Blank Canvas

For many of my cycling friends, winter is the time for making big plans. Like the vast snowscape outside, the seasons ahead spread out, blank canvas-like, glittering with possibilities. We are increasingly spoiled for choice here: Beautiful unpaved rides, formal and informal brevets, invitational weekend getaways - it's enough to make one's head spin. And it all requires budgeting, scheduling, prioritising, oftentimes with advanced planning and registration. And so in the coldest days of February, over cups of scalding coffee, cyclists speak in agonised whispers of events to come in the summer months.

I used to listen with curiosity and detached amusement. As someone who generally resists planning, I could not imagine scheduling a summer's worth of weekends around cycling events. But this time around I am getting swept up in it all. 

Staring at the pile of snow outside my window, I find myself considering a hill climb race. I don't expect to do well at all, but I think I might enjoy it. Feeling that is a surprise to me; wanting to do it is a surprise. But when I imagine the climbing and the festive atmosphere, I want to be there - pedaling and feeling the strain, delirious as I strive for a summit I might not have the stamina to reach. Weird, isn't it, the things we can enjoy.

Plodding along the riverside trail, I contemplate this year's brevet series. I love the idea of randonneuring. But truthfully, I don't think I am serious about it - or ready for it, depending on how you look at it. On long rides that pass through beautiful places, what I really want to do is explore, carry a big camera, stop any time I like and constantly take photos - which is at odds with being on the clock. It might make more sense to finally put aside some time for a light multi-day tour. 

Cleaning the salt and crud off my bike after a slushy outing, I remember long dreamy rides on unpaved roads. It seems almost fictional now: Going from the "baby" D2R2 route to the hair-raising loose descents of the Kearsarge Klassic in a matter of weeks, riding borrowed bikes with unfamiliar components, rental cars at 5:00 in the morning... Absurd. But oh how I long to do it again (minus the borrowed bikes, I hope), and how I long to find more rides in the same vein. I am even willing to plan in advance and make commitments. 

This winter is turning out to be brutal. But the months ahead are a blank canvas, and putting down the initial sketch is keeping me sane. 

Categories: roadcycling, unpaved, winter cycling

All Legs

Well, I finally watched the Triplets of Belleville. For those who have not seen it, this is a French animated film about cycling, music hall singers and sinister men in black - surreal and somewhat disturbing (in a good way). No subtitles required even if you do not understand French.

There are many fascinating details in this film, but I don't want to spoil it for those who haven't watched it. Instead I just want to note one hilarious element: the caricatured cyclist's body.

Ah, the gaunt, emaciated cyclist. Sunken eyes, protruding cheekbones. Head bobbing up and down as if the straining tendons of the neck can barely support it. Hunched back and shoulders. Spaghetti arms. Non-existent waist, narrow hips... And then, suddenly - bang! An explosion of thigh muscle, bulge upon bulge, tapering at the knees before exploding again into freakishly well defined calves. I have seen such exaggerated renderings before, but none as expressively done as in this film. The half-soulful, half-dead look on Champion's face completes the archetype.

I have now met a few real-life cyclists with similar body types. They disguise it surprisingly well when wearing regular clothing, but once in lycra the leg explosion is revealed. Seeing such marvelously distorted proportions in person, I try not to stare. But it's kind of awesome, and awe-inspiring. Gives "all legs" a new meaning.

PS: You can tell it's winter, because I'm falling prey to cycling movies. Any recommendations besides the usual suspects? For now, I'll just have to live with "Belleville Rendez-Vous" stuck in my head...

Categories: films, roadcycling

Feel Like Crying

A road ride on a cold day. Wind in my face. Gasping for air. 

Descending as the sun begins to set, there is nothing but speed, forest, and a faint golden glow on my face. This golden glow loves me, and it loves all the other riders on the road.

A feeling comes over me and it's the feeling of knowing infinity. At this moment, I could fade into the forest or ride off into the sun. My physical sense of self and bike grows weak. We are too light to be real; we dissipate.

I am high on endorphins. I know this. This is not a special moment. This is not meaningful. I must get ahold of myself. 

But my chest is full. And the tears come. 

It doesn't feel like crying. More like an emotional mix up. I laugh at myself as the chill hits my wet face. I need to cut this out. It's not that serious. It's not that beautiful. I am not pedaling that hard.

Could it be fear, rather than the pain of physical effort that I am converting into these intense waves of emotion? Am I too proud to experience fear, so I sublimate it into ...what exactly? 

No no no. Thinking won't help here. Just go with it. Let it happen. People will understand. Or they will think the tears are from the wind. 

This is what roadcycling does to me. No, I don't get it either. 

Categories: roadcycling, stories

SPD Pedals and Platform Support

When it comes to SPD-style clipless pedals, there is some discussion about the benefits of models with integrated platforms versus without. For example, here is an email I received from a reader last week:

...I see in your photos that you use both the Crank Brothers Eggbeaters and Candy pedals. Which do you recommend for a beginner? My boyfriend likes Shimano A-520 pedals because of the extra platform support. His thought is that the Candys provide the same level of support, but not the Eggbeaters. Do you agree?

To answer this question, let me backtrack a bit. The Eggbeater and Candy pedals from Crank Brothers are identical, except that the Candys (right) have a flat platform built around the bindings and the Eggbeaters (left) do not. When choosing pedals, I heard several arguments in favour of the Candys, including that the platform offers extra foot support, that as a beginner I would have an easier time clipping into a larger pedal, and that the platforms would allow me to ride in regular shoes.

I have now ridden with Candys on my own roadbike for the past 9 months. Over that time I have also borrowed friends' bikes with Eggbeaters (including a 100K ride). In the very beginning, the Candys were indeed easier for me to clip into. However, this advantage was short-lived and just weeks later I already had no problem using Eggbeaters and could not distinguish between them. I can also confirm that the Candys are much easier to ride in street shoes, on the rare occasions I find myself doing this on a roadbike. But as far as foot support, I feel absolutely no difference between the two models. I thought that I would, but I don't.

The Eggbeaters have their own advantages. The lack of platforms makes them considerably lighter. They offer more points of entry. And they are easier to clean. Overall, I think that I prefer them, although really I am fine with either.

While not the same as the Crankbrothers system, you could draw parallels to this comparison with Shimano SPDs. There are pedals that consist of bindings alone, and those that incorporate a platform. Some claim the platform provides additional foot support and allows for more power to be transferred, making it similar to a road pedal. Others argue that this is not the case, as the platform sits too far below the binding to provide significant support. I have no comment on the mechanics of this at large, but can only say that with my style of riding, and my specific pedal and shoe combination, I cannot feel the difference. As a beginner, I would suggest trying lots of pedals and figuring out what feels better to you.

Categories: clipless, comfort, roadcycling

State of Grace

I saw her picture in a magazine and it was instant girl crush. I had never seen a creature so beautiful: She was like a graceful, violent, dirty Snow White. "That's Maureen Bruno-Roy," I was told, "she's a professional cyclocross racer." Half a year later, I was sitting in her kitchen. "Mo" was making tea while talking about her massage therapy business and riding Dutch bikes for transportation in Belgium. "Racing..." she shook her head with a smile when I brought it up, as if the concept both amused and confused her. "I am grateful that I happen to be good at it, but it's not everything." She showed me her pink Shogun mixte, which she rides to work in her regular clothes. She spoke about how much she loves bicycle infrastructure. Later we looked over her fleet of sponsored, impeccably tuned racing bikes in the basement. "You are welcome to borrow one," she said, as if talking about lending me a sweater... 

In between sips of coffee, I glanced up at the television screen with boredom, watching the race with unseeing eyes. A man in a zip-up sweater and a baseball cap glanced at me from the bar, then stood up and walked over to my table. He began to narrate the race in my ear as it unfolded, telling back stories about the riders and their behind-the-scenes dramas, then interrupting himself to describe what it was like to corner in the rain on a particular descent that was coming up, then interrupting himself again to speculate about the psychological state of the riders as they prepared to execute some maneuver I only vaguely understood. This was the 1989 World Cycling Championships race and he made it happen live, right in front of us. That was how I met the race announcer Richard Fries. Later I snapped some shots of him at the Providence Cyclocross Festival. I wonder whether he realised that in some way he was responsible for my being there... 

When I started riding with the legendary randonneuse Pamela Blalock, the thing that stunned me was that I never felt slow or inadequate. How could it be that I struggled to keep up with ordinary cyclists who were just slightly more experienced than me, and yet the Climbing Goddess and I seemed so effortlessly in sync? This was my first taste of a strange paradox: Riding with people who are way, way better than me is easier than riding with people who are just a little better...

For a brief portion of a group ride, my path once crossed with the awe-inspiring endurance racer John Bayley. He rode next to me in the tail end of the double line we formed as if it were the most normal thing in the world for the likes of him to be riding with the likes of me. He truly made me feel that it was. We entered a stretch of dirt road that was rutted out and iced over in spots. As we chatted, I saw that, side by side and at considerable speed, we were approaching a narrow ridge between two deep ruts that only one of our wheels could possibly fit through. Before I knew what was happening, he wiggled ever so subtly and I instinctively followed suit, and without breaking stride, we both ended up riding along that narrow ridge without crossing wheels or slipping off of it. I doubt John even remembers this, considering he just kept cycling and chatting blithely while it was happening. But the incident was etched into my mind. "So this is how you do it..."

As a rider, Emily surprised me with her psychic abilities. When we cycle on narrow roads with traffic, we will ride single file and she will go in the front. And when she does this, Emily somehow knows exactly what speed to maintain so that I am right behind her at all times. I want to go faster and suddenly she is pedaling more vigorously. I slow down a tad and so does she, as if anticipating my fluctuating energy levels. "But Emily, how do you do that?" She says that she can see me in the corner of her eye, but I don't buy it. I try this when I ride with others, and find it impossible. I never, ever know how fast to go when I'm in the front. I'll think that I am going at a consistent pace, but then I'll look over my shoulder and see that I lost people; I feel like a jerk. Some day I want to be psychic, like Emily...

I could not get over the way Patria rode her racing bike. It was with the attitude of riding a beach cruiser. Easy-peasy, fun-fun-fun. We rode so close that our handlebars were almost touching and I hardly noticed. We talked, we laughed, we gossiped, and before I knew it we crested the hill that I thought I was too out of shape to tackle without disgracing myself. It was 35 degrees Fahrenheit. A group of men from another local club passed us going in the opposite direction. Feeling feisty, we waved at them exhuberantly and they yelled something in a cheerful tone before disappearing. When I mentioned my struggles with clipless pedals Patria reacted as if we were discussing fashion accessories. "Why don't you try the shoes I wear? You might like them better. And they come in this cute color..." A week later I was riding clipless. No practicing in the parking lot, no problems. Everything is easy with Patria...

When I first visited the Ride Studio Cafe over two years ago, there was a tall, boyish man working there, making coffee and sweeping floors. He made my Americano, and told me his name was Rob. I assumed he was the barista, and he did nothing to contradict this impression. We'd chat when I visited the shop. I thought he was nice. Some months later I asked the guy at the cash register whom to see about test-riding a Seven. He pointed to the barista. "Talk to him, that's the owner." "The owner of what?" I asked. "The owner of Seven Cycles. And the Ride Studio Cafe."

It's been almost a year now since I formally joined my cycling club. It is not my intent to promote them here, but only to thank them. It is through this club that I've met all the people described here, who have opened up my mind, challenged my pre-conceived notions and expanded my point of view. Some people help you and you feel grateful, indebted. Others help you and you don't even know it. A person who can do that has achieved a state of grace.

Categories: bike friends, roadcycling

Reading and Riding

When I started cycling I never dreamed of getting into bicycle-themed literature. In fact, I intentionally avoided it. I guess I wanted to think of myself as "normal," didn't want to get obsessed, you know?.. Just a person who rides bikes, and not a person who is so defined by them that even her reading list is bike-themed. Fast forward several years, and my coffee table is littered with books and magazines about... you guessed it, cycling. My laptop has browser windows open to cycling-themed reading material. I'm a goner for sure. And you know what's worse? For some reason, most of the stuff I like is roadie themed. Let me explain: There is some truly excellent writing in this genre. Not just writing that seems good because I am into bikes. But writing that is so genuinely compelling in its own right, that it has gotten me interested in topics I had otherwise been indifferent to. Here is a sampling of my favourites, by category:

Book: The Rider by Tim Krabbé. I posted a sort-of review of it last winter and it remains my favourite. It is ultimately a novel about human introspection. That just happens to also be about bicycle racing. By the end, you may not be able to separate the two.

Writer: Limiting myself to just one, I would have to say Graeme Fife. "I'm not greatly interested in results, frankly but the metaphysics and aesthetics of cycle racing excite me enormously," this man once said in an interview.

Magazine: I started reading Rouleur because it was available at the Ride Studio Cafe library and I was looking for something to leaf through with my coffee. After a couple of issues I was hooked. The articles have an unexpectedly brooding, almost dark tone to them that lured me right in. I had no idea what I was reading about half the time, but it was gorgeous, so I kept reading until it gradully began to make more sense. That's how they got me.

Blog: Red Kite Prayer. This is a roadie blog that I really have no business reading. But the entries are so thoughtful and well written that I keep checking in and finding common threads, sometimes even patches of common ground.

Blog Entry: Favourite cycling blog post of all time is a masterpiece by a girl named Beth Newell. Now, this is a girl who went from riding her first roadbike to turning track national champion in just a few years, all the while documenting it hilariously. But my favourite post of hers has little to do with cycling, and focuses instead on a student exchange trip to Hungary. So, if you're having a dull night, do yourself a favour: Pour a nice glass of wine, click here, then search for the phrase "perhaps the most traumatic story about my calves dates back age twenty" and start reading from there. You will not regret it.

Categories: books, roadcycling

It's Not About the Weather

While we wait for Hurricane Sandy to arrive, I am still finding sand caked on my bike from an earlier rainy, muddy ride. It seems that every time I have ridden this bike so far, it has rained. Of course today, on my inaugural ride with fenders, it is sunny and dry. A friend consoles me by reminding me of the approaching hurricane. Surely I will have the opportunity to test the fenders then. I take the idea seriously and begin to mentally map out a route on some local trails, before realising how utterly insane that is. When the townsfolk are stocking up on canned goods and flashlight batteries, I should probably stay indoors.

With the season marching on toward starker days, I find myself thinking of weather. As cyclists we all tend to have an idea of the "perfect weather" for riding. For some it's the height of summer. For others it's that elusive "60 degrees and sunny, with a mild breeze." A few riders I know prefer cooler temperatures, and some even claim to enjoy rain. I think for me, the biggest revelation has been that, when push comes to shove, I can feel good in almost any weather. 

After a recent post describing a rainy ride on dirt roads, a reader wrote: "It's in our nature to want to be comfortable and coddled, but you celebrate the joy of pushing yourself through rain and mud." I felt guilty reading this, because honestly I don't feel as if I am overcoming discomfort or pushing myself when I ride in those kinds of conditions. And I think that is the key to my being able to do it. The secret is to find a way of being comfortable, to just go with it and appreciate the situation for what it is, rather than spending energy on trying to overcome it. Maybe this is just a different way of looking at the same thing, but to me it makes a big difference. Rather than pushing through discomfort, I extract comfort. 

Part of it is of course practical considerations. Figuring out how to dress, eat and drink in different conditions. Over the summer I stumbled upon some tricks that enabled me to ride in heat in humidity like I'd never managed to do before. And last winter, I discovered that riding in sub-20 degree temperatures was also very doable with the help of strategic layering. But equally important is the attitude. We have to be curious, interested. We have to want the experience. 

What is my idea of perfect riding weather... Probably high 40s to low 50s, with heavily overcast skies. I feel most alive then; the raw energy in the air makes me want to ride faster, further. But in the end, it's not about the weather, but about finding comfort in whatever is thrown at me, about feeling coddled by the beauty of the surrounding landscape. 

Categories: comfort, Rawland, roadcycling, unpaved

Beautiful Beginnings

What is it about the start of these rides? The all-day rides with dirt and climbing. The rides that begin in the early hours of the morning. We should feel groggy and tense after a night of little sleep. But everything is so still and serene that we are alert and open. The air is dewy. Faces are dewy. Everyone looks beautiful in the milky fog. It is not possible to know the weather yet. Everything hovers. The plants exhale and the scent they release is so strong it is almost unnatural. Is someone wearing perfume? No, it is flowers, grass, leaves, wet earth. We relax and exhale too.

Bags bulge with provisions and spare pieces of clothing. There is a friendly look to them; happy and full. Everyone wants to know what everyone else has brought. A show and tell of contents, a peek into each other's little bag-contained world.

Steel tubes rest against shrubbery. Surrounded by foliage, they blend into the organic colour pallets, muted in the early morning light. 

Histories of bicycles are told and retold. Wonderment is expressed. Admiration is exchanged. The brand new feather-light racing bike is beautiful; we are envious. The hand-painted dump rescue with clumsy DIY braze-ons is beautiful; we are envious. Ditto for everything in between. 

As inky darkness gives way to tentative lilac daylight, we slowly feel that sense of readiness swelling up within us. If the start of the ride is timed well, it will correspond with the crescendo of that sensation.

And then, as if it is the most natural thing in the world, we will transition from a state of profound calm to a state of immediate action. No jitters, no nerves. Just a beautiful beginning.

Categories: randonneuring, roadcycling, stories, trails, unpaved

Fruitlands: a Ride of Passage

It was a remarkable day that I want to be sure to remember. Pamela must have sensed this before I did, because she offered to take a picture at the top. I didn't even know there would be an "at the top." I thought we were riding to yet another small town in the next county over. Nobody warned me it would be so beautiful.

It seems like sooner or later, every roadcyclist in Greater Boston does the ride to Harvard. Not Harvard the university half a mile from my house, but Harvard the town in central Massachusetts. Depending on the club or event, these rides are called things like "Hammer to Harvard" or "Hills of Harvard" or "the Harvard 100K." There are several routes and all involve some climbing at the end. I guess it's a rite of passage of sorts. The ride reports I'd read tended to stress the distance, pace or climbing. But Pamela's attitude was nonchalant. "I'm going to try out a new lunch spot in Harvard on Thursday, would you like to join me?" She was essentially just inviting me for a bite to eat. Well, why not. A girl's got to eat.

So here is the straight dope about the Harvard ride from a cyclist of my meager abilities: Forget milage, speed, climbing. Just forget that stuff for a second. What you need to know about this ride is that it is a gorgeous destination. You will be stunned. You will be grateful. Take one of the harder routes, take one of the easier routes, hammer, meander, ride however you like. But know that the destination is worth it. And for the love of the universe, don't stop at the Harvard General Store and turn around - you will only be cheating yourself out of a breathtaking view. Continue to Fruitlands, which is the true destination. Adjacent to the former utopian agrarian commune (now a museum) is a scenic overlook with a view of every mountain in proximity. That's six mountains!

As we lunched at the surprisingly fancy Fruitlands Cafe (patio seating with a view, pretty silverware, reasonable prices) I was almost too stunned to make conversation. Pinch me, was I dreaming? Why did nobody tell me what a glorious place this was? The land, densely forested, spread out in front of us in shades of blues and greens. There was Mt. Wachusett, a flat-top stodgy thing. And there was the Monadnock range in New Hampshire, hazy and delicate. They all seemed so close, so inviting. The special thing about this destination, I realised, is that it inspires to ride further. It turned out to be an 80 mile day for me, a distance I'd never before done so casually. And though we rode home after lunch, one day I'd like to keep going - toward and across those other mountains. 

Categories: bike friends, roadcycling

Ride Fast or Ride Far?

When I first started trying to increase the milage of my rides, I was advised to keep my average speed down on longer distances. "You can ride fast, or you can ride far," I was told. This advice seemed perfectly logical. The faster you ride, the sooner you'll get tired, right?

But my own experience stubbornly contradicted this piece of wisdom. I grew suspicious when, over the past two years, intentionally keeping my speed down only seemed to make me miserable on longer rides. So this summer I experimented. On some long rides I rode at whatever speed felt natural in the moment (whee!). On others I intentionally kept my speed in check. I felt better after the rides where I maintained a higher speed.

At first this discovery confused me. And then all at once, it made sense. The "fast or far" dichotomy fails to account for one crucial factor: time spent on the bike. Let's say you are doing a 100 mile ride. At an average rolling speed of 14mph, you will spend 7.14 hours on the bike. At an average rolling speed of 12mph, you will spend 8.33 hours on the bike. That's more than an hour of extra bike time! An entire extra hour of pedaling, of leaning forward, of gripping the handlebars, of chafing against the saddle. These things can wear you out just as much as the pedaling effort itself.

My point here is not that one should attempt a century ride with the zeal of a racer, but that it helps to look at a situation from multiple angles and to factor in your own strengths and weaknesses. As it turns out, I can ride faster than I've been giving myself credit. And as my body struggles to cope with longer times in the saddle, riding faster is getting me further. YMMV.

Categories: roadcycling, technique

Autumnal Longings

Every year I am caught off guard by the suddenness of Autumn. Winter's many false starts herald its arrival well in advance. Spring approaches with the tentativeness of a fawn. Then Summer rolls in with a lazy insistence. But Autumn just is. One day I wake up knowing that yesterday it was summer but today it is Fall, and there is no undoing it. The smell in the air is different. The light is different. The mood is different. It is done.

I cannot explain what causes the overwhelming bouts of sentimentality and nostalgia (for nothing in particular) that grip me during this season. And I am hardly alone in succumbing to this clichéd state. A film director need only show a scene of a park strewn with golden foliage, throwing in a Chopin prelude for background music, for the audience to be filled with a delicious sense of longing - for what they do not know. 

But I know what I long for when I smell that crisp scent of dry leaves and behold the slanted light. Cycling. Yes, cycling cycling cycling. And after that, cycling. Monsieurs Chopin, Satie and Tschaikovsky, ready your soundtracks: I'll be playing them in my head as imaginary background music, while cycling.

Many feel that summer is the optimal cycling season, but for me it's a sluggish time when I am just not in my best form. Not that I haven't been riding. If anything, this summer I've learned to deal with heat much better than I thought myself capable. But honestly I just wasn't enjoying cycling as much as I did over the winter and spring. In 95° heat with high humidity, my legs felt as if they were perpetually pushing through molasses. The pressure and stickiness in the air were oppressive. 

Then one morning I awoke to find the oppressiveness gone. It was still August, but no matter: Autumn was here. Sensing the ever-so-subtle change, it was as if my body snapped to attention and pulled me toward my roadbike while I struggled to focus on making coffee. On that day a friend took me up a little mountain and I hardly noticed I was climbing it until we were halfway up, so filled I was with this new energy. On that day my cycling season began. 

Categories: roadcycling, Seven, stories

The 12 Stages of Climbing Addiction

Denial...
Hey, this climb isn't so bad. What a beautiful day it is. What a pretty little mountain.

Anger...
Damn it, this thing keeps getting steeper. And it's longer than I thought. My legs are killing me already. I am in my lowest gear. This is miserable. Why am I here?

Rationalisation...
Okay, look - The computer says it’s only a 10% grade. Nothing I haven't done before. I can keep at it for a while. Okay, so now it’s a 14% grade. But it’s unlikely to be a long climb. Yes, I am sure it will end soon.

Bargaining...
If I push extra hard on this next stretch, I bet it will flatten out just around the bend. Please let it flatten out around the bend…

Acceptance...
It's not going to flatten out, is it. In fact it’s only getting steeper. I am spent. I am nauseous. My legs are done.

Crisis Intervention...
Oh my god, I need to unclip before I fall over. Now. Right now!

Action...
Click. Thump. Pant, pant.

Shame...
Great, I couldn't even make it to the top.

Re-evaluation...
Oh wait, what? Looks like I did make it to the top!

Celebration...
I’m at the top! What a pretty little mountain. What a beautiful day. What an extremely tasty banana.

Denial Redux...
Oh that climb wasn't so bad!

Addiction...
Let’s do this again?

Categories: roadcycling

Riding to the Ride

Most of the rides I take part in start on the outskirts of Boston, usually about 10 miles from my house. Since I don't have a car, naturally I ride my bike there - which means tacking on 20 miles or so to the mileage of the ride itself. A 30 mile club ride is really a 50 mile ride for me, and so on.

In the beginning I thought this put me at a disadvantage to most of the other cyclists there - who either lived nearby or arrived by car. After all, by the time the ride starts I've already cycled 10 miles, whereas the others are well-rested and full of energy. But as I kept riding and learned more about myself as a cyclist, I realised that it was quite the opposite. I am one of those riders who is slow to warm up - feeling sluggish for quite a while before suddenly waking up and getting that "I have wings!" feeling. How lucky that riding to the ride provides me with a warm up!

I've grown so used to riding my bike straight from home, that doing a couple of rides with remote starts this year was incredibly strange. It felt unnatural to load the bike into a car, and I couldn't shake the feeling I was forgetting something, my standard operating procedure for getting out the door disrupted. The remote start was the one aspect of D2R2 I didn't love, while part of the appeal of the overnight ride to Maine was starting from our neighbourhood and ending up across two state lines. Here in the Northeast we have fantastic regional events, and I am trying to decide how interested I am in those that aren't within reasonable cycling distance. ...Of course the definition of what's reasonable is subjective. Some have been known to ride to D2R2 from Boston. A 100 mile warm-up certainly beats my 10!

Categories: roadcycling

What Tan Lines?

thanks to PL for the leg modeling!

This summer I've received some emails from readers asking for suggestions on how to get rid of tan lines from bicycle shorts. The women I ride with sometimes discuss this as well. Some say they actively try to cultivate cycling tan lines, seeing them as a source of pride and part of their identity as road cyclists. Others say they dislike tan lines, because they look unflattering when wearing skirts and bathing suits. For me, it's more about the attention they generate and feeling branded: I've had stares and questions from cyclists and non-cyclists alike that I'd rather avoid.

For those who do not wish to cultivate obvious cycling tan lines, one solution is to alternate bicycle shorts of different lengths. Assuming that you are not a racer who is required to ride in a specific kit, yet ride often enough to justify owning more than one pair of shorts, this method works pretty well. I now own three pairs of shorts, each from a different manufacturer: One hits just above the knee, the other half way up the thigh, and the third somewhere in between. I make sure to rotate them, while also doing my best to regularly apply sun screen. The result is a very gradual colour-fade from the knees up instead of a harsh tan line. The leg model above is sporting a similar look, though a little more crisp than mine.

If you've already got the tan lines and need to quickly get rid of them (say, for an event), try makeup. Buy liquid makeup in a shade that matches the tanned area and apply it to the untanned part - reducing the density as you move upward. A friend of mine did this when she had to wear a short bridesmaid's dress (the bride said the tan lines would ruin her wedding photos). It works, though will smear on the underside of your hem a bit. Spray tan would also work if you need the effect to last longer, though makeup tends to look more natural. 

What's your take on tan lines from cycling shorts? Are you bothered by them, pleased by them, or does it not matter? I admit that I've identified other cyclists by their tan lines... though I try not to stare! 

Categories: clothing, roadcycling, silliness

Cycling without Fear

I talk to a lot of beginner cyclists who are afraid to ride on the road. Some try to conquer their fears by riding anyway, only to find that they end up being more afraid, not less. The proximity of the passing cars frightens them so much, that their bike handling suffers. This in turn makes them more likely to experience close calls and drivers honking at them, terrifying them even more. It becomes a vicious cycle. 

Fear is a nasty, crippling emotion. I don't mean the philosophical kind, where you are thinking "Gee I don't think I can handle this." What I mean is the visceral kind: that sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, adrenaline, heart racing, trembling, weak at the knees. It is debilitating and difficult to control. But it can be avoided.

If an aspect of cycling scares you at a strong visceral level, my suggestion would be to take it down a notch - to a point where you do not experience the fear - and work from there. If cycling on busy roads gives you panic attacks, try riding on quiet side streets exclusively, until that feels so comfortable that you are ready for the next step. If even that is too much, stick to bike paths, parks and empty lots until you are ready for side streets. If your neighbourhood has none of these things, try riding in the middle of the night or very early morning (with good lights of course). Even in a busy city, the roads will be nearly empty. Whatever it takes, find a way to ride so that you are relaxed and not in panic mode. I would apply this to every aspect of cycling - from riding for transportation, to learning new skills, to trying drop bars, clipless pedals, and riding off road. 

It's also important to understand that when we ride with friends and spouses, their level of comfort may be very different from ours. Without meaning any harm, they might coax or pressure us to do things we cannot handle. When we are ready for it, being encouraged to push ourselves can be a good thing. I've certainly received more than a couple of nudges that were helpful. But overcoming nervousness or timidity is one thing. Intense, limbs-atremble fear is not good and can affect our behaviour in unpredictable ways. It is our responsibility to know the difference.

Conquering one's fears is a worthwhile endeavor. But it takes time and there is more than one way to approach it. In my experience, those who find cycling more frightening than enjoyable, stop cycling. Therefore, I suggest sticking to riding in a way that feels fun and avoiding riding in a way that feels terrifying. Cycling should be a positive experience.

Categories: beginners, roadcycling, technique, transportation options, urban cycling

Burnout

It used to surprise me when cyclists talked about burnout. Oh no, it could never happen to me. Cycling is my refuge. I need it. I crave it. But of course, that's just the thing: When we feel that way about something, we want to do a whole lot of it. And when we do a whole lot of something, it is possible to overdo it - to burn out.

It's happened to me three times so far. Each case was fairly minor, but felt catastrophic at the time. To look at my bike and not want to ride is a dreadful feeling. What if I never want to ride again? I cannot continue that train of thought. 

The first two times it happened were nearly identical. They were working vacation type of situations at the end of summers 2010 and 2011. I could only take one bike with me - a bike that would be used for everything from recreational rides, to commuting, to hauling equipment. I took the touring bike I owned at the time. Diamond frame, drop bars, racks, bags. Technically speaking, it did everything I needed it to do - from metric centuries to schlepping equipment back and forth over hills to riding through dense in-town traffic. But after a couple of weeks of this... It's hard to describe the feeling, but it was as if cycling felt heavy and tedious instead of light and liberating. I didn't want to look at drop bars or a diamond frame again. I didn't want to ride up hills with heavy bags again. It was just too much, I was sick of bikes! This state of mind lasted no more than a few weeks, but still it was horrible. After the second time I vowed not to repeat whatever had caused me to feel this way. Clearly riding a loaded touring bike long distances is not something I enjoy. Commuting on a diamond frame bike with drop bars is not something I enjoy. Combining the two, day after day, for weeks, is not a great idea. Lesson learned.

But then it happened a third time, and it was entirely different. Roadcycling. In retrospect I was probably pushing myself too close to my limits, but whatever warning signs there were I missed them. One day I was on an ecstatic high after yet another draining ride, and the next day I suddenly crashed, emotionally - exhausted not so much from the riding itself, as from being in pain every single day and realising that it would never, ever get easier. Suddenly the eagerness to ride just was not there, and in its place was depletion. I know, I could have used self-motivation tactics. But that is not how I view cycling. It should not get to the point where I need to motivate myself to ride. If it does, I don't ride. And so I didn't: For an entire two weeks. Then the sense of depletion left as suddenly as it had set in and I was back on the bike. But the experience changed me; I am more cautious now. How far is it safe to push myself without this horrible thing happening again? This is always in the back of my mind.

When cyclists talk about dealing with burnout, it is mostly about prevention. Some try to identify what it is that makes them overdo it, so that they know what to watch out for. Others take intentional breaks from cycling altogether. Once the burnout sets in, the solution is less clear. For me, focusing on a different type of cycling and/or bike does the trick - that and trying to remind myself that it's just a temporary state! 

Categories: roadcycling

When Spouses Worry About Cyclists

I get a fair number of questions from readers - and, interestingly, only heterosexual men so far - asking for advice on how to deal with spouses worrying about them cycling. Some describe situations where wives implore them not to go on club rides, or are against them riding for transportation. Other stories are less dramatic, but nonetheless involve an overabundance of spousal distress that in turn makes the cyclist feel guilty. Doesn't my husband worry, they ask? What do I say to ease his mind? 

Of course my situation is different, in that my husband is himself a cyclist. His understanding of what riding a bicycle entails is based on reality and not on the negative portrayals of it in the media. Still he does worry about me at times, especially when I go off with riders whose speed and skills far exceed my own. He deals with his concerns by asking me questions and trying to gauge how prepared I am for the ride and how well I myself understand the risks. And I admit that I worry about him too. While he rides considerably fewer miles than I do, I would describe him as more of a risk-taker. If he is late coming home from work, I worry. 

It could be that this is the essence of spousal worry: Perceptions of risk. Do wives tend to perceive their husbands as risk-takers more so than the other way around? It would explain why I never hear from women complaining that their husbands worry too much. It could also be that, for whatever reason, female cyclists are more likely to have spouses who also ride bikes. 

Either way, unfortunately I am not certain what to suggest here. You could reason with your spouse using statistics, descriptions of how safe your route is and how careful you are - but when fears are irrational this does not always work. Attempts to get your spouse into cycling could do the trick, but could also backfire if they try it and find it frightening. Showing them entertaining materials (films, books, pictures, blogs?) that depict cycling as safe and fun could be a way to go, but how exactly this could be implemented is not clear to me. 

While we all want to be free to do as we like, we also don't want to drive our loved ones sick with concern for our safety. It would be good to hear from readers who've gone through this type of situation and resolved it successfully. 

Categories: Co-Habitant, roadcycling, safety, traffic, transportation options

Dream States

My first cycling dreams were vague and atmospheric. When I rode along the Danube in the Austrian countryside, I would re-experience these rides in my sleep constantly. It was mostly the scenery and the light I would dream of. That backlit look as the day fades into evening, the shimmering water, the aspens and the wild flowers swaying in the breeze. The rides themselves resembled dream states, with their improbably long sunsets and no clear end or beginning to the winding Danube trail. Fading peals of laughter from party boats, the clanking of dishes in the back yards of houses I would cycle past. The sounds trailed off, almost ghostly. It would slowly grow dark as I pedaled and pedaled and pedaled. When I remember one of these rides now, I cannot be sure whether it is the actual ride or the dream I am remembering.

Riding for transportation in Boston, cycling disappeared from my dreams for some time. The few I remember are short, anxiety-filled re-enactments of close calls - I'd wake up with a sinking feeling in my stomach from a car having cut me off or passed too closely. In waking life I experienced no fear or nervousness when riding in traffic, but it must have been there on some level - what I would not acknowledge in my conscious state surfacing in dreams.

Later it was roadcycling that populated my dreamworld. Like an animal moving its paws in its sleep, I would pedal with my legs and shift gears with my fingers. The novel sensations of ergo levers played a starring role for some time. My fingers just wanted to keep using them even after the ride was over and I was fast asleep. Tap-tap-tap... spin-spin-spin... thumb press, thumb press!... spin-spin-spin! It was mostly just the motions and the speed I remember dreaming about, the anticipation of downhills. There was also a magical effortlessness to it that did not exist in real life. In my dreams, my legs never hurt and I cornered elegantly. Tap-tap-tap, spin-spin-spin! It could go on forever, just like that. 

A late winter ride to Lost Lake led to a bicycling dream of cinematic proportions. In a small group we had ridden through the snow covered landscape of central Massachusetts, a route that culminated in a dramatic course of rolling hills. The combination of the stunning winter scenery and the sensation of the ride itself must have overwhelmed my impressionable mind. That night I dreamt of Pamela Blalock standing atop an icy mountain, her long platinum braid fluttering in the brutal wind. She pointed at something in the distance, and when I looked in that direction suddenly it was I who was there, along with Dina, Emily and Pamela herself. We were riding what I first thought were horses but turned out to be huge bicycles made of a rusty, coppery material. Later I recognised them to be life-sized versions of some of the wire sculptures I'd seen at Pamela's house, but in the dream this was not apparent. Weightlessly we pedaled up a steep, narrow road in a blizzard, and just as we crested the hill we saw that the pavement ahead had turned to ice. No longer in a procession, we were now side by side and our bicycles tied together with rope. With incredible speed, we slid down the endless winding hill like some giant 8-wheeled chariot. I let out an excited scream, but it was so cold that I made no sound.

Other dreams of cycling followed - rehashing the day's events, playing out fantastical narratives, expressing anxieties. Before embarking on an overnight ride to Maine, I dreamt that my dynamo light was not working and that I couldn't shift gears uphill. After the ride, I dreamt of cycling endlessly along the coastal saltwater marshes in the dark. I had a handlebar bag full of tiny fresh bagels. I took out a notepad and wrote a letter to a friend on the side of the road, then dropped it in a mailbox and kept riding. I do not remember what I wrote or to whom. The night was warm and dark, only the outlines of trees discernible in the distance. Morning never came. When I reached the Canadian border, the guard was expecting me and gave me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I kept pedaling. That was the last bicycling dream I remember.

Categories: roadcycling, stories

Rando Bikes in Use: Boston Edition

When I post pictures of bicycles belonging to cyclists I know, I often receive surprised comments from readers in other parts of the country: How representative are these bikes of what the locals are really riding? The lugs, the refurbished vintage frames, the custom builders, the handlebar bags, the leather saddles... My posts imply that these are typical, yet they are far from the norm today. One sentiment in particular has been repeated and it stuck on my mind: "At real randonneuring events, everyone is riding carbon fiber." That may very well be true, I thought - having never been to a sanctioned randonneuring event.

However that has now changed, as I've just returned from working support at a New England Randonneurs 600K brevet. More on that after I get some sleep, but for now I present to you a tally of the bikes that were ridden in the event. Among the 11 machines at the start, there were: two Rivendells, a Rawland, a refurbished vintage Mercier, a Bianchi Volpe, a titanium Seven, a titanium Lynskey, a luggged carbon fiber Colonago, a carbon fiber Trek, and 2 carbon fiber Specialized. 

All of the bicycles present sported dynamo lighting, usually supplemented with additional battery lights. 

About half of the bicycles were equipped with some sort of handlebar bag, including several of the classic randonneuring varitety, supported by front racks.

Full coverage fenders, classic saddlebags and leather saddles were also well represented.

The aesthetic highlight for me was the elegant black bike with a "Jean-Pierre Danguillaume" decal - made in the 1970s by Mercier (a French manufacturer not to be confused with the English Mercian). 

As I understand it, the bike belonged to the rider's father and sat dormant for decades until he - the son - refurbished it to use as a brevet bike. 

It is now fitted with modern components, lightweight racks, dynamo lighting and a handlebar bag. The owner also managed to wrangle in wide fenders and tires - an admirable accomplishment, if you have a look at the clearances.

The double top tube Rivendell Homer Hilsen was probably the most unexpected bike there for me. While Rivendell did not invent the "2TT" concept (heavy-duty Dutch bikes and Roadsters are often built with double top tubes), it is surprising to see this construction on a roadbike. 

The second Rivendell present was an older Rambouillet model that happened to be exactly my size.

The more I examined this bike, the more I liked it: Great proportions, roadish geometry, 26" wheels. No toe overlap, even with wide tires and fenders, and fairly lightweight. I wish they hadn't discontinued this model.

I had not seen a Lynskey bicycle in person before, so that was interesting.

Though titanium, it looks distinctly different from the Sevens I am used to seeing around here. This bike sported a minimalist randonneur setup: small handlebar bag, saddle wedge, dynamo lights, no fenders. 

The carbon fiber bikes employed a similar strategy.

Other bicycles were decidedly less minimalist. The Rawland was the only one of the bunch I had seen before, and the owner typically has it equipped ready for anything. 

Overall, what I saw on the 600K brevet reflected the types of bicycles I generally encounter when out riding around Greater Boston. While minimalist carbon fiber is common, equally common around these parts are classic steel bicycles set up with traditional racks and bags. If I had to say what the randonneuring bikes had in common, it's that - regardless of their weight, accessories, and style of construction - they were all modified in some unusual way by their owners; they were all just a tad more eccentric than your typical roadbike. When I mentioned this to one of the randonneurs over the weekend, he nodded approvingly - expertly stuffing a turkey and Nutella sandwich into the pocket of his handlebar bag: "Riding with these crazies will do that to you!"

So, what is it like where you live? I am sure there are regional differences in what kind of bicycles dominate these types of events. You might also be interested in this 2007 survey of the bicycles ridden in Paris-Brest-Paris.

Categories: Boston, randonneuring, roadcycling

Dynamo Lighting Kit for Roadbikes

While I am generally a huge fan of dynamo lighting, I do not have it installed on what is currently my only roadbike. My plans for the bike did not involve significant amounts of night-time cycling; it was not meant to be a touring or randonneuring bike. For occasional riding in the dark I do have an excellent rechargeable battery headlight that lasts for hours and attaches easily to the handlebars. And I have an equally good tail light that attaches to the back of my saddle wedge tool bag. To install a dynamo hub wheel and lights on this bike would have added unnecessary weight and expense to the build.

I felt pretty good about my bike's lighting setup until I found myself wanting to join an overnight ride. Initially I thought that my super duper rechargeable battery headlight would last through the night. But when I did the math it became clear that it would not; I would need to add a second headlight and to bring several sets of spare batteries. Even at the height of summer an overnight ride in New England means 8+ hours of riding in the dark - and not the kind of milky suburban dark where you can leave the light on a low setting to conserve battery life; proper boonies dark that requires a powerful headbeam. I talked to the others doing the ride, and they all had dynamo lights. Now I felt foolish for not having a bike with appropriate lighting. But at the same time, how often would I do rides like this? 

I was discussing this with local cyclist Pamela Blalock and she offered to lend me her mobile dynamo setup: a spare front wheel with a dynamo hub, and lights that are easy to attach and remove. With this kit, she can turn any 700C wheeled roadbike into an overnight bike. Extremely grateful to Pamela for the offer, frankly I was also skeptical that it would work out. To me, dynamo lighting was something that gets permanently installed - not attached and removed on a case by case basis! Furthermore, my bike has no fenders, no racks, no braze-ons. Could the lights be attached securely? I was worried that the installation process would be tricky, and that in the end something would end up falling off, disconnecting, or malfunctioning. 

To my amazement, the installation process took mere minutes. The front wheel switch was seamless and soon my bike was sporting a dynamo hub. Then the headlight was attached to the brake bolt, as shown in the first picture. A thin cable runs straight down from the headlight to the hub, easily secured to the fork with a piece of tape.

For the tail light, a P-clamp was installed on the left chainstay. The wiring got routed along the chainstay and the top tube, secured with zip ties to the brake cable. The result was not beautiful, but neither was it flimsy. It was secure and problem-free. The positioning of the headlight and tail light beams were spot on. 

Later I learned that other local cyclists employ a similar system for when they ride in the dark - a dynamo hub wheel and lights that get moved from bike to bike as needed. I would not have thought this to be a good idea until I tried it myself and experienced how easy and hassle-free it was. On a dedicated randonneuring or touring bike, it makes sense to have dynamo lighting permanently installed in a more elegant manner. But for those who want the option of using their pared-down roadbike for occasional night time riding, a kit like this can be a good solution. Pamela's setup includes a 32 spoke Velocity Aerohead wheel built around a Schmidt SON hub, a Lumotec Cyo IQ headlight and a Spanniga Pixeo tail light - though many alternatives exist. 

At least here in New England, there seems to be an increasing amount of cross-over between road racing, randonneuring, endurance events, and casual long distance rides. And this cross-over is influencing how roadbikes are defined and equipped. I am still unsure what kind of cycling I will ultimately gravitate toward. But if more night time rides are in my future, a versatile dynamo setup like this is certainly worth considering.

Categories: lights, night time cycling, roadcycling, Seven