We are cyclists, the rest of the world merely rides a bike. What defines us as cyclists? Can a recumbent rider be a cyclist, a unicyclist, a fat recumbent rider with hairy legs and a YJA on? I think yes but am I snob for even asking?
Years ago, I was helping a woman at another research institution set up some scientific equipment. Evidently we kept our small talk very small because it never came up that she was the wife of a cyclist friend, Paul. I had ridden with this guy many times, he used to race a lot, and he always put in his miles. Eventually, he and I put it together that I had been working with his wife.
“She didn’t think you were cyclist, as you didn’t have shaved legs.”
Boom, lightening struck, really, that’s the requisite? I had dabbled in racing fleetingly and shave up for it but unless one was somewhere in the spectrum between racer and ex-racer, I thought it was almost false advertising to shave the legs. I rode nearly as much as Paul, I was probably more obsessed with professional european cycling than he was. Actually, I had to have been a lot more obsessed than him, he had a PhD and could not spend his lunch break cloistered in his office reading Cycling News online, every day, could he? Was I not a cyclist too?
In the 1970s at a big college where I knew no one, I became best friends with a fellow misfit, Mark. He had raced on the boards through his high school years, racing at the outdoor velodrome in Northbrook, Illinois. The Chicago area must have been a hot bed of American cycling back then. High school youth with too much energy could channel it into track racing on bikes when it was warm and track racing on speed-skates when it was cold. We bonded over Jimi, not Eddy but he had a huge poster of Eddy Merckx in his dorm room. I had never seen that before. I dare say he worshiped Eddy. He agonized over still referring to himself as a track racer, though he had not raced in two years. I didn’t understand at the time how important a question this was to him. It was his identity. Let’s see, you haven’t raced in a long time, and you have a bong in your hand, you might not be a bike racer anymore, I thought, but I didn’t get it. He was still a cyclist.
It was his unbridled enthusiasm for bikes and cycling that opened my eyes. He understood a whole universe I was unaware of and even though we were the same age, he became my sensi.
We both dropped out of school that year and the sensi began his work. His Campagnolo-ed up Frejus road bike was always spotless. He taught me by example only, everything about looking fantastic on the bike. He was the one who insisted we take apart my brand new, as yet unridden Peugeot PX-10 down to the ball bearings and rebuild it properly. He was a Velominati long before there were Velominati. As a sad endnote to this, Mark died in his sleep in his early twenties; some cruel syndrome that kills young healthy men for no known reason. One of his track jerseys has always hung deep in my closet. It remains, as the idea of discarding it is still impossible.
So what makes us cyclists instead of just bike riders? Is it love? Does loving to ride any wheeled (I’m not unicyclist phobic) machine do it? Is it the need to ride where we cross the line? If riding defines us and we are good with that, then we are cyclists.
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@The Vid
And I politely disagree also...if it's the difference between riding and not riding, the Velominatus refers to Rule 5 and hits the road, mismatched wheels and all. It is beyond mention that the Velominatus first exhausts every other available option for preserving the aesthetics of his machine, however.
I know many hairy-legged heavy YJA-wearing brevet dudes that will ride your ass into the ground and leave you begging for mercy. 400k is a walk in the park to these guys.
You may be a cyclist if?
Your favorite way to travel is on a bike anywhere, anytime.
You need to ride.
You shift your weight back on the saddle as you pull on the front brake.
You feel naked without a helmet even to the corner store.
Clipping in is thoughtless.
Your pedal stroke is round, smooth like butter.
You ride a straight line because that is what the bike does.
The word overlap is not in your vocabulary.
You do or would own more than 3 bikes.
You never ride on the sidewalk/pavement unless it is at a walking pace.
You never ride against traffic, never.
Your line does not change when you drink/eat, look back or take off your gilet.
Your sunnies go over the straps.
Your machine is respected.
Your body is just a means to ride and therefor respected.
Your can repair tires (in the rain) and maintain the machine.
You unweight properly and don't get pinch flats.
Your bike fits.
Some things that make one a cyclist:
You have a bike & ride it
You know what "Shut up legs!" means & who famously said it
You ogle others bikes like most men stare at nubile young women on the street
You ride a Bro-set of Grouppo, NOT a Group-San
You read VeloNews, CyclingNews, INRNG, Velominati, or all of them
You know who Adam Hansen is & respect the hell out of him
You believe Mr Merckx is the Prophet & the greatest athlete ever to compete
There is only one true measure of a cyclist, the ability to make ourselves suffer, a great cyclist simply has a greater ability to suffer than you do.
Suffering isn't the only measure of a cyclist. Think about Rule #6. Some suffering may be inevitable, but the sheer joy of riding the bike is its best reward.
@Jay
"you're probably not riding hard enough"
@antihero
I see your argument, and can not disagree. I shall now meditate on The Rules and add an extra hill repeat session this week.
@The Vid Think of the Whistler GF as a Stage finish on the Col du Tourmalet or Mont Ventoux ... only about 1400 m less in elevation.
However, the view of sunrise over Burrard Inlet as you cross the Lions Gate Bridge and the subsequent scenery of Howe Sound and the Tantalus Range make the steady climb from Squamish more than worth the effort. And if you really need the descent then you stay overnight at ride back to Vancouver next day, or the same afternoon depending on the degree of Rule #10 you choose to apply.
@Barracuda I used to ride at night and flick off the lights when I went through the graveyard and Confederation Park, navigating the turns and big curbs by moonlight (and memory) Pretty stupid. I think I'll go tonight.
The other night on my way home from town on the 9 bike, I saw my shadow on the ground beside me and then in front of me as the street light receded. I could see the difference in how I move on the machine after a year of commuting, riding with a club, doing gran fondo's over the season, and generally immersing myself in the rules.
The silence, the feeling of being at one with the bike, wanting to close my eyes and get more deeply absorbed in the pure motion. It was an insight that showed me I was a true cyclist.
In the words of Bob, " Who feels it knows it Lord"