ornoth_cycling | Entries tagged with flow

There are only three contact points between bicycle and rider: hands on bars, feet on pedals, and butt on saddle.

No one ever says anything good about their saddle. For the vast majority, it is the seat of dissatisfaction and pain. Even experienced cyclists, once they find a saddle that works for them, do their utmost to forget all about it.

That strikes me as odd. Much of the information our brain uses to execute the complex operation of riding a bike comes to us through our hands, feet, and rear, but we try really hard to avoid thinking about what those contact points might be telling us.

There are interesting sensual experiences here that we overlook. The transition of weight onto our hands as we brake on a steep descent. The rhythmic juddering of the bike beneath us as we fly across a set of railroad tracks or a wooden bridge.

Many of these sensations come to us through the saddle. The up-and-down of a raised crosswalk speed bump. The change in ride texture from asphalt onto the smoothness of a painted road line, or the roughness of a coastal road that has been too long exposed to the elements.

And then there are those amazing, curvy roads that herald a flowing dance between your body and the bike, as you shift weight smoothly from left to right and left again while the road swoops back and forth. There are roads I could easily identify simply through their saddle feel: the southbound descent off Strawberry Hill, coming down South Street in Carlisle, swoopy Wilsondale in Dover, or the horrible pitted surface of Collins in Truro.

Bicycling is an intensely sensory experience, but we focus nearly all of our attention on the sights and sounds around us or the internal sensations of exertion: respiration, muscle pain, and thirst.

It’s sad that we only think about our contact points with the bicycle as sources of pain to avoid, rather than as a rich source of sensation, information, and experience. Not merely a pain in the ass, they are the physical interface between ourselves and the simple machine that allows us to travel so freely throughout—and in direct contact with—our world.

So on your next ride: instead of “saddle sores”, think “saddle soars”.

A proficient cyclist rolling down the road is an image of liquid grace, economy of motion, and effortless speed. Like a soaring seagull, otters playing in the water, a swan gliding along the surface of a pond, or deer running through a forest.

Whether it’s a seagull in flight or a cyclist on a long ride, grace comes from an organism adapting to its particular environment. Over years of training, the roadie has developed a very specific skill set, and his body has adapted to suit it.

But that seagull is not so elegant if forced to walk down a cobblestone alley. An otter trying to climb stairs is nothing but awkward. When that swan ambles down Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, he looks completely alien. And have you ever watched deer swimming in the ocean? They suck at it.

And like any other highly-adapted being, when the cyclist steps off the bike, out of his natural environment, he too loses all sense of dignity; he looks stupid.

Following that unnatural moment when he plants two feet on the ground, the illusion of grace is irrevocably shattered. He walks gingerly, like an arthritic, top-heavy mallard. He’s all gangly knees, legs, and hands. Don’t ask him to bend to touch his toes, because he can’t. His underdeveloped hamstrings barely allow him to reach his knees.

The accoutrements that make him suited for the road—the special shoes, the protective sunglasses, the Lycra shorts, and the high-visibility clothing—all look ridiculous in an everyday pedestrian context.

But taking his “kit” away reveals an underlying reality that’s even worse. His deeply tanned arms and legs are horribly betrayed by the sad, sickly-pale areas around his hands, eyes, feet, and torso. He looks like a farmer who spends every day on his tractor, or someone who fell asleep in a tanning booth with their clothes still on! He lives in deathly fear of going to the beach, where his cyclist’s tan makes him a laughingstock.

On one hand, the cyclist looks woefully underfed, like the proverbial scrawny Ethiopian in an advertisement for world hunger relief. But at table he eats like a ravenous hawg, consuming three or four times as much food as any normal person. But people hate him all the more for it, because he never seems to put on an ounce weight.

The one enviable aspect of a cyclist’s body that doesn’t miraculously disappear is his legs. Usually clean-shaven, well-defined, and tanned bronze, they’re probably the best legs you’ve ever seen. That is, if they’re not covered by disgustingly exaggerated varicose veins…

In their daily lives, most normal people don’t pay any attention when a cyclist rides by, because the cyclist is pretty unremarkable while quietly operating in his natural element. But like that swan in Manhattan, everyone both notices and remembers cyclists when they’re walking around awkwardly, looking stupid.

However, if you take the time to really study the cyclist when he’s doing his thing, you might be surprised to see someone much like yourself, flying effortlessly down the road, mile after mile, with the grace of a dancer, the elegance of a bird in flight, and the exuberant joy of an otter at play.

And you might realize that a cyclist is perhaps not such a ridiculous, pitiable thing for people to be, after all.

This being the last weekend before the 2008 Pan-Mass Challenge, yesterday I went out and rode with the folks from Quad, but extended the ride to a full century. I had tried getting to 100 miles twice in the past two weeks, but had been beaten back to 88 miles on both occasions by heat in excess of 95 degrees.

Saturday morning, I didn’t set out with the goal of covering a hundred miles, but for some reason things just came easily. Perhaps it was the fact that the temperature stayed in the mid-80s. Perhaps it was all the training I’ve done in the past two months finally coalescing. Or maybe it was the fact that I thoroughly cleaned and lubed the bike for the first time all year.

But whatever it was, I was in top form yesterday. Right from the start, it felt like I was going faster with much less effort than I have all year. Instead of being worn out and trailing the pack, I was keeping up with the fast guys, and had plenty in the tank left over. I didn’t hit the wall at 40-50 miles, as I had been all season, but kept going and didn’t see a drop off in power until mile 75. And even after doing a hundred miles, my average speed was still about 10 percent higher than I’ve done on shorter rides over the past month.

So I guess I’m peaking at the right time. At this time of year, the roads feel smoother, the air seems crisper, the ascents easier and the descents faster. The springtime obstacles of sand and Boston Marathon joggers are a distant memory, and even the drivers have gotten over their shock at having to share the road with cyclists again. Everyone’s paceline skills are solid, and, of course, one’s muscles are at top form, allowing you to cruise along pretty effortlessly.

Though I must say I’m not overtrained. This is the lowest mileage year I’ve had since I started keeping records back in 2000. I’m at about 1400 miles, when usually I’m in the 2000-3000 mile range. However, since I was out of the country for five months, those miles I have done all came in my May-to-July training period, which isn’t too far from the effort I would put in during a normal year.

So maybe I could be a little better prepared, but yesterday it hardly felt that way. It’s a great time to be on the bike, and as long as the weather holds out, this promises to be another good Pan-Mass ride.

We’ll see, ’cos in a week’s time, it’ll be just another memory. But fortunately, the fitness and easy strength I’ve built up will linger throughout the next couple months, into the relaxing, easy, scenic rides of autumn.

But first I’ve got this little ride from Sturbridge to Provincetown…

Orny's Cycling Journal

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