The Man-Macheen

[ornoth_cycling]

There is no greater proof that man is not a machine than his relationship to the indoor cycling trainer.

One of the hallmarks of humanity is our ability—no, our *need* to coast through life. In contrast, the cycling trainer requires constant pedaling. THOU SHALT NOT COAST! PedalPedalPedalPedalPedalPedalPedalPedalPedalPedal!

It’s totally unnatural. The only thing that can make this inescapable torture even briefly endurable is the pre-recorded voice of another human being screaming at you to continue. GoGoGoGoGoGoGoGoGoGoGoGo!

Even the most precise hand-wound pocketwatch will eventually wind down and stop; but the indoor cyclist never stops. Your entire life has been reduced to an endless repetition of unvarying cadence. PushPushPushPushPushPushPushPushPushPush!

Repeat until dead. DeadDeadDeadDeadDeadDeadDeadDeadDeadDead!

It’s not surprising (to me, anyways) that mankind would reserve its deepest hatred for a device that was designed to promote such extreme self-torture. And yet this stands in complete contrast to how deeply we love our bicycles. Why is that?

If you’re not a rider, the affection that cyclists feel for their bikes might seem laughably strange. But it’s not that different from how many people feel about their cars. Both automobiles and bicycles give us freedom to navigate effortlessly through our natural world, and are reflections of our own sense of personal style. It’s not surprising that both cyclists and drivers often become so attached to their vehicles that they endow them with individual names. The Starship. The Plastic Bullet. The Glick. The R2-Di2. The Toxicmobile.

But try this sometime: ask your friendly neighborhood cyclist what name he’s given to his indoor trainer! Then stand back and watch as confusion, repugnance, and anger parade across his face.

The trainer is the point where the parallel between bikes and cars breaks down. No driver goes down to the parking lot to sit in their car, running the engine at maximum revs for an hour and a half, with the gear selector left firmly in “Park” the whole time. Nobody thinks that’s a fun or productive way to spend an afternoon.

But here I am, saddling up to spend another morning on my indoor trainer, pushing myself to the point of complete exhaustion to get further down a road with no end, that gets me absolutely nowhere. Not even to the other side of the living room, where my couch beckons…

I am not a machine! Like all cyclists, I hate the trainer. But like all cyclists, the fact that I’ll endure these loathsome trainer sessions is perverse proof of just how much I love my bike. Damnit.