In the beginning...

Beginning cycling must concentrate first and foremost on fun. It must be fun to ride a bike.

The difficult question is: what is fun? We must answer this question by looking closely at the cycler, the beginning cycler in our case. This can be a child, an adult in good shape, an adult in really bad shape, an adult who barely knows how to ride. (And on and on ad nauseum.) We may be dealing with a person who barely remembers how a bicycle shifts gears. Why three big cogs up front and all those little ones in the back? We mustn't take the newbie for granted. We must explain some basics first. Why two brakes? Why not just one in the back or one in the front? How should we use them and when?

We must explain basic handling. How to keep the bike straight on the road; how to maintain our position on the road, relative to cars, pedestrians, etc. We must explain the importance of "feeling" the bike. You know that feeling of maintaining control, knowing how long it takes us to stop, what happens when we brake hard or when we "feather" our brakes ever so slightly to slow us down just a bit so we regain control under the right speeds. Let's feel the fun of what a bike is, what it does and what we can experience/do with it. It's way too zen for me, but it's true: we must try to feel one with the bike.

Let's know very, very slowly what our limits are. (Again, let us know ourselves or the people we are helping to get started.) Let's take a careful look at our route, at the hills we may encounter, the traffic, the weather conditions, and how we may handle different sorts of situations. (It was sunny when we left and now it's raining and the road might just be slick.)

Let's learn to stop when we can't go any further. (Let's do that with everything in our lives and then we'd really begin talking about knowing ourselves.) It's alright to stop today -- our knees are beginning to hurt -- and to try tomorrow and see if we can improve on today's performance. One terrible experience in the beginning may be the end of cycling for a person. We should not take this lightly and we shall not take for granted what others can do and what their reasonable limitations may be. So we shall begin slowly and increase our time on the bike slowly. We must be patient. We should ride three or four times a week if we can maintain those outings -- resting in between those rides so we ride one day and rest the next day and so on. This is only the beginning folks! (I prefer days off between rides whenever possible. It works for me. Think about how it may work for you or the beginner you are coaching.) We must make those first outing "easy", moderate, at cruising speeds, taking advantage of these easy-fun rides to get us acquainted with the bike and with good technique on the bike.

We must know the importance of rest and how critical it will be to our cycling and to our progress on the bike. Ride + Rest = Fun. We cannot have fun if we do not feel good, if we do not feel the bike, if we do not progress.

All of this I'm thinking out loud to start my wife on her riding program. Slowly.

NO!

Learn to say no.

Sometimes we just can’t ride. Not to commute, not to go to the shop, not to do a little training. We might need some time off the bike, but it isn’t as simple as it sounds. How do you know you’re just putting things off or whether it’s a legitimate NO situation? Though it isn’t what we want to hear the fact remains that there is no simple answer, no simple rule. It requires that bit of intuition that we can’t learn and that no system can teach, despite what some gurus might suggest. There is one answer, of course, but it’s the one we don’t want to hear: We need to know ourselves. And since we’re all different this can become quite a psycho-drama type of thing. For me it’s become rather simple over the last year:

- My legs feel heavy, especially when I climb stairs. Not the type of heavy like when you finish a work-out, but rather the heavy that sits there for a couple of days. I call it heavy-heavy. I need a couple days’ rest and it goes away.

- Waking up in the morning is a real chore. (I know it always is, right?) But I think you know what I mean. You’re just dragging yourself out of bed. You’re late as it is; you don’t even have time to make a cup of coffee – oh, you never do? Well, you see, we’re all different. When I don’t have my cup of coffee – make that two – and some toast I’m hurting.

- I drank two extra beers the night before because my friends couldn’t help changing the world. Ok. I’m dehydrated the next day and I’m hurting.

- And my favourite, like today. I just don’t feel like it and don’t know exactly why. It involves a certain bad feeling or sensation like something wrong might happen. This is very rare. I don’t know what it is and I don’t really care, but when I feel it I don’t ride it.

So over the past year I’ve grown up a bit in my cycling. I know when to say no and, incredibly, my cycling has improved considerably. If I don’t ride or do my little training ride – which I try to do at least 3 times a week independent of other riding – it’s OK. Nothing happens. Things just get fresher and better when we get back on the bike again.

What makes you say NO?

Those Days

Le Kazakh a perdu 1'20".

One of those days. It starts with the helmet not feeling quite right. The strap bothers my left ear (yet no one has touched the strap in months – it’s just today that it isn’t right!!!); the sunglasses aren’t as crystal clear as they should (how clear should they normally be?!!!); my shorts feel too lose (they are size large and I wear medium but I swear the medium was too tight when I bought these!!!); and, I’m breathing hard on the first little climb and my heart rate is barely 117 (whatever that means – I could be dying – it felt that way!!!).

The last time I felt like this I bonked pretty damn good. I didn’t bonk today, yet somehow I didn’t feel very hydrated. I ended up drinking 5 12-once cans of whatever Isotonic drink I had at hand. And I wanted more. I gotta blame something, don’t I?

Not a great ride. 34 kilometers (21.13 miles) in 1:34 hours. Oh well. It happens. Vino fell off his bike today!

Bonkers

Exhaustion does not kill a paradigm, it merely signals it has lost the ascendancy.

I don’t much believe in witches though I’ve sought their council – involuntarily – as early as the age of one. It was an alleged issue of life and death, my Mom explained once, though I don’t recall the actual witchcraft that was performed on me. And indeed there is a saying in my land that pronounces: “I don’t believe in witches, but witches there are aplenty.”

Not too long ago I was talking to Bill on the list about bonking: that physical low experienced during hard physical activity. A weak definition, really, by any account, since the real feeling is that type of awful that dictionaries can’t handle in definitions, not without pictures and groaning sound effects. And so I was telling Bill, who apparently recently bonked and found himself helpless alongside some mountain road until a kind motorist came to his assistance (because some drivers are nice in spite of bicycles), that one ought to avoid those bonking things by resting right, eating properly, hydrating, you know all those little things that make us wise bike riders. Mind you, I said all of that with a certain degree of authority because I bonked once and that made me, well, a bonking authority.

This is where the witchcraft comes in: no more than a couple of days after Bill raises the bonking issue that I bonk after a mere three hour ride. And once again – as happened the first time – I didn’t think I’d done anything unusual; after all I had done this particular 64 kilometer loop before at a 19.7 km/hr. pace. Nothing unusual, I thought.

I should’ve gotten a hint that things weren’t right as I climbed my first hill – the Bicycle Eater, as my son calls it – and I was nearly out of breath at the top of it. That was only 4 kilometers into the ride. I felt very tired. (A little voice told me to turn around but I failed to hear it.) So I pushed on and apparently convinced myself that things ought to get better.

I HAVE THE DAY OFF, THE KIDS ARE IN SCHOOL, AND THE SUN IS SHINING SO I MUST RIDE MY BIKE!!! DO YOU MIND?!

I’m not so sure whether things went better or worse…they just went. Somehow I maintained my normal pace and drank my two liters of energy drink, though I had this strange desire to make it home quick.

I bonked as soon as I got through the garage door; sat down without one wink of energy and no desire to do a thing. I ate and drank like a desperate man soon as I could and then slept for two hours – killing most of the afternoon, ‘cause the morning had killed me – until I began to feel slightly normal again. I thought I had a fever or a cold. My legs were cramping. I was dead tired.

Then I thought about it. What happened? It was the bonkers spell again. The night before I had had no dinner, which is very unusual for me; instead I had two beers. And then again, for some strange reason I had a light breakfast. Only one toast and a cup of coffee: European cup of coffee-thingy, small, tiny. Again, fairly unusual for me. (Nowhere in European etiquette – not even in the most hermetic French baguette circles – does it say that you cannot have 3 tiny thingies to make up for one normal real thingy.)

So I should’ve listened to my advice to Bill: you’ve got to fuel properly and rest properly. That’s what I told him just a couple of days ago, lest you want the bonk to get you. Almost sounds like a spell, doesn’t it?

Not 100

Had I known I wouldn’t have gone. Not on this local metric century. This became obvious when I showed up to register and I just stood there with my Piglet staring at all the roadies in disbelief. These aren’t normal men; they cannot only stand up to kryptonite, I think they have it for breakfast.

My Piglet was the only piglet there. All others had names ending in vowels and if bikes could speak surely they snarled at Piglet. We didn’t belong there. I think that one of the ultra-leek, carbon-titanium-scandium beasts literally barked at Piglet.

Piglet wanted to go home. He knew better.

Let’s face it: I felt like an idiot. This, I suddenly realized, was not a walk in the park. You guys know that feeling: earth swallow me now. How can I get out of this?

I didn’t. I was dumb enough to take the start. After four kilometres – FOUR – I could not keep the pace on the controlled speed section of the tour. Let me explain.

This tour was made up of four sections. 1) The first 30 kilometers were to keep the speed of the Race Director’s car. Meaning all cyclists are to keep together riding on the main road through all the towns. There is a State Trooper on the front stopping traffic and a State Trooper on the back to let traffic pass when all cyclists go through. There is also an ambulance and a sweeper car to take care of any “problem” cyclists that can’t keep up, are injured or just give up. 2) There is a 15 kilometer “free zone” that climbs Mount Iroite. This is a free-for-all. No pace car. Nothing. The fastest wins and wins after climbing a gruelling 12 kilometer ascent (12% rise). 3) A second controlled section of about 45 kilometers where the Director’s car again maintains the pace. 4) A free-for-all final ascent of 10 kilometers up Mount Curota (15% rise).

I kept up as fast as I could in the first section but always lagging behind the group. I had never maintained an average 30 kilometer speed. It was destroying for me, but I somehow kept up. On the second section – the huge 12 kilometer ascent – I kept up for about half the course and then all passed me as though I was a vegetable on the road. I couldn’t believe it! The roadies just climbed and climbed. The sweeper car stuck with me on the entire climb at 6 kilmeters per hour – walking speed, I kid you not. I was a puddle of sweat and drank my only two bottles of Gatorade on the climb. There was a 20 minute rest at the top of the climb which included fluids and food for all the riders. When I got there the group was beginning to take off on the 3^rd section so I only had time to eat a banana, take more water and ride the descent.

I could not keep up on the descent either. My 58 kilometer top speed was nothing for these monsters. Again I stayed behind. After riding on the main road for another 20 kilometers – crawling – it became obvious that I had become a nuisance. The sweeper car had to stick with me yet the State Troopers and the roadies were already 40 minutes ahead of me. The sweeper car politely rode next to me and said “I think we’re falling way behind. Maybe you should consider coming onboard so we can catch up.”

And that was the end of it. About 70 kilometers into the deal and I was done. Not because I couldn’t make it but because I couldn’t make their speed. I had expected to see some beginners like me on the tour so we could make a little “inexperienced group”, but there were none. It was just me and my Piglet.

Still I had a great time seeing how the roadies go about their thing. They are great riders on their slick bikes. And for road work there is nothing like a true road bike. Lots of lessons learned, which I’ll come back too. And most important of all: rather than feeling defeated I feel stronger and with more will than ever to continue to ride and to improve all my skills on the bike. For serious road work, no Piglet.

100

In a couple of hours I’m off to see the wizard, I guess. I’m gonna try to do my first 100 K. A couple of friends -- untrustworthy roadies -- asked me to participate in the annual metric century ride here. It’s actually 108 ks and it climbs two ports of 700 meters -- the first one is 12 ks long. I’m fairly sure I won’t make it because the last port is about right at the end of the ride and I know the mountain well. The first ramp nearly defeats me in normal conditions; that is, riding a mere 30 ks for me (and the most I've ever ridden in one sitting has been 66 ks.) It’s a 12%-15% rise and it's the only time I have to hit my granny gear. The roadies chew it up. I’ve seen them pass me on occasion as they wave by, saying “C’mon champ, we’re almost at the top!”

I just love that. It’s when I think of semi-automatic weapons and their much needed use in cycling. But the roadies have encouraged me looking down at my Piglet: “Nice little, fat wheels on that, eh?”

Nice, little fat rider, I am. See you at the summit, buddy.

Numbers

Like the song about Mondays I just don’t like Numbers. Never been good with them – despite the grades – and let’s face it: I just don’t like them. In cycling there’s lots to learn about numbers: number of spokes, chain links, cassettes or, worse, number of miles per trip, average, maximum, cadence, heart-beats per minute…WAIT…luckily there’s just

two pedals

two wheels

one seat

I want to count no further than that; I don’t want to count my kilocalories per Big Mac (cause I don’t eat either kilocalories or Big Macs) and I don’t want to know how many hills I gotta climb to get rid of those two cool beers I had after I finished climbing those same hills that made the beer taste so good in the first place.

Can I not count?! Can I just enjoy the ride and not be faster than yesterday? Can I stop improving for the sake of improving? What happens when we really, really stop improving? Isn’t that sort of like riding a bike downhill….FUN!!!

Can I just ride my bike or must I ride by numbers?

The Poodle Challenge

I did not want to ride yesterday. I was cold all morning curled up at my desk. Figured I’ve been over-doing it on the bike and though I did not ride on Sunday, the zero day did nothing for my legs. But I had to worry about the Poodle Challenge knowing that Ruby can easily ride his 20 kilometers to work everyday and be done with me easy. And so I am dumb enough to try and stick with him by making my commute at least 20 ks when it is only about 7.0. So I rode 21.74. Being that much smarter than me, on 22 May Ruby only rode 7.0. That’s it. In other words I rode his normal commuting mileage and he rode mine. There must be some strategy here – somewhere. (Thank god this is over at the end of the month.)

Challenges

My legs feel like concrete columns. And I don’t mean in strength. Only in weight. My thighs hurt. They hurt when I touch them; when I walk; I suppose they hurt even while I sleep. My mileage for the month is a mere 167 kilometers (103,77 miles) and still

mean people from all over the world challenge me. Little me! I’m having a glass of milk and I’m going to bed.

Et tu, Brutus?

Never trust your biking friends and surely never trust them when they’re wearing serious amounts of spandex and fast looking bike glasses – those that cost more than my little bike. My so-called friends are nice guys – presumably. They know I’m a beginner; they know I have a modest road bike for commuting purposes (and to defeat my children on half-hour outings). (I can out-ride my children in case you didn’t know.) My friends knew the most I’ve ever ridden uphill without stopping and gasping for life was a mere 12 kilometers (7.5 miles), with one or two rolling hills in between. I’m a beginner for god’s sake!

So why, then, did they try to kill me?

They promised care, kindness and lots of easy learning. This included 26.4 kilometers of huge hills, boulder-ridden roads, tree branches in my face, in my spokes and countless near-falls and gasps for life. I wanted to go out for a ride not to cross the Amazonian rain forest on a commuter bike. (Not to mention the geese strategically placed on the apex of that last hill waiting to attack the last and slowest rider: that was me.)

So I did it. “See? You did it,” my ex-friends said, smiling. It was best I had no breath to respond. (Which reminds me: semi-automatic weapons will now be included on my list of required biking equipment.)

The First One, The Baby, The Big One

Hey, I started commuting this week and I just didn’t want to make a big deal about it, alright. I mean riding 2.49 miles one way in 15 minutes, a howling wind pushing on my backside – and getting tired doing it – isn’t something we need to discuss much further. I was a sport, okay. The first day was like this:

I did what I was told; I followed instructions. I folded my shirt nice inside my right pannier, same for the slacks. Shoes, fresh socks and a T-Shirt on the left. But, hey, you’re not supposed to sweat on a fifteen-minute, 2.49 mile ride, mostly downhill. (Don’t ever listen to that rubbish and don’t come back to me about my being over-weight or under-trained. I’m just under-height and quick as lightning on the granny gear. So what if I look like a helmeted-hamster! At least I can reach my pedals.)

On your first commute you sweat. Believe me, others lie. It must be a right of passage or something equally medieval. You’d expect someone to give you some recognition – knight errant on a bike honor thing - but reality is harsh. My lovely family waved and laughed as I closed the garage door. “Now what might be so funny about dad riding his old, ugly bike to work?” “C’mon, dad, dads don’t do that sort of thing…they race and do cool stuff like that.” “Hey, I can race, buddy!” (I could if I really wanted to...just not my thing.)

Minutes later not one stranger even waved at me, though I saw a couple of guys smirking as I zoooomed past. (“That’s the guy who grew up in America,” they said, or something to that effect, shaking their heads.) Now what was that supposed to mean? Were they talking about me? “You talking to me?!” “Hey, bud,” I wanted to yell, but shit, I’m already downhill and can’t go back up to see if my Latin-macho image was being questioned. I must grant it to commuters, but bikes are safer that way.

I change gears the way I change tenses, okay. I can do that; I’m a bike commuter now. So picture this: I’m near the office so I wanna look extra cool making that last turn, but children on fixed gears rumble by. “Hey guys…”. They’re too fast and far ahead to hear me. Man, I wanna look like a commuter. I am a commuter. I need to yell at a car, to win my road space, something. Hah, there. A slick Ford Fiesta comes from behind and gets right next to me. I see the right blinker on. Now what does she think she’s about to do…cut me off…I’m a commuter, lady…but she smiles and waves me on in front of her.

That’s it?! My first commute in? Is that all? No Star-Spangled Banner?

I refuse to discuss my commute back home. Do you know how sheep – yes, sheep – react to the sound of a miss-shifting Shimano?