At 3 a.m., somewhere between the south edge of Lake Huron and Goderich, the sky began to split open.

We were five riders deep into a Flèche, tracing a line across Southern Ontario, 420 kilometers in 24 hours. The roads were hushed, as if the world had stepped away and left the lights burning. The sky held its breath. Rain was forecast, but the storms passed just wide of us, as though we were being spared, or simply overlooked.

What I remember most from that hour is the lightning. Not the crack of it, but the light. It bloomed on all sides, lighting up the wind turbines, the dark water, and the reflective stripe on the back of Jim’s rain jacket. There was no thunder, just light, and the soft whisper of tires on damp pavement.

We talk about design like it’s something done in well-lit rooms, with wireframes and foresight. But this ride reminded me how often we build things, routes and systems and relationships, without knowing what lies ahead. Designing in the dark is not a metaphor. It’s what we do every time we set out with only partial knowledge, hoping the road we’ve planned will carry us through.

Our Flèche route had been built weeks in advance, carefully calibrated for terrain, distance, and timing. But you never really know until you’re in it. Until your left knee starts to ache, or you fall asleep at a control like your body has flipped a switch. Until you start brainstorming the worst app imaginable, and somehow you’re all laughing and talking about ethics and design as if it were a game.

It was a team ride. That’s what made it work. Marc brought us together and kept us moving with a steady supply of Monster Energy and relentless optimism. Michael, a human dynamo, talked faster the farther we rode. Edward was steady, the kind of rider who makes everything feel manageable. Jim was gentle, positive, thoughtful. Never in a hurry. Never off rhythm. Natalie met us at remote controls with water, a sense of humour just dry enough to keep us honest, and a quiet urgency that made sure we left every control on time. I had tested new shoes, which you’re not supposed to do on a ride like this. My knee let me know. But no one judged. We adjusted. A solid tailwind pushed us ahead of schedule, and we held that rhythm all the way through.

There’s something profound about designing as a group, in motion, in conditions that change by the minute. The route was fixed, but the way we rode it wasn’t. No one owned the pace. We made it together, one decision at a time.

We arrived at the Crazy Canuck in St. Jacobs just before 6 p.m. the next day. Other teams trickled in, soaked and sleep-deprived, and we greeted each other over burgers and pizza. They had all designed and ridden their own routes, and they had their own stories to tell.

Buds on Bikes and Beauty and the Beasts pose for a photo when they both sought shelter from a raging storm at Tim Hortons in Blyth, a control point both of their routes shared. Front row from left to right: Michel Hébert (asleep), Jim Mullenix, Philip DeVries, Marc Deshaies (with a brownie in his mouth). Back row: Edward Soldo, Paul Ragogna, Alden Ozburn, Michael Charland, Fred Chagnon, Rob Reinecker.