To Match, or Not to Match

"So are you, like, allergic to matching kit?"

"Hm?"

"Well it's just that I know you own shorts and jerseys from the same manufacturers. But you never wear them together."

Caught off guard by being thus scrutinised, I quickly take stock of what I've got on. Between the shorts, jersey, jacket and various warmers I count 5 different brands. Okay, the man's got a point. But hey, at least it's all vaguely the same colour. And what does it matter anyway?

I confess that my choice of what cycling clothes to don on a road ride is largely determined by what's clean. I ride a lot and don't have time to constantly be doing laundry. And since shorts and jerseys have different "can keep wearing it without washing" cycles, it just so happens that the clean jersey/short combo appropriate for that day's weather often won't match.

But while I don't intentionally go for the mismatched look, upon giving it some thought I realise that I am comfortable with it. More comfortable than with the slicker, more polished matching look. Because on the bike I am neither slick nor polished, it seems somehow appropriate - even "correct," if you will - that my style of dress reflect that. 

One day early this summer I was out riding and passed a couple of cyclists on a gentle descent. They were skinny boys on nice bikes, who must have been lost in conversation and taking it easy. On the next uphill they caught up to me and we got to chatting. One of them looked over my shorts and jersey. Trying to make out the writing (it was my club's name - Ride Studio Cafe), he said with a straight face: "So who is that you ride for?" For, not with. I thought he was mocking me and turned beet red (Come on, how the hell could I ride "for" anyone, spinning uphill at 10mph?). I am still not sure whether he was joking or not, but in a roundabout way that illustrates why I shy away from wearing the matchy stuff - especially with my club's name on it. 

There is all this talk among roadies about "looking pro." It is said ironically, but nonetheless meant seriously. It covers lots of things, including clothing - which, according to the rules, ought to match. In that vein, I guess I am quite happy to leave looking pro to the pros - while myself mismatching my cycling clothes with abandon. 

The Feel of the Road

I never gave much thought to the feel of pavement until I started cycling in Ireland last spring. Then I noticed the difference straight away: The tarmac, as they call it in the British Isles, felt distinctly softer than the asphalt in my part of the US. Having lived for years in the UK before I was a cyclist, I'd somehow never noticed this. But on a bike it was difficult not to. I could feel a give in the road's surface under my tires. It was also more porous, gravely in texture. Feeling more resistance than I'd come to expect from pavement, I kept wondering whether my tires had gone flat, or whether something was mechanically amiss with the folding bike I was riding. Later I learned that the roads in Ireland are a kind of chipseal. The differences I sensed were real. 

Being back this summer, and with a skinny-tire roadbike this time, the characteristics of the Irish roads feel even more pronounced. The softness and the rough texture make me exert more effort to achieve the same speed as in the US. I would place the experience as somewhere between riding on pavement and riding on tightly packed gravel. 

When the tarmac is freshly laid or repaired, the top layer can be quite loose. It also loosens easily after stretches of bad weather. Cornering on such sections without realising what you're dealing with can be dangerous. 

There are other interesting effects. Once I did a long distance ride in a 75°F "heatwave." On the return leg around 4pm, I noticed that the road in front of me was glistening, getting shinier and more liquid-looking by the minute - almost as if it were melting. I thought to myself "Nah, can't be. I must be tired and imagining things." Next things I know, viscous clumps of tar were sticking to my tires and clogging my brakes. I had to pull over and scrape the gooey black chunks off, then use a stick to knock the hardened clumps out of the brake calipers. Then I sat in the shade and waited for an hour, until the road cooled off enough to continue home. To my relief, the following day everyone was talking about the melting tarmac, so at least I did not hallucinate the surreal experience. I guess the tarmac here is not rated to withstand such boiling temperatures!

If you're riding a harsh-feeling bike on Irish roads, you'll know it. The rough texture exaggerates the jarring sensations of road buzz. When I tried a friend's racing bike, my hands were vibrating so much I could not believe it. "Oh it's like riding on razor blades, to be sure," he laughed. I stroked my own bike with renewed appreciation. 

Once I do get used to the roads here, the roads in the US feel unnaturally hard and smooth in comparison, and readjusting to them takes some time as well. As for the New England potholes... well, that is a topic that deserves its own post, possibly in poem form.

Tracing the Tangles

In theory, cycling on Cape Ann - with its miles of rocky beaches and its quaint villages - should be idyllic. In practice, it is all main roads, devoid of shade and dense with traffic, along a largely hypothetical coastline. The water views are obscured by developments and the sea is strangely scentless much of the time. Add to that the crater-sized potholes, the unyielding drivers, and the mosquitos immune to insect repellant - and frankly I don't find it so idyllic at all.

But stubbornly I persist: the same old 45 rolling miles, from Rockport to Ipswich and back. There is exactly one stretch of backroad along my route, and I anticipate it as one might anticipate a tart fruity filling in an otherwise bland pie.

There is only one stretch of backroad, but this stretch has a little of everything: climbing, quiet, overhanging trees, wooden bridges over saltwater marshes. And the part I look forward to most are the twists. The narrow road loops abruptly to the left, then to the right, then to the left again, then - who knows. It twists haphazardly - not so much a series of hairpins, as a mess of tangles.

As a young girl I once found a stray length of golden chain in my grandmother's garden. It was thin and delicate, the kind of chain meant to be worn with a pendant. But now it was dirty and torn and missing a clasp - not really of use to anyone. I remember standing there and spilling it back and forth from one hand to the other, fascinated by the curves and tangles it made each time it settled on my palm. I would trace the tangles with my eyes and it was an act of meditation.

This memory comes out of nowhere as I now trace the twists of the road on my bike. Or rather, it is the bike that traces them. I merely hang on and take it all in, savoring the experience. The bike leans dramatically left, then right, then left, then ...who knows. And I relax and lose myself in the meditative feel of it, my hands keeping clear of the brakes. I can't tell you how I finally learned to corner. It just happened one day. It emerged from a tangle of experiences, memories, emotions.

Hey. You Look Good.

Looking straight at her, he said it with nonchalant sincerity, nodding in approval for emphasis.

"Hey. You look good."

In response she gave him a startled, almost bewildered look. As if caught off guard by his directness. As if to say "Hey buddy, this is a cycling club, not a night club. And don't you know any subtler flirting tactics besides?"

Witnessing the exchange I had to suppress a laugh. When this phrase was first said to me on a ride, I did not know what to make of it either.

Of course the guy was telling her she looked good on the bike. That her position was good, that the bike fit her well, that she had good form. It's all in the tone and in the look. Once you get used to this pronouncement in a cycling context, it's hard to mistake for flirtation. But the first time it does catch you off guard. "You look good." Just like that, huh?

I don't tell other cyclists they look good on the bike when we ride together. I don't feel ready. What do I know good form from bad? Yes I see things, and I think it to myself. But it wouldn't be right to say it. The compliment must have significance.

But when I have my camera the dynamic changes. I tell riders they look good then, and it takes on a different meaning: happy, radiant, picturesque. Maybe they have a contagious smile. Or an intriguing frown. Or the light through the trees is falling on their face just so. Or the colour of their bike interacts perfectly with the colours of the bench they are standing beside. It feels natural to say it then, looking through the lens of my camera. "You look wonderful." Or "That's beautiful - thank you."

And there are times when I know not to say it. Just like sometimes I know not to point my camera. Even though the scene looks perfect, I just don't.

The human gaze is such a complicated thing. It communicates interest, care, the acknowledgement of the other, but also scrutiny. We want to be gazed upon to some extent, but there is always a line beyond which we don't. In cycling, the gaze is ever present - focused on each other's bodies, movements. Sometimes it is silent judgment. And sometimes it culminates in "Hey. You look good." In response to which I simply say "Thanks" and continue to pedal.

Bee-Happy

Though I have a surprisingly good track record of not crashing my bike, that does not mean I haven't gotten hurt cycling. And for whatever strange reason, the main cause of that hurt has been bees. That's right, bees.

For the record, until 5 years ago I have never had a problem with the stripey, fuzzy, industrious, winged little creatures. They are handsome. They are useful. And they make delicious sweet honey. But no sooner had I put foot to pedal than our relationship soured.

In Spring 2009 I was cycling along the Danube Bike Path outside Vienna, when a whale of a bumble bee flew directly into my face. When our worlds collided, I was going 12mph on an upright bike and it was going full bumblebee speed. It didn't sting me. It sort of bounced off my eye, just beneath the right brow bone. But the impact had such force, that I walked around with a black eye for a week. This was back when I had a 9-5 job, with an office and Important Meetings and everything. Explaining this incident - in English and German and sometimes other languages too - never failed to delight, especially when I had to resort to pantomime. Pedal-pedal-pedal... bzzz... smack, I would gesture. My audience would positively beam with understanding. Aaaaaah, yes-yes, oop-pa!

I submit to you some statistics. Before I began cycling, I'd only been stung by a bee once, maybe twice in my life. Since I began cycling? At least half a dozen times. In fact the number might be closer to 10. The first time was a shock, the second time an annoyance. After that I began to take it in stride. Still, there are a few memorable stings. Like that beautiful spring day on which I first exposed my ankles, donning 3/4 shorts instead of full length tights, only to be stung in one of said ankles, causing a baseball sized swelling. Or that time I first rode to the Fruitlands with Pamela, and, just before reaching the top of the big climb, was stung in the fold between thigh and crotch. Or the time I was stung on the palm of my hand whilst holding the handlebars and wearing cycling gloves. I admit that continuing to hold the bars for the last 20 miles home caused some whimpering.

And then there was yesterday. Just 4 miles into a 40 mile ride, I am bombing (well, okay - proceeding cautiously) downhill, when smack! A bee flies directly into my sunglasses, bouncing off the lower edge of the right lens, then off my cheekbone, before falling to the ground. At first I don't even bother slowing down. But then I realise that the creature managed to actually sting me whilst performing its death throe acrobatics. The pain is sharp, then piercing, then downright unbearable. Finally I pull over and get off the bike. By this time the right side of my face feels like it's going numb. Of all the symptoms I know associated with bee stings, this one surprises me and I calmly wonder whether Something Bad is Happening. I pull out my phone and send a text message to my husband (who has ER experience and is great for quick unsentimental feedback). I try to be precise: "stung by bee below right eye. side face numb. keep riding or seek med help?"

Unfortunately this happens in a spot with poor cell phone reception and I am not able to send the text. Or search for "bee sting, numbness" on the internet. So I decide to keep riding until I find an establishment with a bathroom where I could clean the sting and get a better look at it. This does not take long, as the area is chock full of ice cream shops and lobster shacks placed every 2/3rd of a mile or so along the coastal roads. Despite the morning hour, the nearest lobster place is already open. They have not only a bathroom but also one of those first aid ice packs that doesn't become an ice pack until you activate it. The waitresses observe with interest, elbows on the sink, as I luxuriate in their cool bathroom, washing the sunscreen and sweat and grime off my face, then applying the ice pack to the now-swollen area.

At length the numbness wears off and now only the pain of the sting remains. I reason this means I'm okay and decide to keep riding. Maybe the pain of the sting and the pain of the cycling (I plan to practice standing again - hoping to beat my 1/2 mile at a time record) would cancel each other out. This proves a good strategy and I proceed to have a lovely ride. Later in the day the swelling and pain subside and by the time I go to bed the incident is nearly forgotten.

Alas this morning I open my eyes and discover I cannot open the right one completely. The area beneath it looks like a misshapen tomato. Apparently this is pretty normal for a bee sting under the eye; it can take up to a week for the swelling to go down. Bees!

But you know how the song goes... "when the bee stings/ my favourite things" and all that? So I went on a squinty early morning bike ride and didn't feel so bad. The Advil probably helped too.

The Other Side of the Road

Back in Boston for a few days, I am in re-adjustment limbo - feeling tentative, not altogether present. Everything here is so familiar - the roads, the sounds, the smells, the people. And at the same time it all feels utterly strange, as if replaced with a hologram of the real thing. A muggy heat engulfs me when I exit the airport, giving the landscape that hazy, blurry, flickering look.

In this disoriented state, I decide to join my cycling club's Tuesday morning 100K ride. I need to feel more solid, planted, integrated into reality - and I realise this is the best way I know how. The thought irritates me. Since when did cycling turn into this? This... defining thing, this part of my chemical composition?

In the morning, logistics are irrelevant. I pull together a mismatched outfit from the hamper. I don't have my roadbike, so I grab the cyclocross bike that still lives at my house. And then I push off - on the right ("wrong!" my brain screams) side of the road, in morning commuter traffic. On autopilot, I weave my way to the Ride Studio Cafe and the miles between us disappear.

No one knows I am coming, not even Pamela. Reluctant to admit to myself that I miss her, I nonetheless watch the door in anticipation, until there she is - platinum braids thick as ropes, tanned slender limbs, Southern accent and all. She is duly surprised by my presence and we talk in bursts, in the way of friends who have not talked in some time. "You think I'll be okay on this bike?" I point to the fat all-terrain tires. Pamela waves it away nonchalantly, as if to say "Bikes! What do they matter. Let's go."

Of course everyone but me is on skinny tire racing bikes. The thought that this might be brutal drifts through my mind. The Tuesday rides are described as "social pace," but of course for me that means "best effort pace." My eyes are swollen from lack of sleep and my legs ache from the sum of all earlier rides. I realise that brutal might actually feel good right about now. Again, I am irritated at the thought. Now why would brutal feel good, what on earth is wrong with me?

It is obscenely hot and the turnout is low today. The 5 of us set off in a single file and stay that way for most of the ride. Remarkably, I am in the middle of the group, rather than struggling behind it. My legs turn the pedals as I play a little game I learned in Ireland, called "same cadence, bigger gear." It is a fun, but painful game. I have played it for 10, 20 miles at a time before. Today I would play it for 60.

We arrive in Harvard, MA, eat lunch, then climb to the Fruitlands. On top, we stop at the side of the road to take in the view of surrounding mountains. After Northern Ireland, this strikes me as funny, that there is a specific destination with "the view." Over there, the landscape is so open that the view is everywhere. As you're riding, you can see for miles and miles - undulating glens, the sea, the entire Sperrins mountain range, even the hills of Donegal across the water. By contrast New England is so woodsy that you seldom see beyond your immediate surroundings; it is as if you are riding through a tunnel the entire time. Psychologically this feels very different. Riding through forests turns me inward; riding through glens opens me up.

The descents here feel tame compared to what I've been doing in previous weeks. On the other hand, the condition of the roads is even worse than I remembered - enormous cracks, ridges, gaping ditch-sized holes in the crumpling pavement - stunning when you're not used to it. But the texture of the pavement itself is smoother. In Ireland, the tarmac is a sort of chipseal, its surface nearly as rough as gravel at times.

By the afternoon, the heat has reached its apex and we all feel it. We start to take breaks now. We groan, we pour water over our jerseys. I am drained, but also lulled into a pleasurable trance by the intense scent of pine trees in the heat - this is something I've missed. My legs are leaden and I am caked in salt, but I give it one last push, inspired by Scott's relentless pace. Scott is a strong rider, whose compact, muscular body looks like a purpose-built machine when he pedals. I focus on staying on his wheel. Even though I know he is controlling his speed for my sake, just being able to follow him like this feels unreasonably good. Then I push further still and lead for the last couple of miles.

Back at the club house I hear "Hey, you're back!" The familiar voices are as welcome as the blast of air conditioning that greets us. Suddenly shy from the attention and the disconcerting sense of ...what's the word I'm looking for, belonging? I mumble "Yes... Well no, I'm only here for a couple of days." But with my legs weighing me down, Pamela sipping iced coffee at the bar, and the jungle of bikes suspended from the ceiling, I do start to feel more grounded, and Boston starts to feel realer.

To Know a Mountain

The mountain is impossible to ignore. I see it from my window first thing in the morning and last thing before the light fades - nearly at midnight on a summer's night. I see it when I ride to and from town, and when I ride in loops around the countryside. No matter where I go and what I do, the mountain is always there, an enormous living, breathing thing, looming over the landscape.

At 1,263 feet, Binevenagh (pronounced "be-NEvna") is actually quite small. But it cuts a dashing figure on the Limavady landscape. It stands alone, outlined crisply against the ever-changing sky. Seen from the seashore, it resembles a crumpled old hat (or the snake that ate the elephant drawing from the Little Prince). From other vantage points, a jagged edge protrudes. Steep on all sides, it is topped with a large lumpy plateau, covered with forests and meadows.

Gazing at the mountain everywhere I went, all I could think of was climbing it. I hesitated at first. It felt so special I did not want to rush it. But finally one morning I woke up and knew it was time. The atmosphere was festive.

The road up Binevenagh starts directly from the house. But a friend suggested I take a detour - swinging around the coast, then turning onto another road to give myself a bit of a warmup before the climb. "Even with that frying pan of yours, you'll need it!" He was referring to the 11-36t cassette my bike was decorated with.

The ascent is relatively short and steep: 1,045 feet of climbing over 3.5miles. It is continuous climbing, much of it at a 10%+ grade, the road steepening, letting up, then steepening again. Right off the bat, the pitch was tough. I went at a good rhythm, but after a mile stopped to take a breather at a crossroads. Most of the mountain continued to tower ahead; I had hardly chipped away at it.

But when I turned around, the evidence of the mile I'd already done was in plain sight: A sharp dip, and the hills of Donegal spread out behind a shimmering sliver of water. Still narrow from this vantage point, the Lough Foyle is a saltwater inlet that separates the western part of Northern Ireland from the northwestern tip of the Republic. The border between the two nations is rather picturesque here. Climbing Binevenagh, the view becomes more breathtaking with each push of the pedals. And the sheep become more frequent.

How to describe this climb... The pitch was doable in my low gears. But the continuous steep grade made it tiring. I switched between my 3-4 lowest cogs and stood up occasionally (something I've finally learned to do), and tried not to get overwhelmed. I ignored my legs and focused on the scenery, aiming my eye at the top. As I kept going, the sheep were like loyal spectators. They looked at me with sympathy, understanding, encouragement. I was not miserable on the climb; it was a peaceful and oddly calming experience.

For some time, the sheep were my only company. Until, out of nowhere, a man in blue pulled up next to me. Even as I spotted him in my peripheral vision, I knew he was a Cyclist. Slender and agile, he moved so fluidly, it looked like liquid pouring uphill. Riding next to me, he matched my pace effortlessly as we talked. He lived nearby and loved to train on this mountain. He was an endurance cyclist, and rode in the Race Across America last year. Before we parted ways at the top, he introduced himself: Joe Barr.

I watched him disappear down the other side of the mountain, as beautifully as he climbed. Later I learned he was a retired Irish pro-racer.

The top of Binevenagh... The plateau covers a large area, and the highest point is somewhat uneventful. A painted bridge over a stream, a scraggly meadow with Queen Anne's Lace and buttercups, a forest in the background, and lots of sky with very distant views of water. From here on, there are several options for descending. One starts right away and is fairly steep and twisty, consistently throughout. Another is further down the plateau. It is longer and gentler most of the way, until it ends in a sudden, sharply winding vertical drop to the sea at the very end. 

To start with I chose the first descent. The steep, narrow, winding road pushed my comfort zone. I was in control around the bends, but had to work on myself to keep calm. I did breathing exercises to keep from shaking and destabilising the bike. Descending on the left side of the road felt intuitive; my brain had already switched over.

This descent was a heavily shaded one, winding its way through a forest.

But after every bend, a view opened up, each more beautiful than the next. If it is possible to feel both cautious and relaxed at the same time, that is how descending this road felt.

Cars passed me up the road occasionally, the drivers waving, friendly  - something I am still getting used to here. Toward the bottom, one driver was trying to communicate something urgently, which I did not understand - until I saw a row of pointy brown ears up ahead. Quickly I stopped, dismounted and clambered up the side of the road to let the herd of cows pass. 

The final winding stretch dumped me onto the coastal road unceremoniously. Feeling sad it was over, I repeated the loop, then crawled home, spent and drunk on mountain air.

Several days later, I climbed Binevenagh again to try one of the other descents. The road along the plateau offered wide open views of both the Lough Foyle and the North Atlantic.

I rode through a dreamscape of hot-pink sheep grazing upon neon green grass, as the sun came out over the hills of Donegal.

At the far end of the plateau stood "the boat man," as the locals refer to him. He is Manannán mac Lir, a god of the sea - a new statue the local council has erected just in the past week. Facing Magilligan Point (entrance to the Lough Foyle on the Northern Ireland side) - the mythical wood-carved figure spreads his arms over land and water of the bordering nations. 

Standing there, I remembered being at Magilligan Point, at the ground level, and looking up at the mountain from there. Some form of symmetry had been achieved. 

The descent was long, tame and idyllic, rolling through farmlands. But at the end came the stretch I had been warned about: This section winds tightly, down a steep grade. I was advised to either walk or ride the brakes once I saw the crumbling rocks sign. Over the course of two loops, I tried both methods. Riding slowly with good brakes is actually a bit easier than walking the bike. 

After some S-bends, another sharp bend follows before a vertical drop onto the main road across from the water.

The spot is Downhill - defined by the magnificent view of the Mussenden Temple - a round structure at the edge of a cliff, which a nobleman had built for his niece... with whom he may or may not have had an affair with. The niece died before the temple was finished, infusing the story with an extra air of tragic poeticism.

I looked back at the road I had come down. I was not as shaken as I thought I'd be by the descent. But with the rush and the beauty of it over, I felt lost - so much emotion can build up along these stretches, and it has nowhere to go. Maybe that is why the cliffs looked especially beautiful in the evening light. And maybe that is why I put all my remaining energy into the 10 miles home along the flat coastal road. Big ring, small cog, setting sun, burning legs, cold air, sprays of water, and Binevenagh towering over it all. Turning the pedals madly as I raced home, I already longed to be up there again.

Monday Mailbox: Treating Saddle Sores

Monday Mailbox is a series of posts dedicated to questions received over email. Here is one that pops up now and again:

This is embarrassing, but lately I've been getting what I think are saddle sores after long rides. How can I tell that is what they are? And do you have any advice for treating them?

Saddle sores are one of those common, yet mysterious problems that cyclists love to discuss endlessly. I am just one voice among many and by no means an expert. Happily, I was spared the affliction of saddle sores for my first three and a half years on the bike. It is only recently, when I started covering longer distances, that I began to get them occasionally.

What exactly is a saddle sore? Part of the reason there is so much mystique and different advice out there, is that there is no single medical definition. But at least everyone agrees about their location. Saddle sores appear on the crotch, where it comes in contact with the saddle. Popular spots include the uppermost inner thighs, the "taint," and that transitional ridge where leg becomes butt.

One opinion is that saddle sores are boils caused by abrasions. Another is that they are some special, horrible type of cyst that forms as a result of fluid buildup. But probably the most popular opinion is that they are infected hair follicles. It is very possible that in fact they can be any or all of these things, depending on the rider and cause - which also means that treatment and prevention methods might differ depending on what type it is. Based on my own observations, the infected follicle theory makes the most sense, so that is what I am going with. And as it happens, I've discovered a fairly quick and simple way to get rid of them. Who knows, it might work for you. So here is what I do:

After a ride, shower as soon as possible using non-perfumed soap. Once the area is clean, you will need two ingredients: tea tree oil and vaseline. It's important that the tea tree oil is just that, and not, say, a moisturiser containing it as an ingredient. Plain tea tree oil is now available in many mainstream pharmacies, so sourcing it should not be a problem. 

Using a cotton swab, apply tea tree oil to the affected areas - but be careful not to get it onto any mucus membranes, as that could hurt. Once it dries, follow up with vaseline. Repeat every few hours, washing the area before each re-application. 

While the sores heal, either stay off the bike, or ride a bike where the way your crotch contacts the saddle is sufficiently different. Wear breathable underwear made of natural fibers. 

Using this method, any saddle sores I get go away within 2-3 days. For anything more serious I have no advice, as I've never experienced it myself. Needless to say, if your sores are not going away, consider seeing a doctor.

As far as prevention, there is of course the common sense advice: Find a saddle and shorts that work for you. Increase distances gradually. Use chamois cream to reduce friction. Be sure to shower before and after every ride. And always, always wear clean shorts. However, this is not always sufficient. Even the cleanest, most hygienic pair of shorts will turn into a bacterial cesspool after 10+ hours of riding. Even the most comfortable saddle can start to chafe eventually. And even if you start a ride squeaky clean, you will soon get filthy. That is to say, I don't think there is a sure prevention method once you start doing long distances. Some riders are more prone to saddle sores than others and some situations (such as hot weather) are more likely to cause them. You just have to deal with it when you get them. Hopefully for most of you saddle sores are just an occasional nuisance and not a serious problem. 

Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?

Listening to cyclists' stories about their first long or difficult rides, I often hear things like "Afterward, I wanted to throw my bike away" or "The next day, I couldn't even look at my bike."

It always struck me as interesting how the feelings of pain and exhaustion caused by riding can become associated with the bike itself. In a sense, it is easier to think of the bike, a concrete object, as the source of our discomfort than it is of a deficiency in fitness or endurance on our part. We look at the bike and remember how we felt during that hard ride. It's not so much that we literally blame the bicycle, as that the bike becomes a signifier of the pain and exhaustion we experienced. That feeling of wanting to throw it out, or not wanting to look at it, is a way of dealing with frustration over our own limitations. And of course this is in addition to the possibility that the bike itself is at least partly to blame - be it through saddle discomfort, harshness of ride, inappropriate gearing, or bad positioning.

If only mildly, I have had my share of all this. I've overdone it before, to the point of fatigue at the mere sight of a bike that only time away from it could cure.

But I am thinking of this now, because more recently I've experienced something of the opposite. Still feeling battered and drained after an especially tough ride, the morning after I walked past the bike and thought about how much I loved it, and about how much I loved cycling. It was an unexpected reaction, having tumbled out of bed feeling as if a train had run over me. After a day of passion and heartbreak, it feels good to still love it all, and to want to ride again tomorrow. 

Covering Distance

Last week I did two 100 mile rides several days apart. The first I rode on my own bike, with my camera, stopping along the way. That was really nice. The second I did on an unfamiliar demo bike, riding the course straight through except for a lunch stop. That was really nice too. The rides didn't take all day and they didn't wipe me out, allowing me to work before and after. Had time been no object, I felt as if I could have kept going.

To me, it is this private moment of realisation that "I have it in me" to do this kind of distance, casually - that feels like an accomplishment. More so than, say, an official brevet finish. It is not that I don't value organised events and their objective measures of performance. It's more that when doing an event, I already know that I can do it; I would not attempt it otherwise with all the logistics involved. In that sense, it feels not unlike taking a test based on material I've already learned. It's the learning itself that's thrilling. That "A-ha!" moment. Doing well on the test? It's nice, and often necessary. But it's not the same as the learning itself.

Maybe this line of thinking just means that I am hopelessly non-competitive. Or maybe it is simply not a good analogy. In fact almost certainly not. But there's a grain of something in it, somewhere.

Covering new distance, covering new material. And along the way that feeling of having truly grasped, understood, internalised something new - something that had previously seemed unattainable.

Apres-Cycling: the Wine Bottle Massage

I know what you're thinking. "What, don't you own a rolling pin?" Well of course I do. But I use it for printmaking, so it lives in my studio. Luckily, what I lack in baking paraphernalia, I make up for in empty wine bottles. It's not that I drink a lot of wine, but that I tend to keep the empties for years - using them as flower vases and such. So when I came home holding my thighs today and my eye searched for something rolling pin-like, a tall bottle from a Spanish red fit the bill.

It's been a while since my legs felt this tight after a ride; I have low gears on my bikes and use them. But after two long, climbing-intensive rides a couple of days apart, a massage was in order.

There are different ways to go about doing this on your own, and here is what I do: I sit on the floor with my legs stretched out in front of me. The massage can be done on bare legs or over clothing, such as loose pajama bottoms (just not anything made of thick fabric, like jeans). I hold the bottle firmly, in one or both hands (there is no second handle as you would have on a rolling pin, but it still works okay), and move it in a gentle rolling motion up and down whatever muscles feel tight, in long strokes, at an even pressure. I use light to medium pressure, but others press harder - whatever feels right. Also, some prefer to sit on a chair, rather than stretched out on the floor. Try it both ways and see what feels better. If you need to do the back of your legs and don't have anyone to help, you can do it yourself standing up. A little awkward, but doable. Either way, this simple leg massage technique works surprisingly well on stiff, achy, or even just tired leg muscles in a fairly short amount of time. I have even seen cyclists do this during rides - using their mini bicycle pumps.

Of course if you have an unopened bottle of wine, you could combine the bottle massage with a glass of its contents for that extra bit of relaxation. A versatile product to keep on hand.

A Dabble in Route Planning

The past year has been a great eye-opener for me as far as finding new places to ride in an area I thought I'd exhausted. In particular, I've been impressed by local randonneuse Pamela Blalock's ability to design routes entirely along back roads, with minimal motorised traffic. This style of route involves more climbing than typical, and, at times, some intense navigation. But having gotten used to both, I've come to appreciate the opportunities routes like this provide: to travel on my bike largely undisturbed by cars, and to truly get to know an area, with all its hidden scenery and useful shortcuts. I also appreciate that Pamela's routes are not a matter of luck or psychic powers, but of dedicated research and strategic exploring. 

Until recently I did not feel sufficiently confident in my navigation skills to try this myself, but now that is changing. I am planning a ride heading North, and getting out of Boston straight up the coast is a thoroughly unpleasant business. There is no good way to do it; for the first 10 miles it is all dangerous roads and lots of congestion. So I wanted to plan a route that would swing out west and come around from there, connecting to the northern route at a point where it calms down. This adds about 30 extra miles to the start of the trip, but I will take 40 pleasant miles over 10 unpleasant ones any time. 

In planning the westward route extension, my goal was to try and do it along lightly traveled back roads, possibly with some unpaved stretches. I started by studying similar routes that go through the area, combining and modifying them based on personal experience, maps, and educated guesswork, until I'd strung something together that went where I needed it to go. I loaded the route onto GPS, printed out a cue sheet, and got on my bike to test out my handiwork.

For my first time trying something like this, it wasn't bad. There were lots of turns that would drive some people nuts and a few awkward climbs - the kind where a climb starts right after a sharp turn, catching you by surprise, so that you're downshifting madly from a high gear. This I didn't mind, particularly since I was the only vehicle on the road much of the time. But there was also a couple of mistakes/ surprises - not necessarily bad, but educational.

My route included a few unpaved trails, all except one of which I was already familiar with. The one I was not familiar with turned out to be more technical than I'd expected. 

A shortcut through the woods, the narrow bumpy trail wound its way downhill between trees rather tightly. I was able to ride it, but made a note to avoid it on skinny tires, in wet weather and in the dark. Looking at the map, I saw there was a way to circumvent the woods on the road, so I then went back and tested that stretch to make sure it was a sufficiently traffic-free alternative. 

While not ideal for all bikes and all occasions, this trail proved to be incredibly scenic this time of year. For much of it, I cycled under a canopy of budding magnolia blossoms. The sun brought out their colours against the blue sky, and the warm weather brought out their scent.

Riding here, I felt as if I'd been gifted a rare glimpse into something special and rare. Only for 2 weeks of the year do these flowers blossom. And all it takes is one windy, rainy day, for all this tentative pinkness to be stripped off its branches before the flowers even fully open up.   

Spring is such a delicate time of the year. The greens are pale, the tangled trees are transparent like lace. In the summer this will all become fuller, heavier, thicker - a dense fabric. 

Even moss is paler and softer. I love coming back to the woods season after season and seeing it all change.

Further along, I found myself on a stretch of road that was much busier than expected. So I changed course in hopes of finding a better alternative. On the map I saw a tangle of side streets that it looked like I could ride through to get to my next point, skipping the busy road. So I did just that, and found myself in a cul-de-sac neighbourhood situated on a substantial hill. Looking for the best route, I ended up going over this hill several times from different directions, until I found the sequence I was happiest with. 

On one of the streets I passed a group of small boys with their kids' bikes. The poor things could only ride them up and down short stretches in front of their house before the road became too steep. Seeing me continue all the way up the hill, the boys stopped what they were doing, stood still and stared, saying "Whoa, I want to do that!" and "That's a nice bike, lady!" They had not reached that age yet where youthful mockery becomes hard to detect; it was clear their delight was genuine.

Later, I encountered a woman walking a llama, as casually as if she were walking a dog. Normally I am not good at making quick u-turns, but this time it was no problem (llama!).

Heading home along a quiet trail, I realised that in the course of the past 50 miles there had only been a few stretches with noticeable car traffic. And now that I had a better understanding of the neighbourhoods around those stretches, I could make changes to improve those parts as well. It wasn't perfect, but I am pretty happy with my first serious attempt at backroad route planning. Even the parts that did not go as expected allowed me to explore and discover interesting pockets I would have otherwise missed.

Having a network of new, "secret" as some locals refer to them, routes through familiar areas is extremely exciting and a great way to travel. I am looking forward to doing more of this!

Monday Mailbox: Cycling with Men vs Cycling with Women

Monday Mailbox is a weekly post dedicated to questions received over email. Here is one that taps into a popular topic:

Until now I've been cycling on my own, but I am considering club rides. I see that most cycling clubs in my area offer women's rides in addition to their regular [mixed gender] rides, with the idea that this helps women feel more comfortable. [Also,] talking to women [cyclists] I get the sense that riding with men is not such a nice experience. What are your impressions of cycling with men vs other women? Is there an advantage to women only rides?

From personal experience (as opposed to stories others tell me), I have not formed any generalised impressions of gender as tied to specific cycling behaviours. 

For background: I occasionally take part in women-only club rides, as well as in mixed gender club rides. I also do lots of informal riding with 1-3 cycling buddies at a time, and the gender split there is roughly 50/50 (meaning, roughly half of my cycling buddies are men and half are women).

Among the people I ride with, I cannot say I notice a difference in riding style based on gender. Possibly this is because other differences are more prominent. For instance, there are experienced riders versus inexperienced ones. There are competitive riders versus non-competitive ones. Some riders are aggressive and take risks, while others are mellow and risk-averse. There is a category of riders who only talk about cycling while they're cycling (technique, nutrition, bikes), versus those who talk about anything but (philosophy, politics, gossip). I can think of other classification systems before gender starts to seem relevant. 

As far as advantages to women-only rides... As I understand it, the assumptions there are that: (1) women enjoy the opportunity to socialise with other women, and (2) women feel less self-conscious without men around. If this applies to you, then that would certainly be the advantage. However, it does not apply to all women, including myself. Men don't inherently make me nervous, and women don't inherently put me at ease, it's really more about the individual. I'll join a women's ride if I want to ride that day, but not because it's a women's-only ride.

Judging by how often this topic comes up, I recognise it as a serious issue and don't mean to be dismissive. For women who, for whatever reason, feel uncomfortable riding with men, women-only club rides are a valuable resource. In that sense, I am glad that more of them are appearing all over. 

But me, I'll ride with anyone. As long as they ride predictably and I can keep up. Conversation optional.

A Year in Cadence

Some time ago I discovered the concept of cadence. Put simply, cadence is the rate at which the cyclist is pedaling, measured in crank revolutions per minute (rpm). People I ride with will sometimes tell me mine is high, which is how I became curious what it is. For a while I had a computer with a cadence sensor and was able to monitor it. When I first got the sensor it was typically in the mid-80s. Eventually it grew into the low 90s. Then last Spring I got my new bike, and it came with a new-fangled fancy computer, but no cadence sensor. I meant to add it, but then forgot. A year went by during which I had no idea what my cadence was. Then last week, again I got a comment from someone riding next to me. It was something like "Jeez you pedal like you're going downhill on a fixed gear! Might as well take off that big ring, eh? Looks hardly used!" (this is true). At the same time, this post appeared on Heidi Swift's site, glamourising riding in the small ring à la Julie Krasniak. So I figured the universe was trying to tell me something.

I asked at my cycling club (which is also a bike shop, which is also a cafe) about installing a monitor. "Oh it's easy!" they said, and swiftly attached an enormous ugly thing to my bike's left chainstay. The sheer size and alienness of it took me aback, since my previous cadence monitor had been just a wisp of a thing. Eying the monstrous appendage apprehensively, I got on my bike and pedaled away.

Getting up to Just Riding Along pace, I glanced at the cadence and saw that the number was 103. I thought no, that's not right. And with all that thinking going on, it did drop a bit - but then promptly rose again. I rode a loop on rolling hills, glancing at the cadence occasionally. Mid 90s - low 100s seems to be a range I am comfortable with, without getting out of breath.

Curious, I decided to check how high I could make that number go up. Seeing 112 was pretty fun, rising toward 120! I kept that up for a bit, until suddenly I was overwhelmingly nauseous. I will have to experiment more carefully...

I'm not sure what to make of my rising cadence numbers over the years. I guess I just plain like to pedal fast and feel little resistance. Alas, I don't seem to ride any faster or more elegantly because of it. But it's fun to see the number go up. And it certainly explains why I like having low gears on my bikes!

Monday Mailbox: How to Unclip in Time If Your Bike Stalls Out Uphill?

Monday Mailbox is a weekly post dedicated to questions received over email. Here is one I've been asked by new riders on a few occasions:

I see that you use clipless pedals, and that you do some rides with steep hills. How do you make sure to unclip in time and keep from falling over if your bike runs out of gears and stalls out on a steep climb? I would like to try clipless pedals, but this part makes me nervous.

I am going to answer this question literally - as in how do I handle this situation. It may not be the most elegant or standard way to do it, but it works for me.

If I'm in my lowest gear already and a hill is so steep that I sense I am coming to a complete stop, I make one last effort to push on the pedals with all my force and heave the bike forward. This buys me the extra bit of momentum I need to unclip and put my foot down calmly.

But in general, with clipless pedals the key is not to panic. Once you get used to the system, unclipping should be instantaneous. So even if your bike comes to a complete stop and starts falling over to one side, there is still time to unclip - as long as you don't panic and "forget" how to do it.

And on a separate note: If you frequently find yourself running out of gears uphill to the point of stalling out and having to walk, consider that your bike may have the wrong gearing for your style of riding or ability. Talk to your local bike shop about lowering your gearing; most likely it will mean swapping out the rear cassette and will not be too expensive. Being able to ride all the way up a hill beats having to stop - whether you ride with clipless pedals or not.

Once in a Blue Moon

Six days after my first official Permanent, I found myself riding another. An entirely different and slightly longer route with a couple of brief stretches of dirt, but otherwise the same idea. The other day a friend was teasing that I write the most detailed 100K ride reports ever. True, it probably takes some riders longer to get through my reports than to ride the routes! But you know, there may come a time when I think a 100 km bicycle ride is not worth writing about. And that makes me a little sad. We go through our learning experiences, growing pains and all the wonder that comes with them but once. Today I appreciate that more than ever.

The Blue Moon Permanent marked this year's New England Brevet Season Kick-Off Party. The start of the ride was crowded, with a varied mix of cyclists. The bikes ran the gamut from road race to traditional randonneuring machines. Like a handful of others, I hung back and began a few minutes after the official start. Though I saw other riders along the way, I rode mostly on my own this time.

The route weaved through Boston's south-western suburbs, taking us to the scenic Noon Hill reservation and the Blue Moon Café in Medfield. Although the towns on this side of Boston are known to be high in traffic, the route itself was remarkably quiet. Orchards and farms comprised much of the scenery, alternating with stretches of sleepy residential streets bordering bodies of water. At one point there was even a Forest Road that, uncharacteristically, went through an actual forest, rather than a series of strip malls or new housing developments! Pamela Blalock's route design skills are a rare talent.

My experience of this Permanent was very different from last week's. I didn't question whether I could finish before the cutoff time; that now seemed like a given. Instead, riding such a circuitous route solo gave me the opportunity to focus on improving my navigation skills. I made a game of trying to not go off course a single time, and succeeded. I also tried to see whether I could manage to make fewer, shorter stops while still enjoying the scenery.

I cycled the 10 miles to the start and arrived with only a few minutes to spare, not giving myself a big break before the event this time. The ride itself was just over 67 miles and I finished it in 6 hours 25 minutes. My computer shows 3,900ft of elevation gain, but the climbing was distributed in such a way that I did not especially feel it. The descents seemed tamer than last time as well. My overall average speed (including stops and the sit-down meal) was 10.45mph, which is a bit faster than last week's 9.9mph. My average rolling speed was about the same: 13.1mph. If I can improve my times a bit more, I might be able to do these rides on the camera bike soon, with proper photo stops, and still make the cutoff - but not just yet.

After the ride I stuck around for the Brevet Season Kick-Off Party at the Ride Studio Cafe, then rode home in the dark, for a total of 87 miles. I took a quick shower, went out for a walk, then stayed up late working and woke up early to work some more. I do not feel any worse for wear after this Permanent. Unlike last time, I did not even have that crazed, feverish feeling afterward. It felt like a normal ride that just happened to be timed and counted "for credit."

There may come a time when I think a 100 km bicycle ride is not worth writing about. In the meanwhile, I am enjoying it all. The slew of new sensations that every ride brings, the shameful yet oddly liberating experience of being the weakest cyclist of everyone I ride with, and of course, the beautiful local scenery waiting to be discovered.