There is a sense of weightlessness that accompanies speed; a strange feeling for any Earthbound creature who temporarily breaks Gravity’s relentless grip – an intoxicating blend of liberty and a sense impeding doom. The day I learned to ride a bike, I felt this sensation spread through me like a virus; immediately my eyes cast to the dirt trail behind the house as the most obvious opportunity to discover just how fast I could go and how far I could get. The excitement filled first my hands and my feet, then it billowed up through body to my shoulders and dazzled me with splendidly blurred vision as I sped down that very trail which previously I had only ever walked along.
The freedom that accompanied these feeling lingers with me today, and their intoxicating qualities express themselves every time my eyes cast upon a bicycle.
The bicycle has represented freedom to Cyclists since well before the turn of the last century. From the start, the question of how far and how fast the bicycle can be ridden has captivated not only those riding, but anyone who cares to spectate. A kilometer, then 5, then 500; race organizers quickly discovered what any modern Cyclist knows; make a ride sound crazy enough, and you’ll attract more than enough idiots to make a spectacle. So was born the sport of Bicycle Racing.
The classical tale we tell is that throughout the pre-War and post-War eras; when Cycling represented a reprieve from the labor of a hard daily life underground or in the fields. Many of the competitors in the Tour were workers who took time from their usual work to race across the great expanse of France. Even the great champions of Cycling’s Golden Era in the 1950’s would have chanced a life with hands gripping a set of handlebars against sickle, hammer, or shovel. Bobet, Anquetil, our Prophet Merckx, Hinault, and Fignon faced life in a field or market versus life as one of the greatest shaping forces our sport has known. It wasn’t until recently when Cycling became a financially attractive occupation; Merckx, in his most winning years, earned as much as his son Axel did as a domestique in the 2000’s.
But the notion of Cycling as an escape from a hard life in the fields may not be dead yet; as many of us now know, Nairo Quintana grew up in rural Colombia, riding 18 kilometers uphill to school (both directions, and naked in four seasons of Winter, supposing our collective grandfathers shared his fate). The bicycle didn’t just free him from the confines of his childhood; the bicycle elevated Nairo Quintana and his family into another stratosphere altogether.
I don’t know very much about life in Colombia and whether his newfound fame will lead to a better or more rewarding life for him. That remains for him to discover, and like anyone who pushes into the unknown, he will need to square his new demons against his old in order to find those answers. But what I do know is that, like it did for us, the bicycle has freed him from his perceived boundaries and set him free explore new territories.
It would seem, then – at least for this moment – that the Golden Era of Cycling is not yet beyond our grasp.
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@PeakInTwoYears
I think your sample size is too limited. I'm short and squat and carry heavy things with as much efficiency and aplomb as I cycle up steep mountains.
@Chris
This then begs the question, is there any point to being big and fat. I can deploy the guns and V on the flat and rouleur myself to oblivion, but the moment the road goes uphill, I am off the back and crying for my mummy between sobs.
I do however descend like a dropped stone.
"Bobet, Anquetil, our Prophet Merckx, Hinault, and Fignon faced life in a field or market versus life as one of the greatest shaping forces our sport has known"
I don't agree; do you know why Fignon was known as "l'intello" in the peloton?
I like the site, I like the book; but I don't like when people spread half-thruths, especially about riders.
@Deakus I think you've answered your own question.
(@Chris I never said anything about a plum. Different question entirely.)
@Deakus Sounds like you're doing a good job of imitating my riding style.
I can't really see any point in being fat, other than it seems to be an awful lot easier than being skinny. Until you get to a hill or try to go fast.
I spent a month in the Andes working. The accommodation was at about 3000m to keep it comfortable but alotof the site was at about 4000m. I was smoking a bit at the time (takes ages to smoke at altitude) and unfit - 3000m was quite tough but it was amazing how much harder it was at at 4000m. We got up to 5000m a couple of times, that was an absolute killer.
@Marcus
Surely it is the genetics that makes you lack self discipine.....or at least I sincerely hope so otherwise I have no excuse.
As to your last statement....never a truer word spoken in jest....but reminding me did not get you on to my Christmas card list!
@PeakInTwoYears
Aplomb. Posh way of saying Casually Negligent or whatever it is that @frank is always banging on about.
@Chris
I climbed Gran Paradiso a few years ago 4061m...or rather I did not because between 3000m and 4000m I discovered how difficult that transition is (only one night acclimatisation which was stupid). I made it within 200m (vertical) of the summit and the tank was empty, I mean I was hardly even able to descend. Wisest decision I ever made, the weather was on the turn and the day was getting late. Wisdom is the better part of valour.
Altitude sucks...period...
@Marcus
Yeas that's what I mean - it is a combination of genetics and practice. The the idea that anyone can reach the top if they do the 10,000 hours is effectively saying that you CAN polish a turd.
The hours concept of training is really just a way of fulfilling the genetic potential - if you don't have it in the first place then you can do 20,000 hours and it won't help.
There've been some interesting studies on chess players, where people have reached significantly different levels with widely varying amounts of practice. It comes down to ability first, then developing the ability.
August 23rd until the next Grand Tour? No hockey? Crap, nothing but baseball, golf, and god forsaken CFL highlights to watch on the tele over breakfast. Maybe some female tennis grunting. Ugh.