Maybe it’s the milestone of aging that I recently reached. It could be an awareness of the unique foibles of this sport/activity/pastime that I practice. Possibly, I just woke up one day and realised that this is a weird thing for a middle-aged man to be doing. The time for reassessment hit me, involuntarily and without warning. And I’m in a bind over it.
I’m sure I’m not the only one here who is over half a century old… of course the big man Gianni is a few more years advanced than I, and nothing seems to have phased his resolve to continue doing what he has done for so long. Like a priest who suddenly thinks that maybe this whole God thing is a crock of shite, I too am ruminating on the concept of Cycling and what it actually is to me, what it provides for me, and how it affects my everyday life. Thing is, my everyday life is 100% Cycling.
Over the summer, I rode my mountain bike a lot more and my road bikes a lot less. There were some outside factors affecting my decision, if it actually was a decision. The lack of a Keepers Tour meant that my previous two summers of avoiding the dirt through fear of injury was no longer a concern. A new bike that was just a total blast to ride meant that it was more often than not the one I reached for when trawling the shed for a steed on any given day. And the requirement, nay, duty, nay, obligation… oh fuck it, the desire to Look Fantastic was waning inside me. Not that I shirked my responsibility in this department, after all, I am not a savage.
When it came time for the inevitable road FRBs after weeks of dirty indulgence, The Mirror was sending me mixed signals. Everything was perfect kit-wise, but underneath the cloak things were decidedly less than neat and trim. Was I becoming a parody of everything I stood for, the very person whom The Rules was meant to be guiding? I started to get if not an understanding, then an empathy with the general population who sees not a late 40s guy in better shape than they, but a shaved-legged, sweaty poser clomping around a café in ballet shoes and clad in a thin layer plastered in logos that leaves way too little to the imagination. I was becoming the guy I hated.
So much so that I began thinking of giving it away. Not Cycling per se, but the Lycra, the cafés, the duelling with tonnes of metal piloted by those who, if given the chance, would gladly run us right over just so they can make it to the supermarket 15 seconds quicker. It seemed that mountain biking, even though there are more variables in terrain to catch you off guard, more obstacles placed in front and all around you waiting to rip skin from bone or even shatter those very bones, was a far safer option. And while not really of the opinion that mountain bikers can wear whatever the hell we want (once again, not savages), at least there is a modicum of modesty afforded by baggy shorts, loose(r) fitting tops and shoes you can actually walk in. Hell, the thought of actually growing my leg hair back seemed appealing.
But not for long. Luckily, I have a good support group of riding friends, who share my passion for both tarmac and dirt. They know how much the tradition, the purity of the road means to me, and rather than let me concede defeat, encouraged me to continue to fight the good fight. The turning point came last night, when our regular Tuesday after-work ride was being discussed throughout the day by email. Who’s in, who’s out, why? I had an overwhelming proclivity that a bunch of guys who predominantly wear black, even in the dark of a winter’s evening, choosing to do battle with peak-hour traffic for the simple pleasure of riding a bike seemed a little, well, crazy. They could’ve belittled me, questioned my manhood, or even outright insulted me, but a few words of encouragement, underpinned with empathy of my thought processes, helped me realise that this is just what we do. So we did it.
And it was good.
So very good, that I wanted to do it again today, something that has been weeks absent. Ok, I went for a mountain bike ride, solo, but the joy of being on my bike was the same as I felt last night, last month, last year. And as I reached the top of the peak, a group of different friends were there, almost by some twist of fate handed down from Mount Velomis. We descended together, and while they knew nothing of the inner demons that I was slaying on the way down, they were well aware of just how much fun I, we, were having.
Never forget the reason we ride. The answer is in the question.
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Nicely done. Although it can be distressing, removing the armor to reflect and reassess is necessary to avoid becoming dogmatic and stale. And cheers to support groups!
@Brett
The longer I have my legs hairless (I don't shave...) the more the look of hairy legs repulses me. Mate who's out of town at the moment, who refuses to shave, decided to send me a picture of his hubbard tattoo. Frankly I never got as far as seeing that tat for being repulsed by the masses of black curly hair.
I like to think by the time I can no longer ride, the hairs have given up growing back and all will be well. I don't want to go back to that for more reasons that looks!
@wiscot
And I thought you were just a historian! Right on, Man!!
Once again Bretto, you said a mouthful. That is some nice writing, a-hole. Am I the only one around here writing about pedal wrenches, FFS?
Like Rob, I've been at this for a long time. Though I debate about classifying myself as an athlete, cycling has always kept me from eating or drinking too much, from getting too unfit in the winter. It is the only sport I have any ability at and that is because cycling demands stubbornness, and not much else. When my knee seemed truly fucked and I had to contemplate not being a cyclist, that was bad. There was no answer to that question. Or no question to that answer. Whatever Brett just said.
A fine write up @brett. Kudos on finding a balance between disciplines and choosing to fight on
Quite an excellent post Brett, thank you.
As one who is nearing the half century mark myself, and having spent much of my riding life on the dirt, I've found that the juxtaposition of road, cross and mountain bikes has resulted in bit of a symbiotic relationship between the three (or more precisely between MTB/Cross and Road) where the lesser ridden two bikes at any given time help to keep the pedals turning on whatever bike is the main ride for the moment.
I.e.: During the height of the local road racing season in summer when riding tarmac can become a chore, hopping on the MTB or Crosser acts like an elixir not only for the legs but for the soul. Conversely, during the colder winter months during CX season, heading out for a nice long road ride can help to keep my head on straight and my heart full come race day.
And mountain? Well mountain seems to always be reserved primarily for fun... while I do dabble in some of the local races, it's never been as serious for me and so the majority of my MTB rides tend to be about exploration and exhilaration..."making the unknown known" as it were.
The Road is still where it all starts and ends for me - always has been, but the lure of the trail continues to pull me out of my lycra (and into some very "unbaggy" baggies) on the regular, and always it would seem at just the time I need it most.
Cheers.
Middle Age!?! HA!!!!! Yeah right. If you're gonna live to be 200.
@Brett. Great Article. Your question was answered before you even consulted your friends. That moment you looked in the mirror and saw excess written all over your body you knew deep down that MTB would not be enough. If you had moved in to the spring looking and feeling awesome, you may well have had a point, but there is no substitute for the awesome calorie burning capacity of the road.
We have always sought to recognise that comparing MTB and Road Riding is futile. They may share 2 wheels but that is where it ends. The culture, character and nature of the disciplines are completely different and somehow I doubt you would find souplesse on a MTB and without those moments, your soul would be lost.
Great that the spirit of the prophet descended on you, the mists cleared, and you found your way back on to the path.
A-Merckx!
Everything this article says echoes for me but for different reasons. I came to cycling later in life, after a hip replacement in my early fifties, and after half a life [optimism bias I think there maybe] of other sports and dipping in and out of riding. And how I regret not having found the Way earlier [everything worthwhile I know, more or less, is from you guys by the way, so thank you]. I'll never race, never win, but so what? I've found something so purely joyful, thrilling and satisfying it doesn't matter. Sure, I compete against myself true - the improvement on average speed, the development of technique, the getting up climbs I had to walk at the beginning. It's a great place to be. More. The ride's become a moving meditation, a place to seek oblivion in the Work, a repair for the stresses of life, a place to rebuild and rebalance, and a place to grimace with the effort and then spread a grin on my face, because life really is worth living.
So to you who've had this all your time on this mortal coil, I'd say this: you don't know what you're not missing, but will if you give up.
There's a guy I meet occasionally on the backroads: he's in his late seventies, the jersey's a bit more relaxed than in his racing days [he won quite a few national races in England back in the day], he goes slower these days, but he's still covering hundreds of kilometres a week, and though he'd never heard of this place, boy is he rule compliant. I asked him once if he'd ever thought of stopping. He looked at me like I was quite, utterly mad, then said -
Biking. Breathing. Same.
Wow. Fantastic article. Great commentary.
Not 50 yet , but it's creeping up faster and faster. At this point in life I do ponder why I love to ride so much. I'm not a racer, never have been. I'm one of those "soul surfer" cyclist types. Other than my beautiful velomiwife, cycling and bicycles have been one of my great love affairs.
A year and a half ago, on one of my daily commutes( I'm a rabid commuter), I was hit not by the man with the hammer but by the man with the truck. Two broken arms, massive concussion, emergency surgery to repair shattered wrists, 8,000 dollars of hardware keeping right hand connected to the rest of my arm. During the initial recovery process, I had a lot of timr to ponder deep thoughts. Was it all worth it? Fucking A right it was.
I never was truly aware how much I loved cycling till it was taken away. You never miss the water till the well goes dry and all. At this point, I am stronger than I ever was before I was hit. Whenever I ride, and that is as often as possible, I am acutely aware of what a gift it is just to be able to ride at all.
I ride for countless reasons and I could go on ad ifinitum, but I won't, 'cause that would be boring . Suffice it to say, Live to ride, ride to live.
Thats my motto and I'm sticking with it.