How Slow Can You Go?

In cycling, some associate skill and experience with being able to go fast. But going slow - and I mean really slow, like walking pace - can be even more difficult. When I first began riding as an adult, I could not keep my bike upright at super-slow speeds. I remember that the steering was hard to control; I'd end up losing my balance and having to stop. Even a couple of years down the road, it was easier to ride at 20mph than at 2mph. But finally I got the hang of it, and today I am able to ride at walking speed with no trouble at all. 

Looking back on this, I would say that slow cycling is one of the most useful bicycling skills I have picked up so far. Here are just some of the practical applications I've noticed over the years:

Wobble-free starting

When I talk to novices about cycling for transportation, a common theme that comes up is the fear of swerving into traffic when starting from a stop at a light. You can see it in the city: When some riders push off from a stop, the front end of their bike will wobble before they gain sufficient momentum to proceed in a straight line. Now, some bikes are easier to balance at slow speeds than others, but with sufficient skill even a twitchy bike can be ridden at walking speed wobble-free, eliminating this anxiety. 

Navigating traffic 

Riding in the city can be all about stop and go traffic. Being able to cycle slowly while maintaining full control of the bike makes this easier to handle, allowing the cyclist to maintain momentum and to travel more efficiently. Particularly useful is what I think of as "hovering." This is a practice that is somewhere between trackstanding and riding at walking pace. It comes in handy when inching your way forward in a line of stopped cars, changing lanes in dense traffic, waiting to turn left at an intersection, or proceeding in ambiguous right of way situations. It is much easier to both show your intent and accelerate from a position of hovering than it is from a stopped position. 

Safe MUP sharing

It used to drive me nuts to ride on crowded mixed use paths. Finding it stressful to navigate around hordes of unpredictable pedestrians, I would simply avoid MUPs during peak hours. But the greenways around here are quite scenic and can be relaxing if riding slowly is not an issue. The same "hovering" skill I find useful in road traffic works just as well for meandering amidst joggers and dog walkers. 

Riding on dirt and uneven surfaces

Cycling through muddy, rocky and otherwise challenging terrain can reduce a bike's speed considerably. Yet keeping your balance and being able to steer the bike precisely is more important than ever in those conditions. My new-found enjoyment of unpaved riding has much to do with improved slow cycling skills.

Thinking back to how I finally learned all of this, two distinct experiences come to mind. First, riding fixed gear. I remember vividly how the fixed drivetrain made me feel dramatically more in control of the bike at slow speeds. No one was there to instruct me; it was as if the bike itself was teaching me. And after getting my body used to balancing on the fixed bike that way, some of that eventually transferred over to freewheel bikes. 

But the real change was a result of instructional paceline rides. These rides taught me a number of useful techniques, including how to maintain continuous pedaling and consistent cadence regardless of speed. To ride slowly, we were instructed to switch into a low gear while pedaling and feathering the brakes, instead of coasting. This taught me to maneuver the bike smoothly, to control my speed with precision, and to stay stable even when moving at a crawl. Somehow pedaling made all of this easier and reprogrammed my body to balance with the bike. Almost immediately, I saw major improvements in my everyday bike handling skills.

If fixed gear bikes and paceline rides are not for you, one thing you could try is this: When out riding, pay attention to your pedaling. To slow down, try switching into a low gear while pedaling continuously, instead of coasting while pedaling in a high gear occasionally. To slow down even more, feather the brakes while continuing to pedal. Try to go slower and slower using this technique. Gradually your body will learn to maneuver the bike at slow speeds, whether pedaling or coasting. Learning to ride slowly transformed me as a cyclist; it is a skill I highly recommend picking up.

Categories: beginners, technique

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

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

Clipless Miracle

Yes, it's a miracle. I have finally learned to ride clipless. It was almost anti-climactic really, considering the failures that have characterised my previous attempts.

For the past two years I have been riding roadbikes with Power Grips and could not master clipless pedals. Finally I had a fitting session where I started from scratch and tried several different systems. The Crankbrothers felt the least terrifying. Determined to finally learn how to do this, I ordered pedals and shoes from the Ride Studio Cafe. They arrived, and yesterday I went to get them installed.

Strapping an empty saddlebag to my bicycle in which I would later carry my sneakers and old pedals, I expected things to go like this: I would get the pedals and cleats set up, practice riding on the nearby Minuteman Trail, then change back into my street shoes to ride the rest of the way home in traffic. I would then practice every day on a quiet street in the neighborhood until I felt ready to go on a real ride.

Instead what happened was this: We got the pedals and cleats set up. I clipped in and rode home without incident, including the last portion through traffic. I guess there is no need to practice on a quiet street at this point.

The main difference between this experience and my previous attempts was the lack of anxiety. Unclipping from these pedals is so gentle and intuitive, that I am not afraid of getting trapped in them. And I think overcoming this fear was really 90% of the battle for me. Some complain that Crankbrothers pedals require that you twist your foot too much in order to unclip (15-20° release angle, depending on how you set them up), but this does not bother me. The important thing is that the release itself is easy. Putting my foot down at a stop is not any more difficult or scary than with my Power Grips.

I do need some practice clipping in. The right cleat goes in quickly, but for some reason I fumble a lot with the left one. I'm sure I'll get quicker at it; I just have to not be lazy and practice by intentionally clipping and unclipping my left foot when riding the bike.

I will write more about the shoes and pedals once I gain some experience with them; I don't want to speak too soon. I am just ridiculously happy that I finally did this.

The entire way down the Minuteman Trail I had an altered version of Ice Cube's "You Can Do It" playing in my head, with all the trees and flowers sexily swaying to the beat...

You can do it, clip you shoe inTO it!...
You can do it like there's nothing to it!...

Oh yeah.

The end.

Categories: clipless, roadcycling, technique

How We Ride

To the delight of some and eye-rolling of others, during the first year or two of this blog I referred to riding a bike recreationally as "sporty cycling." What a funny term. Why not just call it roadcycling? Well, because it's not! Roadcycling evokes associations that I felt were not appropriate to the kind of riding I did at the time - or in fact to the kind of riding most people who just want to ride a bike for exercise are drawn to. Roadcycling is its own world, with what I consider to be pretty rigid parameters. There are assumptions about equipment, positioning on the bike, speed, and even style, that are pretty much unspoken pre-requisites no matter how friendly and open the people are. Whether described as "social rides" or "training rides," it is still a fairly specific type of riding that assumes performance-optimised equipment, advanced handling skills, and the ability to maintain what most would consider a high minimum speed. And there is nothing wrong with any of this. Except that not everyone wants, or needs to ride like that. To ultimately be on a bike with dropbars, keeping up with the local roadies, need not be an end goal. Some might truly enjoy riding an upright bike at their own pace, without feeling the need to "advance to the next level." The very idea of advancing - of cycling in order to get faster, stronger - is part of the roadcycling discourse and& need not influence those outside of it.

In May 2009, just a couple of months after I touched a bike for the first time in 13 years, I rode my first 50 miles. I was living in Vienna at the time and riding around on an upright hybrid rental, up and down a short stretch of the Danube bicycle path outside of town after work. Then one Saturday, I just kept going and before I knew it I did 85km - which I hadn't even realised until I looked at the map of the area I covered later; I just knew it felt like "a lot." How fast did I go? No idea. What was my nutritional plan? None. What did I wear? A cotton tunic, leggings and sneakers. Did I look like a complete dork, puffing away on my inefficient hybrid with suspension fork, saddle too low and handlebars too high, my loose sweat-stained top billowing in the wind? To a roadcyclist, maybe. But to a regular person? I just looked like a person doing a long bike ride.

I do not know why, over the years, I have grown attracted to roadcycling and do in fact now want to get faster, stronger, to "advance." I enjoy it and do not regret the transition. But at the same time, I maintain that it is absolutely not necessary to ride a bike in this manner. Last October I was back in Vienna and did a 100 mile ride along the same route I rode in 2009. Again, on an upright bike in regular clothing, with no training in the weeks leading up to it and no nutritional plan. I thought that maybe that kind of ride would be boring for me at this stage, but it wasn't at all. It was just different. A different frame of mind, a different style of riding. I went slowly and didn't worry. It was not about performance or timing. I was just a person, going kind of far on a bike.

Now and again I get emails from readers who are genuinely upset because they can't seem to transition from an upright step-through or mixte to a roadbike with drop bars. The local cycling clubs only cater to the latter. Their spouse rides a roadbike. They feel left out. But the more I think about it, the more I realise it just doesn't make sense to give up the sort of bike you are perfectly happy with because of some misguided notion that you "should" be riding a roadbike if you're serious about cycling. I do wish there were more bicycle clubs that catered to casual cycling, where people on hybrids and upright 3-speeds and mixtes could feel at home and within their comfort zone. I also think there is a difference between casual cycling and casual cyclists. You can be a serious, committed cyclist and ride casually. This distinction is not often acknowledged.

Roadcycling is not the only valid form of recreational or sporty cycling. There are so many ways to ride a bike, and there is no right or wrong way as far as I am concerned. How we ride depends on us alone.

Categories: mixte, roadcycling, technique

Navigating the World of Clipless Pedals

Last summer I wrote about trying to ride clipless and failing. Unfortunately, not much has changed since then. For background, I do ride my roadbike with foot retention: I use Power Grips, adjusted as snugly as possible. They bind my feet to the pedals effectively while still being extremely easy to get out of. Sure, they don't exactly look "pro," but they get the job done and anyone who thinks otherwise has probably never tried them. Still, it bothers me that I just can't master riding clipless after all this time, while others have no trouble with this skill at all. This year I was determined to get to the bottom of what makes it so hard for me. 

My first step was to start from scratch. Last year, the Co-Habitant gave me his old clipless pedals (Shimano M520) and I used those by default. I got as far as being able to ride around the block gingerly, but ultimately just wasn't comfortable with it. Later more than a couple of women told me that they hate these pedals and cannot use them either, and that what I should really do is go to a bike shop and try as many different pedals as possible. I didn't know you could do that, but apparently some bike shops offer this service. Since I spend a lot of time at the Ride Studio Cafe as it is, I arranged with them for a fitting. They have a trainer in the back room where you can set up either your own bike or one of their demo bikes, and they have a variety of clipless shoes and pedals to try.

To ride clipless, you have to buy a set of pedals, which are sold with cleats, and a pair of compatible shoes. The cleats that are purchased with the pedals are then attached to the shoes. There are many brands of these pedal/cleat systems, and they are generally classified into road (SPD-SL) vs mountain (SPD) - a little misleading, since in practice both are frequently used by roadcyclists. The mountain bike system (left) features small cleats with 2 attachment points. Notice also that on the shoe, the part where the cleat goes is recessed, so that when off the bike you walk on the sole and not on the cleat itself. The road system (right) features larger cleats with 3 (or 4) attachment points. And the shoe is not recessed, so that when off the bike you actually walk on the cleat (this is why roadies make those click-clacking noises on pavement). As it is explained to me, the benefit of the road system is that more of your foot is attached to the pedal. The benefit of the mountain system is that it is easier to walk off the bike. 

Popular road-compatible systems include Look, Shimano, Time and Speedplay, all shown here. The former 3 are near-identical, but the Speedplays (the smaller pedal on top) are a little different in shape and attachment style (also they are double-sided, whereas the other road pedals are one-sided). I did not bother trying these, because nearly everyone I know who uses them seems to have problems. But I tried the Shimano and Look SPD-SL, and I liked them both. The clipping mechanism felt very different than that of the (SPD) Shimano M520s I was practicing with last year. For me at least, it felt much easier to clip and unclip with the road pedals; the mechanism did not feel clunky or death-grippy. With the SPD cleats last year, even on the weakest setting I felt as if I were stomping on the pedal with all my might to clip in and jerking the bike sideways in order to unclip. With the road system, the mechanism on the pedal felt as if it grabbed the cleat without much effort on my part, and I could also unclip fairly easily. On the downside, I found the road shoes slippery to walk in, which made me nervous. A number of people I ride with discouraged me from going with the road system for this very reason.

Having already tried the typical Shimano SPDs and determined that I did not like them as much as the SPD-SL, the one system left to try was Crank Brothers. This is technically a mountain bike system, and the cleat looks very similar to SPD cleats. However, the pedals are 4-sided and use a different mechanism. I had hope for these pedals, because those who use them report that they are very easy to clip in and out of compared to the other mountain systems. I tried them, and I agree. The mechanism engages and releases very easily, and I know that I will be able to practice with these without the "what if I can't unclip?!" anxiety. The model pictured here is the Egg Beaters, but I ordered the Candys - which are the same, except with a platform. I wanted the platform version, because I do not like the feel of tiny pedals and want more support for my foot. I think the platform will also make it easier for my foot to locate the binding mechanism, before that part becomes intuitive.

It is yet to be determined whether I'll be able to master clipless, but I have a feeling that if I can do it at all then I'll be able to do it with these Crank Brothers. My biggest problem so far has been fear over the effort of unclipping, which should no longer be an issue with these. I will keep you posted on future progress or lack thereof. But for any beginners reading this, I encourage you to visit a bike shop that specialises in this stuff and talk to them, try different pedal/cleat combinations and see how they feel - as opposed to struggling with a system just because a spouse or a friend uses it. 

Categories: beginners, clipless, local bike shops, roadcycling, technique

Road to Trail: Speed, Skills and Bikes

Among the people I ride with it is popular to mix stretches of dirt roads, paths and trails into what are otherwise fast road rides (well, they call the rides "social pace," but there is a certain level you have to reach in order to be social at that pace!). At first I would only join the rides that promised not to do any off-road whatsoever, but now I am gradually starting to ease into riding stretches of dirt trails.

Doing this in the company of experienced cyclists has given me a different perspective than riding in similar terrain alone. The biggest difference is that they go fast, whereas on my own I used to see cycling off road as something to be done cautiously and slowly. Now I am noticing that going fast can actually make things easier. Riding on rock-strewn dirt and gravel requires more effort and lower gearing than riding on pavement, particularly when going uphill. Ride too slowly, and the bike can get bogged down. But maintain speed, and the momentum "carries" the bike through sections that might otherwise seem difficult or scary. It's counterintuitive for a beginner, because the natural inclination is to slow down if the terrain gets challenging. And this is where riding with a group is helpful: following their pace means quickly learning the "faster is easier" lesson through experience. Of course part of it is also psychological. When I am focused on trying to keep up with the group, I don't really have the opportunity to worry about every single ditch and rock and root formation - my instincts kick in and somehow I end up riding through sections I would have considered too challenging if given a chance to think.

As far as skills, I am finding once again (as I did with roadcycling earlier) that I improve quickly with others and very slowly, if at all, on my own. I've ridden on dirt trails before, but now I feel that all those rides taken together did nothing for me compared to the single stretch of off-road I did as part of a ride last weekend. It wasn't a long section, but it had a bit of everything that terrifies me: ditches, rocks, mud, a bit of climbing and descending, even a tad of residual snow and ice. We rode through it quickly, and afterward I suddenly felt like I "got it," whereas on all of my slow and cautious lone rides previously I wasn't really getting it at all.

It seems to me that a good bike for transitioning from road to trails and back needs to be fast, light, responsive, and ideally to have wide tires. Last year I would probably have started with "wide tires" and listed everything else as optional, but recent experience makes me reconsider. I have found it easier to "push" a faster, lighter bike through dirt, especially uphill, than a slower and heavier one. And I have found it easier to avoid obstacles on a quick-responding bike than on a stable but sluggish one. And while wide tires would make things better still, it seems to me that those other factors are crucial.

My impression is that for a while there was a tendency in the bicycle industry to associate wide tires with more relaxed, heavier and slower touring-style bikes - the reasoning being that if you want wide tires, you probably do not need to go fast. Therefore, it was difficult to find bicycles that both had clearance for tires over 25mm and were sufficiently fast and aggressive. That began to change with the rising popularity of cyclocross, and with people like Jan Heine reviving interest in the classic randonneuring bicycle. Races and other competitive events with both road and dirt sections have become more mainstream over the past several years as well. I am not sure whether in the long run any of this will be relevant to me, but it is an interesting development. More builders and manufacturers are starting to specialise in fast road-to-trail bikes, and locally this type of riding seems to be all the rage. Whether I have what it takes to take part in it remains to be determined.

Categories: beginners, bicycle industry, technique, trails, unpaved

Riding a Coaster Brake-Only Bike

I like coaster brakes on city bikes and I am very comfortable using them. My preferred transportation bike set-up is to have a coaster brake in the rear and a hand-operated hub or rim brake in the front. Typically I use just the coaster brake most of the time, employing the hand-operated front brake to keep the bike still when coming to a complete stop or to supplement the coaster when braking at high speeds. The role my front brake plays in these scenarios is small, but crucial - which I realise more than ever when riding the coaster brake-only Sogreni I picked up last week. 

Slowing down on the coaster brake-only bike is exactly the same as on my own bikes - I'd be using the coaster brake alone for this anyhow. But coming to a complete stop and keeping the bike still when stopped is trickier without a front brake. The main thing I've had to learn is not to ease up on the coaster brake when stopping as I normally do, but to continue pushing back on the pedal with the right foot firmly even as I put the left toe down at a stop. If I ease up the pressure on the right pedal, the bike will keep rolling forward. Coming to a complete stop on a downhill is trickier still, because the bike really, really wants to roll forward and my right foot has to push back with all the force I can muster. Squeezing a front lever is much easier in this context.

Stop-and-go traffic presents its own challenge, because a coaster brake can only be engaged effectively from certain crank positions. There is also the transition from having the right crank in the optimal braking position (previous 2 pictures) to having it in the starting position. To transition to the starting position from the braking position, I quickly hook my right foot under the pedal and move it forward as I push off to get started. But once the pedal is in the starting position, what if I then have to immediately stop again? Inching forward in traffic is tricky, because it is difficult to keep the pedals in a position where I can both stop and get the bike started again with equal immediacy.

Finally, there is the question of speed. When going over 13mph or so, I find that I cannot brake as well as I'd like with just the coaster brake alone. The coaster brake is enough to slow down, but for an emergency stop at that speed I need a front brake to supplement.

Riding a coaster brake-only bike is certainly possible, but in a city like Boston I feel that it is safer to also have a front hand-operated brake. The motivation behind bikes without front brakes today seems to be the "clean handlebars" look, which has always baffled me. I fail to see what is so gorgeous about not having a brake lever on my handlebars, when that brake performs an obvious and necessary function. 

Categories: coaster brake, Sogreni, technique

Passion and Mediocrity

Prior to my interest in bicycles, I seldom seriously pursued activities that I wasn't good at. Mostly this was because I did not enjoy them. I always hated mathematics, chemistry and physics in school - subjects I was bad at, while I loved literature, history and art - subjects I was good at. Playing most sports was living hell, whereas performing in plays was exhilarating. Once in a while it would happen that I was good at something, but did not enjoy it: chess, tennis, leadership roles, jobs involving sales. But it almost never happened that I enjoyed something I was bad at. Doing something that we cannot do well is discouraging, embarrassing, and literally painful in the case of sports. Even if we like the idea of the activity, it is difficult to enjoy actually performing it, when all it does is highlight our weaknesses and make us experience failure again and again.

As a teenager I fell in love with Chopin, and got it into my head that I had to learn how to play piano or life was not worth living. So I learned. For a late starter (I began at age 15), I wasn't bad. My teacher said that my ability to communicate emotion was ahead of my technique - which she meant as encouragement, since in her view the emotional part was more difficult. But I was terribly disappointed in myself. The more I practiced, the more aware I became of my technical limitations. I was sloppy, my fingers were not flexible enough, and I could not grasp music theory. For my 2nd year recital my teacher agreed to help me prepare two beautiful pieces that I had no business playing: Chopin's Prelude in E-minor and Tschaikovsky's Autumn. As far as "serious" music, these pieces are not difficult. But still to play them well required experience I did not have. I made no blatant mistakes. But I just didn't have sufficient control over my hands for the more nuanced passages and as I played in the recital I felt this acutely. The parents in the audience were thoroughly impressed by my performance. But after the recital one of the guest instructors approached and shook his finger at me: "Young lady, that was beautiful. But you should not be playing those pieces until your technique improves." And as he spoke, I knew that I did not have it in me: that I would never improve beyond mediocrity and would never be truly good enough for these pieces, no matter how much I slaved over the keyboard. I could use my ability to play "emotionally" to mask poor technique, but I would feel like a fraud. It was painful to be aware of this and my personality was not strong enough to withstand it. I quit piano within a year and took this as a lesson to save my energy for things I could truly excel at. Piano would never be one of them.

And, of course, neither would skating. No matter how much I loved watching the figure skaters on television and wished to be one of them in my younger years, it seemed stupid to waste my time to pursue something where my natural ability was so far below average. Yet now something's changed, and I find myself putting my self-esteem to the test at local skating rinks - shuffling around like an injured duckling as others around me execute graceful spins, jumps, and other displays of skill. The Co-Habitant tried to skate a week ago, and turned out to be a natural. Others too get on the ice for the first time in their lives, and after a half hour they are already gliding easily. Clearly I am a special case of ineptitude when it comes to skating. I am trying to decide how this makes me feel, and oddly it's not too bad. I am not even embarrassed, I just accept it. I also accept that even if I throw myself into learning how to skate with an obsessive passion, the end result of my dedication and hard work will be mediocrity, at best. Maybe I am older now and my ego can take it, because knowing this feels okay: I want to learn how to glide smoothly, how to turn, and how to stop without falling, and maybe if I am lucky, to eventually execute a leg lift like the girl in the picture. Those are my meager aspirations, and somehow they seem worthwhile despite the fact that I will likely have to work 10 times as hard as "normal" people to achieve them. 

Watching the figure skaters practice at the Skating Club of Boston reminds me of my first visit to the Velodrome in Vienna. Seeing how unattainable the track cyclists' level of skill was for someone like me did not put me off road and fixed gear cycling. I realised then that I saw value in pursuing cycling as a sport independent of my ability to succeed in it. It was good for my character to have to work hard at something I loved, even if it yielded disappointing results, rather than to accept praise for being "talented" at things I was naturally good at. Talent, after all, is not an achievement - it is simply there. 

My pursuit of cycling over the past 3 years - starting from a place where I didn't know how to turn other than using the handlebars and needed to have both feet flat on the ground while in the saddle - has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. This may seem ludicrous to those who know me in person in light of my other "achievements" and life experiences. Nevertheless, my passion for this activity that I am at best mediocre at, has taught me more about myself than I probably wanted to know. It broke down some of my defenses that kept me from understanding my true goals in life and it has made me more comfortable with myself overall.

It is hard to say whether, generally speaking, there is value in pursuing things we are bad at. Sure, we can make the argument that facing one's limitations and attempting to work through them - whether successfully or not - builds character. But we can also make the argument that it is more worthwhile to pursue the things we are good at, in the hopes of achieving true excellence - which could benefit not only ourselves, but in some cases society as a whole. In the end it is about the individual's life journey. During mine I found that passion and mediocrity can co-exist.  

Categories: social commentary, technique

Bikes, Balance, and Riding No Hands

So, yesterday something monumentally cool happened: I rode no hands for the first time. (Before anyone points out that the picture shows one hand on the bars - this is not captured in the picture!) I was alone with no one to witness my no-hands magnificence but the drivers passing me on the quiet side street. I had both hands off, and not just hovering above the bars, but properly off - dangling at my sides as I sat back on the saddle. I rode that way for an entire block, then put my hands back on the bars when it was time to turn. Then I took them off again and rode that way for another couple of blocks. I would have kept practicing, but it was freezing. 

I was riding the Paper Bicycle, coming home from skating, and somehow the bike seemed to whisper to me "You can take your hands off the bars now, do it..." - so I did. I was absolutely amazed that I could do it, and that it felt relatively safe and intuitive. The front wheel just kept going unwaveringly straight as I pedaled. But having tried the same maneuver on a couple of other bikes (both upright and road), it didn't work and the front end seemed way too unstable with my hands off the handlebars. So this appears to be bike-specific for me. I am wondering what it is that makes some bikes easier to ride no hands than others.  If I practice long enough on the Paper Bicycle, will I eventually feel comfortable riding a "normal bike" no hands as well, or is the skill unlikely to transfer? I will try not to get too excited, but this is making me feel like maybe I am not an entirely hopeless case!

Categories: Paper Bicycle, technique

New Old Moser: a 400 Mile Assessment

Having now ridden Moser 2.0 for about 400 miles, I think it is time for a report. For those who do not feel like reading about the bike's entire history, this is a lugged steel racing frame circa 1978 fitted with nice Campagnolo components circa 1999. The Columbus "tretubi" frame is 52x53cm, with an 11cm stem, handlebars 1cm below saddle level (I would like to set them lower, but the stem won't go down any further), 700Cx23mm tires, and 175mm cranks. Gearing is 52/39t in the front and 12-26t (9-speed) in the rear. The complete bike weighs 22lb without the waterbottle. I have been riding it since the end of November, and the individual rides have ranged from 30 to 60 miles. Mostly these have been group and club types of rides, and mostly with riders stronger and faster than me.

I know that people are interested in whether building up an older steel racing frame is feasible for "serious" roadcycling, and based on my experience with the Moser I do not see why not. As far as weight, 22lb is not bad at all for a complete bike - I have picked up new bikes with aluminum frames and carbon forks and they felt heavier. If I want to shave even more weight off, it could be done with some strategic component upgrades, but honestly I did not feel that the weight was an issue for someone at my level of ability.

As far as speed, I was able to ride with strong cyclists the likes of which I did not think I'd be good enough to ride with, at what they call a social pace (15-18mph on average, depending on the ride), while also feeling some reserve. At no point did I feel "if only I had a faster bike!" while riding the Moser.

When climbing, the bike itself feels "eager" to ascend, and the only limitations I felt were my own and also the high gearing. I would need to get lower gearing in the long run, no question. But the bike itself was fine climbing. When I ran out of gears, I would simply "heave" us uphill. Sadly my legs no longer fit into my jeans as a result of this practice, but we can't have it all.

The ride quality on bad roads has no harshness to it despite the 23mm tires, I am very happy with this aspect. The frame's tubing feels wonderful and just right; perfect amount of flex and all that.

At slow speeds (and I mean very slow - like less than 10mph, when stalling in traffic) the Moser is a little twitchy (compared to my fond memories of the Seven at least, which remained stable even at a crawl), but I do not mind and can still easily control the bike.

The one and only inherent aspect of the handling that is a problem - and the more I ride, the more I realise it is a problem - is descending. I do not entirely understand what is going on and why. But basically at high speeds, the bike is extremely resistant to turning and this was rather scary to discover. At first I thought that I just needed to get used to being on a racy bike again, and that I was holding myself back because I was nervous. But nope, something odd is definitely happening with the high speed turns - not just 90° turns, but even following the curvature of a winding road on a descent. I cannot make the same turns that I know I had no trouble making on the Seven over the summer. So while the bike is capable of great speed, this handling issue ultimately makes me slower, since I hold myself back on descents when I do not feel in full control of the bike. I've been trying to understand what is causing this, and what I can do to counteract it, but my instincts are failing me. Naturally I try to take wider turns, but it isn't always possible, and I am just never at a point where I can let myself go on descents.

Exacerbating the descent problem is that I am not entirely happy with the braking power. I did not have a brakeset that would fit this bike, so I bought some Campagnolo Veloce calipers. While I realise that Veloce is not top of the line, I still expected it to be fully functional. I guess with my weak hands, not so much. We have adjusted the brakes this way and that, but coming to a complete stop (like at a stoplight or traffic light at the bottom of a hill) after a high speed descent is problematic.

There are other issues that have surfaced in the course of riding the bike. For instance, there are only braze-ons for one bottle cage, and during longer rides I needed more water. I could get a second bolt-on bottle cage, but it seems a shame to do that to this frame. As mentioned before, there is also quite a bit of rust on the frame that is not visible in pictures (like along the underside of the top tube). It might make sense to get the frame stripped, the rust cleaned up, a second set bottle cage bosses brazed on, and then the frame repainted.

In addition, the rear wheel does not want to stay put in the chromed horizontal dropouts unless the skewer is tightened with a death grip. When initially the skewer was closed with reasonable force, it became misaligned and jammed against the chainstays the first time I rode the bike. It is now tightened as tighteningly as can be and this has not happened since. But it means that I cannot remove the wheels on my own despite them being quick-release; I am not strong enough to budge the skewers.

On top of the too-high gearing, the pedal strike from the 175mm cranks, and the too-tall stem, all in all that adds up to a lot of stuff I would have to replace on the bike (the crankset, the cassette, the brakes, and the stem at least) even without the re-paint and second bottle cage question. I would be willing to make this investment for sure if I was 100% comfortable with the bicycle's handling, but this problem with descents now has me concerned.

And that is where I am right now with my assessment of the bike. More than anything, this experiment has convinced me that I do very much need a fast road bike. Despite the issues mentioned here, I just wanted to ride-ride-ride it all the time, even in the winter.  No time to ride? I found the time. Too cold? I got over it. Too early in the morning? Nonsense, the Moser beckons. Tamer, more sensible bikes are wonderful, but for whatever reason they do not have the same effect on me as this bicycle does and as the Seven did over the summer. I want a bicycle that is fast enough for club and paceline rides, comfortable over bad roads, and handles well for a ballance-challenged person like me. Is the Moser it? I love it and I hoped so, but I honestly don't know at this stage. Holding back on descents is a problem; I need to feel in full control of the bike if I am going to improve, not to mention for reasons of safety.

Categories: Italian bicycles, Moser, roadcycling, technique

Reaching for Water

Spending lots of time on the roadbike has improved my speed and endurance more than I ever thought possible. Unfortunately, my bike handling skills are lagging so far behind that the gap is becoming almost comical. 

What's causing some frustration at the moment, is that I can't drink water on the bike while in motion. Other cyclists will nonchalantly remove their water bottle from the cage without reducing speed, drink while continuing to cycle as if this were the most natural thing in the world, then replace the bottle in the cage and keep going as if it never happened. For me this maneuver is impossible to execute; I need to stop the bike in order to drink.

Prior to now this was never a problem. For the most part I cycled alone, and if I needed a drink I simply stopped the bike any time I felt like it. And the paceline rides I went on were only 20 miles, plus our stops at intersections were sufficient to sneak a quick guzzle. But now that I am going on longer rides and with groups of people, I am finding it more difficult to manage my water intake. I need to learn to drink without stopping the bike!

It's just so sad, because I've been practicing the water thing since summer, but progressing at a snail's pace. I can now grab the bottle with my left hand, but the bike jerks wildly when I attempt to yank it out of the cage. And if I do pull it out, what on earth will I do with it? Should I need to turn or stop the bike suddenly, will I be able to do it with one hand holding a bottle? Panic! Panic! Swerve! Panic! Yes, I am really that neurotic. 

It doesn't help matters that I am extremely resistant to being taught. "No, really! If I could do it, so can you. Look, I'll teach you." Yeah... Suffice to say, I've never met a well-meaning cyclist whom I couldn't frustrate with my inability to learn technique. So, for now I'm stuck drinking water at stops and gazing in awe at those who can drink while cycling. Maybe some day I will read this post and laugh. Till then, I can only resume my snail's progress.

Categories: roadcycling, technique

The 'Slideways' Dismount

In the past I've been asked to demonstrate my quirky bicycle dismount, so here it is! Over the course of riding step-through city bikes, I've gravitated toward the sideways dismount: swinging my right leg over the frame while the bike is still in motion and then jumping off the saddle to the left as I come to a stop. It's really more like a "slideways" dismount, because what I am doing is leaning the bike and sort of dumping myself off the saddle. I've tried to recreate it here in slow motion while testing my camera's remote control feature (the remote is in my hand - can you tell?).

I know others who dismount their bicycles in this manner, and, like me, they find it completely natural and intuitive. But I've also been criticised for this move. A couple of people have told me that doing this to the bike repeatedly might distort the frame. Others have expressed concern that one of these times I am bound to get "tangled in the bike" while swinging my leg over. The latter does not really worry me; my body seems to have an inherent awareness of where the top tube is in relation to my foot. The frame distortion idea is intriguing, but seems far fetched: Can the sideways jump really exert sufficient force to twist these tank-like frames? 

I never set off to adopt this style of dismount; it just sort of happened. As I kept raising the saddles on my city bikes higher and higher, eventually I could no longer reach the ground without leaning the bike to the side. The "slideways" move was the natural outgrowth of that: Somehow I find jumping off in this manner easier and more natural than the typical method of standing up on the pedals and then stepping down. At this point I've been doing it this way for over two years, and it would be a difficult habit to break!

Categories: Bella Ciao, loop frame, technique

Talk to Me About 'Off Road'...

Almost every cyclist I'm friendly with loves to ride off road. And when I admit that I don't love it so much, the reaction is that of dismay. "What? But you like Rivendell! But you write about randonneuring! But you showed so much promise cycling on those scenic beach trails!" Well yes... And yet I prefer pavement.

Of course, everyone has their own ideas of what "off road" is. For some, anything that's not paved qualifies. For others, only the really treacherous, narrow trails are worthy of the label. I tend to use the former definition, but often get corrected ("Oh, well that's not off road; that's just dirt roads!") - which of course only makes me feel more of a sissy. I can handle fire trails if they are packed dirt with occasional pebbles and roots, but I draw the line at loose gravel that slips out from under my tires, and trails fraught with large rocks and ditches that I need to navigate around at speed. It feels unsafe, and when I feel unsafe no amount of romantic photos or assurances that "it'll be fine!" from ride companions can induce me to go on. Maybe it'll be fine for them, but I need to think for myself and my brain screams "don't do it; you'll perish!"

But maybe I exaggerate. When we were in Rockport last weekend, the Co-Habitant lured me onto some trails ("we'll walk our bikes to the water") and I ended up riding on 23mm tires over dirt and gravel.  I've also found myself intentionally taking my bikes on unpaved parts of local trails lately, maybe to test the waters.

As August approaches, people are talking about the D2R2 (Deerfield Dirt-Road Randonnée) - a notoriously hilly, strenuous ride through Western Massachusetts and Vermont, held entirely on winding dirt roads. I considered trying to do the "easy" (40 mile) route, but based on the stories I hear even that might be out of my league. It would be good to read a ride report from someone whose comfort zone is similar to mine, to get an accurate idea of what it is really like.

But wait a minute, why would I even want to go to something like the D2R2 if I don't enjoy cycling off road? Maybe because I want to like it, or keep hoping that I'll like it if I just give it another chance. There is so much beauty that can't be seen from paved roads, and it's a shame to miss it. Now if only I could learn to climb and descend on loose gravel without panicking and getting off my bike immediately!

Categories: North Shore, technique, trails, unpaved

The Clipless Ambush: a Tale of Failure

Well, my first encounter with clipless pedals occurred sooner than I anticipated. Last week the Co-Habitant decided to update his pedals, and the new set arrived in the mail today... which meant that he could gift me his old ones. I thought that surely this gifting would take place some time in the future - a distant, abstract future. But no. Cheerfully he attached them to one of our vintage roadbikes right then and there, so that I could give them a try. Don't get me wrong, I myself had expressed interest in this. But... I don't know, I just didn't expect it to happen immediately!

I already owned a pair of compatible shoes, having bought them on clearance last summer "just in case." With apprehension I watched him attach the cleats to the soles, trying to gauge the correct position. I then put them on and dragged the bike over to the kitchen sink, so that I could hold on to the edge with one hand as I tried to figure out how the contraptions worked.

I expected that clipping in would be relatively easy, but clipping out difficult. It was the opposite. At first I could not to clip in. I tried and tried, but my foot stayed on top of the pedal and the mechanism would not engage no matter how hard I pressed. I struggled to figure out what I was doing wrong, but the explanation turned out to be simple: I am a weakling. We had to loosen the tension almost to the max for my foot to engage the mechanism. Even after that, I still had trouble pressing down with enough force and in the exact position necessary for the cleat to catch. Clipping out, on the other hand, was intuitive: the sideways twist of the foot is exactly the same motion required to get out of Power Grips, so I found it natural. Transitioning from the kitchen sink to the trainer, I practiced for some time, clipping in and out successfully. I then decided it was time to go outside. I felt pretty confident at this point. Nothing to this. 

It was around 10 pm and the small side street behind our house was well lit and empty of cars. Confidently, I carried the bike outdoors, swung my leg over the top tube, and clipped in my right foot. Now all I had to do was push off, coast for a bit, then put my left foot back down on the ground. That would be such an easy first step. No different from Power Grips. Just need to do it. Now. Go! But... it was not to be.  Like some malfunctioning marionette, I kept clipping and unclipping my right foot, trying to mentally force myself to push off, but it wasn't working; nothing was happening. The amused Co-Habitant offered to stand at the end of the street and "catch me" if I found myself unable to unclip when I got there. But imagining that just made it worse. It began to feel as if I'd forgotten how to ride a bike entirely. 

There is no redeeming ending to this story. After a good ten minutes I gave up and went back inside, my head hung low in shame. Obviously I am just not ready.

Aside from the tale of failure, I have some observations about the shoe and pedal set-up. I can't find the model name of the shoes, but in retrospect getting clipless shoes with laces was silly. Being stiff and unyielding, they are difficult to put on and tighten, and it's a pain to tuck the laces under the velcro. I am also not sure these pedals are right for me. They are Shimano SPD 520s: mountain bike style, double sided and with a very small surface area. I know that many love this type of pedal, but to me it felt like not enough of my foot was connected. Pedaling on the trainer, I had the sensation that there was too much pressure on the spot where the cleat meets the pedal and that a larger contact area would have been better. Maybe these particular shoes are not stiff enough, or maybe I would do better with a different style of pedals. There seems to be a consensus that the mountain bike clipless system is easier than the road system, but I wonder whether I might prefer the latter. Unfortunately, there is no way to try these things out. 

Navigating the world of clipless shoes and pedals is complicated, and at the moment it seems best to postpone it... at least until I am brave enough to use the ones I have beyond the confines of my kitchen!  

Categories: clipless, roadcycling, technique

We All Fall Down?

[image via Nationaal Archief]

Girl on Roadbike: So you've never worn clipless shoes?
Me: Nope.
GOR: Oh you should just do it! It's really easy, honest.
Me: Really?
GOR: Oh totally!
Me: So how did you get the hang of it?
GOR: Well, I fell down all the time at first!
Me: [horrified silence]
GOR: Yeah, it was pretty funny. I'd come to a stop and just go plop!
Me: Oh my God...
GOR: But don't worry, after a couple of weeks you'll be fine!

You see, that right there is what separates me from "normal people" who've grown up playing sports: I see being guaranteed to fall and being told not to worry as completely incompatible notions.

Hopefully I won't jinx myself by writing this here, but I've never fallen off my bike as an adult. When I tell this to experienced cyclists, their reaction is usually "Oh, that's not good. You need to get used to falling." The idea being that, if I have no concept of falling - and more importantly, of how to fall "correctly" - then when it actually happens (the use of "when" instead of "if" is in itself alarming), it's going to be bad. I've been given advice such as to go out and practice falling on some grass, but honestly I cannot imagine doing that unless someone holds a gun to my head... and even then, I'd probably be trying to talk my way out of it!

What exactly scares me about falling I don't know. I don't have a fear of pain, so that's not it (I sat though an emergency root canal without novocaine yesterday, which was honestly not so bad!). Maybe I have a strong self-preservation instinct, and the physical sensation of the fall triggers it. Either way, when I am told that a specific behaviour - like learning to ride clipless - is pretty much guaranteed to make me fall multiple times, I am highly motivated to avoid that behaviour.

How do you feel about the idea of falling off your bike? Is it something you view as an inherent part of cycling (be it for sport, recreation or transportation), or do you believe that it can (and should) be avoided?

Categories: clipless, technique

Putting Your Foot Down

Enough people have asked me about this now that I thought it worth writing about: How do I put a toe down in traffic while remaining on the saddle, and also manage to get full leg extension on the downstroke? I will try to explain.

First off, let me clarify that I get "more or less" full leg extension, and obviously my leg would be even straighter if I had the saddle higher. So there is a bit of give and take to it. But the idea that your leg needs to be arrow-straight on the downstroke with the toe on the pedal and the heel raised, is not one that everyone subscribes to - especially not cyclists in cities where riding a bike for transportation is common. In Vienna, I would say that about half the cyclists I saw had their saddles adjusted so that they could touch the ground with a toe. Based on the pictures here, this seems to be the case in Copenhagen as well. When riding in cities with frequent intersections and stop signs, it can be tedious to get on and off the bike every 3 minutes. Being able to put a toe down makes things easier.

Another point, is that some bicycles' geometries work better for this than others: Typically, Dutch-style city bicycles have very relaxed seat tube angles, which increases the distance between the saddle and the pedals while keeping the saddle height constant. A lower bottom bracket helps as well, though not as much as a slack seat tube. You can watch this video of Dottie starting and stopping on her bike to get a better idea of how this works on a Dutch bike.

Finally, this may not be sufficiently noticeable in pictures, but I lean my bike to the side in order to reach the ground with a toe. I also keep my other foot on the pedal for balance. I cannot reach the ground with both toes, and I cannot even really reach with one toe unless I lean. This is something that becomes instinctive if you do it often enough. Alternatively, you could set the saddle lower. I've basically raised mine as far as I possibly can, while still managing to reach with one tip-toe while leaning.

Adjusting your saddle so that you can stop with a toe down is mainly about convenience. Some cyclists prefer this method, while others feel that not having their leg 100% straight on the downstroke robs them of power. How do you stop in traffic when cycling for transportation? And is it the method you've always used, or did you develop it after some trial and error?

Categories: loop frame, technique, urban cycling

Understanding Rest and Recovery

For the past month I've been cycling about 120 miles per week, not counting transportation. And as someone who is completely new to the concept of "training" (i.e. cycling with the goal to become faster, better uphill, and so on) I've been struggling with how to structure my rides. Last year the very notion of structure would have seemed completely ridiculous: I would simply go off on my bike whenever I had the time. But last year I never cycled the way I do now, never exerted myself to such an extent repeatedly. Now everything is different, and I feel completely lost in this new territory.

One thing I've realised, is that if I do strenuous rides for more than two days in a row, on the third day my performance starts to get worse rather than better. Even if I don't think that I feel tired, it's as if my legs stop working properly. If you're an athlete, you are probably thinking "well, duh!" but to me this was a novel discovery. The idea of needing to rest and recover in order to improve did not have meaning until I physically experienced it.

What I am trying to figure out now is, what exactly does resting and recovering entail? Some advise that on days off, you absolutely must do "recovery rides" - 15-20 mile rides at an easy pace on fairly flat terrain - and that not doing them will result in stiff muscles and make it even more difficult to ride the next day. Others advise that on days off, you need to stay off the bicycle completely and just basically lounge around and eat so that your system can fully recover. Unless I am misinterpreting (which is entirely possible), these two points of view seem at odds with one another. So which is applicable under which circumstances?

Having tried both methods, I am still not sure which works better. I am also not sure whether transportation cycling (on an upright bike) is considered a type of recovery ride, or whether it's considered not cycling at all. Given that it activates a different set of muscles I suspect the latter, but I could be wrong. None of this stuff is intuitive for me, which makes it both frustrating and fascinating.

Categories: roadcycling, technique

Paceline Ride, Take 2... or How I Psyched Myself Out, Then Had Fun After All

After two weeks of cancellations due to inclement weather and a week skipped due to injury, I finally did my second paceline ride. Because so much time passed since the previous one, the whole thing had gotten completely blown out of proportion in my mind, and I was even more nervous than before. I was now convinced that it wasn't being on a touring bike that made the ride strenuous for me last time - it was just me, being hopelessly out of my league. Was I prepared to face the embarrassment of arriving on my 110% appropriate loaner Seven just to have the same experience as before?

But moreover, as time passed I began to question whether pacelines were really a good idea for "someone like me." Since my write-up about the first ride, I've been warned by readers and acquaintances alike about how unsafe pacelines are, how ruthless the members of this particular cycling team supposedly are, and how there was no need to go to extremes - why not join a nice social group ride instead? I've even received links to videos of paceline crashes, just to make sure it sunk in what sort of danger I was exposing myself to. Though I took it all with a grain of salt, I would be lying if I said it didn't get to me. When I arrived to the meeting point for the ride, I was so nervous that I had to practically shove myself toward the group of women sitting on the grass. I can't believe that I managed to psych myself out to that extent. I did the ride, and it was great.

To clear up a misinterpretation of my previous post on the part of some readers, I never meant to suggest that the atmosphere of the last paceline ride was anything but welcoming. The leaders told me I had the wrong bike not because they were being unfriendly, but because I did have the wrong bike for that type of ride. This was an introduction to a sport and I basically showed up with inappropriate equipment. This handicapped me in comparison to the other participants, and they were simply letting me know that. My description of doing the previous ride on a touring bike was meant to show the humour of the whole situation, and not to criticise the nature of the ride or its organisers - for whose guidance and time I am genuinely grateful.

This time around, the difference in speed was so obvious that it is hardly worth discussing. Yes, a Seven Axiom set up for racing is faster than a Rivendell Sam Hillborne set up for touring, and to frame this as some profound realisation would be absurd. Still, I was tremendously relieved to have real evidence and not just assurances that "the right bike" would make such a difference. The right bike does not have to be a Seven of course. But it needs to be a light, aerodynamically set-up roadbike with closely spaced gearing and modern combination levers. When that's what every single other person in the group has, then that's what you need to have in order to be on equal footing.

Our group was larger this time and by the middle of the ride it was evident that a gap kept forming in the same spot. So we split into two groups and I ended up in the faster one. This was fantastic. I was mostly in the big ring for the rest of the ride, took more turns in the front, and practiced rotating while going full speed downhill. One of the leaders made sure to pull up alongside me and cycle as closely on my left as possible on the descent, having noticed that I am scared of that kind of proximity. With no way of escaping, I thought I'd lose my marbles and crash into a tree out of sheer fear of sensing her elbow 1" away from mine. "Oh my God, you're too close to me!" I pleaded. "No I'm not. Keep going. You need to get used to this." And I guess she had the right idea for how to deal with me: I got used to it.

At this point I am probably horrifying some of you again and making you wonder what on earth attracts me to this type of cycling. Honest answer: I don't know. But something definitely does. I like the speed. I like being in a paceline. I like receiving straightforward feedback about what I am doing wrong. I am relieved to know that my speed and endurance are up to par. My technique needs a lot of work, because I am still somewhat scared of the bike, scared of downhill speeds, and not entirely comfortable with constantly shifting gears. But all of that can be improved if I am willing to practice. The funny thing about human psychology, is that we tend to do what feels good without really knowing why, then construct elaborate rationalisations of our actions after the fact. But right now I'm too tired and confused to rationalise. I don't fully understand why I like the paceline rides. But I know that I want to keep doing them.

Categories: paceline, roadcycling, Seven, technique

I am Curious, Yellow

Obscure film references aside, the past week for me has been dominated by equal parts anticipation and anxiety. I've ridden my loaner roadbike for 120 miles in preparation for the next paceline ride... which, ironically, was cancelled for the second time in a row due to rain. The more time passes, the more my anticipation builds and the more exaggerated my anxieties become.

The Co-Habitant and I did two fast-paced, hilly rides over the weekend - he on his Surly Cross Check and I on the borrowed Seven. We went over the same hills where he has previously passed me nonchalantly regardless of which bikes we were both riding... only this time our positions were reversed dramatically. I shot past him while exerting little effort, continued to merrily cycle uphill, and then waited for him to catch up as I sipped water and sniffed flowers.

Of course we expected that a racy roadbike would be faster than a heavier and more relaxed cyclocross bike with wide tires and a saddlebag. But since he is a stronger cyclist than I am to begin with, I thought that the discrepancy would level the playing field between us. Neither of us thought that it would make me this much faster uphill.

The interesting thing is that on downhills and flats there was not much difference between us; it was uphill that the bike really began to matter. This parallels my experience of the paceline ride on my Rivendell, where it was specifically on the uphill portions that I felt a disadvantage to the others.

But while I am now confident in the bike's climbing ability, this is tempered by a fear not only of its speed on descents, but also of my relative unfamiliarity with its handling. After putting nearly 2,000 miles on my Rivendell I pretty much know how it behaves across a wide range of situations. The 120 miles on the Seven are just not sufficient for that kind of comfort to develop. I don't mind admitting that I'm plain scared when riding it at 25mph+ downhill - scared of the narrow tires, scared of the carbon fork, and scared of its precise but aggressive cornering. The fear saps away my confidence, making me squeeze the brakes and cycle more conservatively than I am capable of.

Being 100% comfortable with a bicycle is not something I can force; it takes time. My curiosity is a strong motivator to keep riding and practicing, specifically seeking out those situations that still make me nervous.

While the bike is in my possession I've fitted it with my own saddle, which has made it more comfortable to ride long distances. I've also installed my pedals (the narrow MKS Streams) and PowerGrips. This looks silly on a bike that is typically ridden clipless, but I don't care: I need to ride it in a way that makes me comfortable. I've also now raised the saddle another 5mm from how it's shown in this picture, which almost makes it look like the standover is not too high. Almost. The length of the toptube and the handlebar set-up work well for me (the Ride Studio Cafe matched the configuration to one of my own bikes) and it's only the seat tube height that's off. The result is that the bike fits me extremely well when I am riding it, but looks too big when I am not. Ideally, the frame would have the same virtual top tube length, with the actual top tube just a little bit sloped in order to reduce standover. Given the available demo models I prefer this set-up over a smaller frame, because I don't like toe overlap. All in all I feel good on this bike, which is what matters.

I really hope they don't cancel the paceline ride next week; the anticipation is getting ridiculous. In the meantime, all I can do is keep riding.

Categories: Co-Habitant, diamond frame, roadcycling, Seven, Surly, technique