’t the only non-local to make the trip. Most of the Shimano Gravel Alliance had travelled from across North America and Europe, alongside representatives from Shimano Japan and Europe.

It just so happens that Shimano’s Canadian HQ is on the event route (and hosted the feed/tech zone) – what more excuse do you need? It was a perfect testing ground for those lucky enough to be running the all new Shimano GRX and Hiroshi “Mr GRX” Matsumoto was amongst those to pit the new gravel groupset against the course.

Our event actually started a couple of days earlier. The European Gravel Alliance contingent arrived in Peterborough, Ontario jet lagged, but keen to explore on the Thursday. High on sugar from the compulsory Tim Horton’s, we toured the streets of the small town. The main street felt alien, not just because we were in a different country. It took a while to put our fingers on it, but there were no chain stores, no familiar brand names (apart from the aforementioned Timmy’s). We wandered into a community bike project, lost ourselves in rummaging through vintage components and bikes for a while, and were struck by the friendliness of everyone we met. This may not be a natural tourist destination, but that made being here feel a little more special.

Friday – bike building for some. New components on new frames, shiny, ready to play. For others it was a quick twiddle of an allen key to rebuild existing bikes out of their flight bags. And for me… just a matter of fitting pedals and adjusting saddle height on a bike kindly loaned by Shimano. This allowed time for a gentle spin of the area. We hit dirt almost immediately. The contrast to UK “gravel” was stark. Relatively wide, unpaved roads stretched out in a grid pattern. Most of the ride was straight lines and right angles. I like to think I have a good sense of direction, but within a few turns I felt completely lost. It would do the landscape a huge injustice to say that it was monotonous – it truly wasn’t. There were subtle changes in gradient and flora, and even on these well-surfaced roads, the gravel varied from dust to larger aggregate. There wasn’t the micro-geography of the UK though – the visual clues that mark my local rides (that tree, that route, the shape of the trail) were non existent. We passed the home of the first ever gravel rider. Her mailbox identifying her: Patricia Gravelle, our chosen niche named after her shortly after her first explorations on dirt roads. 45kms felt easy going at a social pace – the climbs were short and never steep enough to require dropping into the small front ring. Already though, I was aware that they would become sapping over a longer and faster ride.

Saturday - the whole band back together. All the Gravel Alliance members, boosted by the teams from Shimano Japan, USA, Europe and Japan. A longer ride, some filming, a lunch stop, but nothing too strenuous as the main event was still to come. We rode in a bunch that stretched and contracted – excited legs tempered by the chance to catch up and chat. Elastic never quite snapping, plenty of pauses at junctions and for photo stops. Lunch was long and leisurely. So too the first few kilometres afterwards. The heat of the morning and early afternoon boiled over… dark clouds built and a steaming headwind blew towards us. The rain didn’t start gradually. It was an off/on scenario, with big splashes against bare skin, warm enough to simply feel refreshing. Sand and grit spat up from the wheel in front, soon we all sported a grubby stripe up the middle of our backs. The downpour grew heavier as we tapped out the last leg along tarmac, standing water thrown up, rinsing the worst of the mud off our bikes.

Sunday – 5am. Extra maple syrup on our bacon. Another coffee. And another. Bottles filled, and after the short drive to the tiny village of Warsaw, Ontario, we sat in the local ice rink’s car park. Fretori had thought ahead and employed the services of a local coffee shop. Another one or two caffeine hits. Astride bikes, we rolled out around 7am. This wasn’t a race. Just a ride. There was a full strength 160-something km ride and a “diet” 100km option. All set off in the same direction. A large group formed along the first 5km of tarmac. The pace wasn’t slow, but it was sustainable. A few words of conversation drifted in the air, but for the most part, the only sound was the buzz of tyres against blacktop and a soft breeze moving through the high trees we passed through.

Gravel: and I could have sworn there was an acceleration. A little quicker than I was used to, but all good. Then a kilometre or so of woodland double track. Playful, a little greasy in the morning dew. Pick a line. Accelerate. The group fractured slightly, my back wheel stepped out. Jump back to the group. Hoots and laughter and shouts filling the air. Sleepy? Not any more.

Back on the kind of gravel roads that made up the majority of the event. Long and fast and no place to hide, other than hanging on to the back of the pack and sheltering from the wind. The speed seemed to tip up a little more. I was working harder than I might have liked… did I sit up, lose the tow and resign myself to a lonely and slower day? Or keep working, not used to the lack of respite that tighter corners, more technical terrain or steeper and longer gradients might have brought? I carried on. Then, looking down at my GPS, simply made the decision to sit up. I could give lots of excuses, but they boiled down to lack of fitness and a bit of self-preservation. It would be a long day ahead, there was no point in making it longer by blowing up so early.

And back to where I started this story, 40km of riding solo, expecting to see other riders catching me up, but instead sitting in no-mans land. It was a chance to take in where I was, enjoy the soft rolling agricultural landscape… and berate myself for not riding enough, not being fit enough, sitting up too early. Nothing like a bit of mid-ride self-flagellation to spoil a good day out.

At 80km or so, I reached the first visit to the Shimano HQ. Bottles topped up. Shirt bundled up and stuffed into a rear pocket. The lead group were rolling out as I arrived. I was tempted to join, but thought better of it and relaxed in the shade, familiar faces arriving not long after. We set off in a group of 15 or so… a healthy mix of locals and Alliancers. This was to be a 50km loop. Back to Shimano and the promise of salty fries and tasty sliders. Maybe it was the incentive of food, or just the psychology of passing half way and a steadier paced group, but time sped up. I spent this leg mostly chatting to the locals, rightfully proud of their local gravel and stoked that so many people were here sharing it. Azure skies contrasted against the almost white stretches of sandy gravel, lined by wheat fields and the occasional patch of woodland. Some of the riding felt familiar, thanks to our earlier explorations, but another 90º turn and I’d lose my sense of place again. Luckily the signage kept us on track, and a couple of hours later, we arrived back at Shimano.

Animal instincts kicked in, and hollow tummies were filled, lounging on the grass in the shade. No more than 45km left, but there was no hurry in setting off home. Our group reformed, picking up a few shellshocked riders who had been hanging on to higher speeds for longer than we could manage. Steadiest pace yet, following an arrow-straight line back to Warsaw. As carbs slowly left tummies and found their way to the legs, we sped up a little, but there was no sting to the speed, just the hint of urgency that comes with a desire to get shit done and sink a cold beer. Conversations flowed, people tied together for the day along a route. Some old friends, many new ones. The tightest of groups. One last direction swing. One last climb. Punching up. 10km, 5km, 1km to go.

Beer in an ice rink without ice, notes compared, salt encrusted kit. Smiles, hugs, “good job”s, another beer. Food, more riders returning. Can of Coke. Can of beer in the back pocket for later. Dusty legs, padding across the ground in socks, carbon-soled shoes in my spare hand. Bikes loaded, and the drive back to the hotel.

>