My buddy Chris wants to buy a road bike. His primary reason for this is to improve his fitness after splitting his patella in half on a rock while skiing a couple weeks ago. He believes that riding a bicycle, after his arduous healing process is complete, will be easy on his knees and provide him with a fun way to stay fit. To that I say, of course it will.
It started benignly enough the other day when I stopped by Chris’ house for a visit. Upon arrival he showed me an ad he had been contemplating on Craigslist. The ad was for a Specialized Transition Pro Tri-bike. Now, keep in mind that Chris has never owned a road bike so when he saw the Specialized being offered for a good price, in our area, he thought it was worth a closer look and some research. I have to admit the bike looked dandy and would certainly catch one’s eye. Especially someone who knew he wanted a nice bike but wasn’t sure yet what he wanted, let alone needed. Knowing of my passion for cycling (as the guy who gave me my V-cog tattoo) he asked what I thought about the bike in the ad. Immediately, the first thoughts that came to my mind were:
It was this final thought that gave me a serious feeling of responsibility. At a minimum, the responsibility of advising my friend on his first road bike so he ends up with something that works for him and is fun. But moreover, the responsibility of conveying La Vie Velominatus to someone who doesn’t yet know it exists. Whether or not Chris ever really embraces La Vie is not the issue. I hope he does. But my role in this is to introduce him to it so that he has the potential to at least glimpse what La Vie has to offer. Of course all he thought he was doing was getting my opinion on a bicycle.
One does not just go out, buy a bike, and declare oneself a Velominatus, or even a cyclist. It’s a process. None of us here just got on a bike one day and instantly had it all figured out. We can all take ownership for various Rule violations made over the years, money mis-spent on shitty pieces of equipment, flubs in etiquette in races and group rides, and missed opportunities to lay down some V. Some of what we know to be La Vie Velominatus has come from trial and error and reflection. And much of it has come to us through mentors or a cycling sensei, if you will.
Who among us did not have at least one mentor in her or his journey toward becoming a Velominatus? For Merckx-sake, we wouldn’t even have the Rules if Johnny Klink had not had Col for inspiration and thus commanded Brett to “blog that shit”. One of my own mentors is Frank who looked to his father and a wheel builder in The Netherlands for guidance. These are people who’s sphere of influence we are granted access to when we ask. Not necessarily the pros we look to for inspiration but the everyday Velominati who give us tips, insights, and advice on how and what cycling is, not how it ought to be.
So partially because Chris asked me and partially because I feel an obligation to my mentors, to our traditions, and to the Velominati (which means you) I find myself in the duty-bound position of being a cycling sensei. The simple act of being asked by a friend what I think of a bike places me in this position. I’m excited my friend has taken an interest in cycling and am chomping at the bit with the opportunity to help show him the way. I’m eager to shepherd Chris into the rich traditions and joy that cycling can provide but I’m hesitant to come on too strong. Hopefully Chris will discover what cycling is and ride the roads of the Velominatus. But like it did for you and I, this can only happen when he is ready.
Who were your cycling sensei and how have you approached the responsibility of ushering someone into La Vie Velominatus?
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@HMBSteve
After reading that, I'm pretty sure you are already well-qualified to call yourself a cyclist!
Great article!
I spent most of my teenage years punishing a mountain bike so hard that after each ride my handlebar would display a slight downwards curvature. I had no sensei, rules, technique, kit, sense of style, or shame. There was not a single meter on my bike other than my inner V-meter. The only timing was imposed by lunch or dinner time. I learn’t negative splits from sprinting home to make curfew hours and be allowed to go out the next day. I rode for pure enjoyment. Rule #6 was the only thing I knew. Even when I crashed. And I did that a lot. Life was simple. Life was good.
But then my friends all got expensive race bikes, kits, and followed boring training schedules. I could afford none of that and beer was much cheaper. So I lost interest in my beloved mountain bike and started running instead.
A decade went by and I was forced to stop running due to an injury in my Achilles heel. A friend gave me his old training bike, a heavy generic Aluminium frame with a surprisingly good Campy Gruppo and wheels, weighing in dangerously close to double digits (my mechanic calls it his favourite “schitzo” bicycle, as it has equal parts of greatness and shittyness). With the bicycle came one line of advice: “Get out there and HTFU, motherfucker. When you are prepared we will ride together.”
A year and a few thousand kilometers have gone by and I am yet to ride with my friend. The responsibility is too great and I am not worthy. Not yet. My guns are still too weak, my spirit too feeble to be worthy of such an honor. I strive to follow the vie Velominatus, my bike is clean and matching, my kit is pristine, and my socks are white and obey the Goldilocks principle. I ride to be worthy of that ride with my friend, my Sensei, whenever it may come. Yet when I ride, my teenage self comes back, I ride for pure enjoyment again.
This is what my Sensei did for me: a cheap bike and a one liner. Mr. Miyagi would be proud. As would Yoda.
But I would also like to mention the Silent Sensei. The one in the black Dogma, pristine kits, and perfect stroke that has been consistently humiliating me in the nearby climb for the past year. The Silent Sensei rides past me without even a hiss other than the sound of his tubulars against the hardened pavement. His face is unfussed, his breathing is more controlled than a ninja’s. There is only the slightest nod as he drops me, awe inspiring guns glistening in the sun, while I am left wondering how I managed to live this long with no lungs and toothpicks for legs. The class is over, the lesson is simple but brutal: “Rule #5, motherfucker”.
Vive la Vie Velominatius.
@pedro
Your friend needs to attend to Rule #3