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.

Last Woman Standing

Pushing my bike uphill, I am high off the ground and high on happiness. 

"Look, look! I can stand out of the saddle!" 

My riding companion's face registers confusion, then bewildered comprehension. 

"Oh my God. You mean all this time you couldn't?!" 

"Nope!" 

Funny that she hadn't noticed - although many people I ride with don't seem to notice my deficiencies in cycling skills; I guess I find ways to disguise them. But privately I remain acutely aware of those deficiencies. And ever since I started riding as an adult, I've been trying to master this particular "skill" - something most riders seem to take for granted as just being part of riding a bike. Standing up when a gear feels too high is simply the natural thing to do for them. Pedal sitting, pedal standing, what's the difference?

For me there was a big difference. Since childhood, I've had problems with balance and proprioception (the awareness of one's body in space), both of which made riding a bike in anything but a rudimentary manner seem unattainable. 4 years ago, I could hardly swing a leg over a top tube without toppling over. But my irrational love of cycling made me persistent. Things are much better now than they used to be, to the point that I can almost pass for "normal" on a roadbike - all the more reason my few remaining difficulties are so frustrating. 

So what was the problem getting out of the saddle?.. The physical memory is disappearing now, but try to imagine this: Whenever I'd try to stand up, I would lose the sense of where I was in relation to both the bike and the ground. Not only did I have no intuitive notion of how to hold my body up when no longer seated, but I'd start to experience general disorientation and mild vertigo. Not surprisingly, these sensations would make me anxious, which in turn made the whole thing worse; a vicious cycle. Verbal instructions from well-meaning riding companions did not help. This was obviously just something I needed to work on myself. And I did keep trying.  

But the first break-through came when I wasn't trying at all. It was a couple of months ago. I was riding an Xtracycle Radish one day, up a gentle hill. Just before I was about to reach the top, I stood up and leaned forward instead of downshifting. My mind was elsewhere and the whole thing was unintentional; it just happened. After I realised what I'd done, I was so happy I almost had to pull over on the side of the road to laugh or cry or something. My mind was blown! I tried it again later, this time intentionally. It was not quite as natural as the first time. I was jerky in my movements and my legs grew tired quickly, but for a few pedal strokes at a time it worked. 

Several days later came the 300K brevet. I was losing time on a long climb, and in a moment of frustration I tried standing up again so that I could push a bigger gear. This did not feel the same as it did on the Xtracycle and I nearly fell off my bike. After that I decided to give my standing attempts a little rest.

And I did, until one day - on my roadbike in Northern Ireland - it "just happened" again on its own. I simply stood up, absent-mindedly on a short hill. This time I decided to harness whatever impulse had enabled me to do this. Continuing to ride on rolling terrain I stood up again and again, rather than switching gears, until I began to trust that I could do it. After a week of this, I was no longer hesitant or nervous to stand up at will. 

A few days ago I pedaled over to County Tyrone to visit a friend. It was a 100 mile day with around 6,000 feet of climbing over the "shoulders" of the Sperrins mountain range. I stood up whenever I wanted, and finally, in the course of this ride, it began to feel as I imagine it's felt to other riders all along - normal. 

One thing I realise now, is that in addition to whatever balance issues were involved, another problem was weak legs. At first my legs would start to quiver after just a short time out of the saddle; I felt like one of those newborn colts learning to walk. On a serious hill, I still get worn out quickly when standing. So even though the balance and proprioception problems are gone, I continue to practice just to develop more leg strength. And finesse. At the moment, my technique is not exactly elegant. I don't throw the bike from side to side needlessly, but my pedal strokes are jerky and awkward compared to how I pedal seated. 

As my last two years of roadcycling have shown, it is possible to do even long distance rides without ever standing out of the saddle. And there are, after all, experienced riders who simply prefer not to stand. I do not know whether I am one of them yet. But once I form a preference, it will be exactly that - a preference, and not a limitation.

Wind Beneath My Wheels

Cycling in New England, I've had my share of encounters with strong winds. Or at least, what I considered strong winds. Here in Northern Ireland they are on an entirely different scale. Part of it is the open landscape. Much of the time, you are cycling through glens (undulating grassy hills), without much in the way of trees for cover. Even the mountains tend to be all grass and rock, with only the occasional clump of forest. This quality of the landscape is part of what makes cycling here so special - the open, panoramic views are ever-present, encouraging on climbs and breath-taking on descents. But on windy days there is little in the way of shelter. Cycling in a group, the riders can shelter each other. Cycling alone, you are exposed to it all. 

And the windy days can be unpredictable. I have gone out on a calm morning, only to battle violent gusts mid-ride. I have cycled down a straight road in what alternated between headwinds and tailwinds - confused, erratic currents.

One day last week, a headwind grew so strong and steady that, as I rode down a long steep hill it insistently pushed me back up. I could not have imagined such a slow, strenuous descent: It was as if some invisible giant had casually put his hand up against my handlebars.

But most disconcerting of all are the cross winds. I've had the least experience with these so far, but here they are common. Winds blowing sideways and on the diagonal can be strong enough to push the bike around the road. When the wind is steady, I find ways to either lean or position myself against it to reduce the impact. But when it is gusty, a sudden push against the side of the bike, or worst of all, the handlebars, can rattle my nerves. Faced with this, I try to keep simultaneously loose and hyper-ready to react to the blows with quick tiny counter-movements. And if the gusts get really bad, I wait it out: The weather is changeable; the pattern will morph into something else before long.

But the wind is not all bad. One night, I was cycling home along a 10 mile flat stretch. A tailwind picked up - so strong and so close to the ground, it felt as if the current settled in between my tires and the road, transporting me all the way home on a magic carpet ride. 

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.

How Slow Can You Go?

In cycling, some associate skill and experience with being able to go fast. But going slow - and I mean really slow, like walking pace - can be even more difficult. When I first began riding as an adult, I could not keep my bike upright at super-slow speeds. I remember that the steering was hard to control; I'd end up losing my balance and having to stop. Even a couple of years down the road, it was easier to ride at 20mph than at 2mph. But finally I got the hang of it, and today I am able to ride at walking speed with no trouble at all. 

Looking back on this, I would say that slow cycling is one of the most useful bicycling skills I have picked up so far. Here are just some of the practical applications I've noticed over the years:

Wobble-free starting

When I talk to novices about cycling for transportation, a common theme that comes up is the fear of swerving into traffic when starting from a stop at a light. You can see it in the city: When some riders push off from a stop, the front end of their bike will wobble before they gain sufficient momentum to proceed in a straight line. Now, some bikes are easier to balance at slow speeds than others, but with sufficient skill even a twitchy bike can be ridden at walking speed wobble-free, eliminating this anxiety. 

Navigating traffic 

Riding in the city can be all about stop and go traffic. Being able to cycle slowly while maintaining full control of the bike makes this easier to handle, allowing the cyclist to maintain momentum and to travel more efficiently. Particularly useful is what I think of as "hovering." This is a practice that is somewhere between trackstanding and riding at walking pace. It comes in handy when inching your way forward in a line of stopped cars, changing lanes in dense traffic, waiting to turn left at an intersection, or proceeding in ambiguous right of way situations. It is much easier to both show your intent and accelerate from a position of hovering than it is from a stopped position. 

Safe MUP sharing

It used to drive me nuts to ride on crowded mixed use paths. Finding it stressful to navigate around hordes of unpredictable pedestrians, I would simply avoid MUPs during peak hours. But the greenways around here are quite scenic and can be relaxing if riding slowly is not an issue. The same "hovering" skill I find useful in road traffic works just as well for meandering amidst joggers and dog walkers. 

Riding on dirt and uneven surfaces

Cycling through muddy, rocky and otherwise challenging terrain can reduce a bike's speed considerably. Yet keeping your balance and being able to steer the bike precisely is more important than ever in those conditions. My new-found enjoyment of unpaved riding has much to do with improved slow cycling skills.

Thinking back to how I finally learned all of this, two distinct experiences come to mind. First, riding fixed gear. I remember vividly how the fixed drivetrain made me feel dramatically more in control of the bike at slow speeds. No one was there to instruct me; it was as if the bike itself was teaching me. And after getting my body used to balancing on the fixed bike that way, some of that eventually transferred over to freewheel bikes. 

But the real change was a result of instructional paceline rides. These rides taught me a number of useful techniques, including how to maintain continuous pedaling and consistent cadence regardless of speed. To ride slowly, we were instructed to switch into a low gear while pedaling and feathering the brakes, instead of coasting. This taught me to maneuver the bike smoothly, to control my speed with precision, and to stay stable even when moving at a crawl. Somehow pedaling made all of this easier and reprogrammed my body to balance with the bike. Almost immediately, I saw major improvements in my everyday bike handling skills.

If fixed gear bikes and paceline rides are not for you, one thing you could try is this: When out riding, pay attention to your pedaling. To slow down, try switching into a low gear while pedaling continuously, instead of coasting while pedaling in a high gear occasionally. To slow down even more, feather the brakes while continuing to pedal. Try to go slower and slower using this technique. Gradually your body will learn to maneuver the bike at slow speeds, whether pedaling or coasting. Learning to ride slowly transformed me as a cyclist; it is a skill I highly recommend picking up.

Ride Fast or Ride Far?

When I first started trying to increase the milage of my rides, I was advised to keep my average speed down on longer distances. "You can ride fast, or you can ride far," I was told. This advice seemed perfectly logical. The faster you ride, the sooner you'll get tired, right?

But my own experience stubbornly contradicted this piece of wisdom. I grew suspicious when, over the past two years, intentionally keeping my speed down only seemed to make me miserable on longer rides. So this summer I experimented. On some long rides I rode at whatever speed felt natural in the moment (whee!). On others I intentionally kept my speed in check. I felt better after the rides where I maintained a higher speed.

At first this discovery confused me. And then all at once, it made sense. The "fast or far" dichotomy fails to account for one crucial factor: time spent on the bike. Let's say you are doing a 100 mile ride. At an average rolling speed of 14mph, you will spend 7.14 hours on the bike. At an average rolling speed of 12mph, you will spend 8.33 hours on the bike. That's more than an hour of extra bike time! An entire extra hour of pedaling, of leaning forward, of gripping the handlebars, of chafing against the saddle. These things can wear you out just as much as the pedaling effort itself.

My point here is not that one should attempt a century ride with the zeal of a racer, but that it helps to look at a situation from multiple angles and to factor in your own strengths and weaknesses. As it turns out, I can ride faster than I've been giving myself credit. And as my body struggles to cope with longer times in the saddle, riding faster is getting me further. YMMV.

Cycling without Fear

I talk to a lot of beginner cyclists who are afraid to ride on the road. Some try to conquer their fears by riding anyway, only to find that they end up being more afraid, not less. The proximity of the passing cars frightens them so much, that their bike handling suffers. This in turn makes them more likely to experience close calls and drivers honking at them, terrifying them even more. It becomes a vicious cycle. 

Fear is a nasty, crippling emotion. I don't mean the philosophical kind, where you are thinking "Gee I don't think I can handle this." What I mean is the visceral kind: that sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, adrenaline, heart racing, trembling, weak at the knees. It is debilitating and difficult to control. But it can be avoided.

If an aspect of cycling scares you at a strong visceral level, my suggestion would be to take it down a notch - to a point where you do not experience the fear - and work from there. If cycling on busy roads gives you panic attacks, try riding on quiet side streets exclusively, until that feels so comfortable that you are ready for the next step. If even that is too much, stick to bike paths, parks and empty lots until you are ready for side streets. If your neighbourhood has none of these things, try riding in the middle of the night or very early morning (with good lights of course). Even in a busy city, the roads will be nearly empty. Whatever it takes, find a way to ride so that you are relaxed and not in panic mode. I would apply this to every aspect of cycling - from riding for transportation, to learning new skills, to trying drop bars, clipless pedals, and riding off road. 

It's also important to understand that when we ride with friends and spouses, their level of comfort may be very different from ours. Without meaning any harm, they might coax or pressure us to do things we cannot handle. When we are ready for it, being encouraged to push ourselves can be a good thing. I've certainly received more than a couple of nudges that were helpful. But overcoming nervousness or timidity is one thing. Intense, limbs-atremble fear is not good and can affect our behaviour in unpredictable ways. It is our responsibility to know the difference.

Conquering one's fears is a worthwhile endeavor. But it takes time and there is more than one way to approach it. In my experience, those who find cycling more frightening than enjoyable, stop cycling. Therefore, I suggest sticking to riding in a way that feels fun and avoiding riding in a way that feels terrifying. Cycling should be a positive experience.

Clipless Miracle

Yes, it's a miracle. I have finally learned to ride clipless. It was almost anti-climactic really, considering the failures that have characterised my previous attempts.

For the past two years I have been riding roadbikes with Power Grips and could not master clipless pedals. Finally I had a fitting session where I started from scratch and tried several different systems. The Crankbrothers felt the least terrifying. Determined to finally learn how to do this, I ordered pedals and shoes from the Ride Studio Cafe. They arrived, and yesterday I went to get them installed.

Strapping an empty saddlebag to my bicycle in which I would later carry my sneakers and old pedals, I expected things to go like this: I would get the pedals and cleats set up, practice riding on the nearby Minuteman Trail, then change back into my street shoes to ride the rest of the way home in traffic. I would then practice every day on a quiet street in the neighborhood until I felt ready to go on a real ride.

Instead what happened was this: We got the pedals and cleats set up. I clipped in and rode home without incident, including the last portion through traffic. I guess there is no need to practice on a quiet street at this point.

The main difference between this experience and my previous attempts was the lack of anxiety. Unclipping from these pedals is so gentle and intuitive, that I am not afraid of getting trapped in them. And I think overcoming this fear was really 90% of the battle for me. Some complain that Crankbrothers pedals require that you twist your foot too much in order to unclip (15-20° release angle, depending on how you set them up), but this does not bother me. The important thing is that the release itself is easy. Putting my foot down at a stop is not any more difficult or scary than with my Power Grips.

I do need some practice clipping in. The right cleat goes in quickly, but for some reason I fumble a lot with the left one. I'm sure I'll get quicker at it; I just have to not be lazy and practice by intentionally clipping and unclipping my left foot when riding the bike.

I will write more about the shoes and pedals once I gain some experience with them; I don't want to speak too soon. I am just ridiculously happy that I finally did this.

The entire way down the Minuteman Trail I had an altered version of Ice Cube's "You Can Do It" playing in my head, with all the trees and flowers sexily swaying to the beat...

You can do it, clip you shoe inTO it!...
You can do it like there's nothing to it!...

Oh yeah.

The end.

How We Ride

To the delight of some and eye-rolling of others, during the first year or two of this blog I referred to riding a bike recreationally as "sporty cycling." What a funny term. Why not just call it roadcycling? Well, because it's not! Roadcycling evokes associations that I felt were not appropriate to the kind of riding I did at the time - or in fact to the kind of riding most people who just want to ride a bike for exercise are drawn to. Roadcycling is its own world, with what I consider to be pretty rigid parameters. There are assumptions about equipment, positioning on the bike, speed, and even style, that are pretty much unspoken pre-requisites no matter how friendly and open the people are. Whether described as "social rides" or "training rides," it is still a fairly specific type of riding that assumes performance-optimised equipment, advanced handling skills, and the ability to maintain what most would consider a high minimum speed. And there is nothing wrong with any of this. Except that not everyone wants, or needs to ride like that. To ultimately be on a bike with dropbars, keeping up with the local roadies, need not be an end goal. Some might truly enjoy riding an upright bike at their own pace, without feeling the need to "advance to the next level." The very idea of advancing - of cycling in order to get faster, stronger - is part of the roadcycling discourse and& need not influence those outside of it.

In May 2009, just a couple of months after I touched a bike for the first time in 13 years, I rode my first 50 miles. I was living in Vienna at the time and riding around on an upright hybrid rental, up and down a short stretch of the Danube bicycle path outside of town after work. Then one Saturday, I just kept going and before I knew it I did 85km - which I hadn't even realised until I looked at the map of the area I covered later; I just knew it felt like "a lot." How fast did I go? No idea. What was my nutritional plan? None. What did I wear? A cotton tunic, leggings and sneakers. Did I look like a complete dork, puffing away on my inefficient hybrid with suspension fork, saddle too low and handlebars too high, my loose sweat-stained top billowing in the wind? To a roadcyclist, maybe. But to a regular person? I just looked like a person doing a long bike ride.

I do not know why, over the years, I have grown attracted to roadcycling and do in fact now want to get faster, stronger, to "advance." I enjoy it and do not regret the transition. But at the same time, I maintain that it is absolutely not necessary to ride a bike in this manner. Last October I was back in Vienna and did a 100 mile ride along the same route I rode in 2009. Again, on an upright bike in regular clothing, with no training in the weeks leading up to it and no nutritional plan. I thought that maybe that kind of ride would be boring for me at this stage, but it wasn't at all. It was just different. A different frame of mind, a different style of riding. I went slowly and didn't worry. It was not about performance or timing. I was just a person, going kind of far on a bike.

Now and again I get emails from readers who are genuinely upset because they can't seem to transition from an upright step-through or mixte to a roadbike with drop bars. The local cycling clubs only cater to the latter. Their spouse rides a roadbike. They feel left out. But the more I think about it, the more I realise it just doesn't make sense to give up the sort of bike you are perfectly happy with because of some misguided notion that you "should" be riding a roadbike if you're serious about cycling. I do wish there were more bicycle clubs that catered to casual cycling, where people on hybrids and upright 3-speeds and mixtes could feel at home and within their comfort zone. I also think there is a difference between casual cycling and casual cyclists. You can be a serious, committed cyclist and ride casually. This distinction is not often acknowledged.

Roadcycling is not the only valid form of recreational or sporty cycling. There are so many ways to ride a bike, and there is no right or wrong way as far as I am concerned. How we ride depends on us alone.

Navigating the World of Clipless Pedals

Last summer I wrote about trying to ride clipless and failing. Unfortunately, not much has changed since then. For background, I do ride my roadbike with foot retention: I use Power Grips, adjusted as snugly as possible. They bind my feet to the pedals effectively while still being extremely easy to get out of. Sure, they don't exactly look "pro," but they get the job done and anyone who thinks otherwise has probably never tried them. Still, it bothers me that I just can't master riding clipless after all this time, while others have no trouble with this skill at all. This year I was determined to get to the bottom of what makes it so hard for me. 

My first step was to start from scratch. Last year, the Co-Habitant gave me his old clipless pedals (Shimano M520) and I used those by default. I got as far as being able to ride around the block gingerly, but ultimately just wasn't comfortable with it. Later more than a couple of women told me that they hate these pedals and cannot use them either, and that what I should really do is go to a bike shop and try as many different pedals as possible. I didn't know you could do that, but apparently some bike shops offer this service. Since I spend a lot of time at the Ride Studio Cafe as it is, I arranged with them for a fitting. They have a trainer in the back room where you can set up either your own bike or one of their demo bikes, and they have a variety of clipless shoes and pedals to try.

To ride clipless, you have to buy a set of pedals, which are sold with cleats, and a pair of compatible shoes. The cleats that are purchased with the pedals are then attached to the shoes. There are many brands of these pedal/cleat systems, and they are generally classified into road (SPD-SL) vs mountain (SPD) - a little misleading, since in practice both are frequently used by roadcyclists. The mountain bike system (left) features small cleats with 2 attachment points. Notice also that on the shoe, the part where the cleat goes is recessed, so that when off the bike you walk on the sole and not on the cleat itself. The road system (right) features larger cleats with 3 (or 4) attachment points. And the shoe is not recessed, so that when off the bike you actually walk on the cleat (this is why roadies make those click-clacking noises on pavement). As it is explained to me, the benefit of the road system is that more of your foot is attached to the pedal. The benefit of the mountain system is that it is easier to walk off the bike. 

Popular road-compatible systems include Look, Shimano, Time and Speedplay, all shown here. The former 3 are near-identical, but the Speedplays (the smaller pedal on top) are a little different in shape and attachment style (also they are double-sided, whereas the other road pedals are one-sided). I did not bother trying these, because nearly everyone I know who uses them seems to have problems. But I tried the Shimano and Look SPD-SL, and I liked them both. The clipping mechanism felt very different than that of the (SPD) Shimano M520s I was practicing with last year. For me at least, it felt much easier to clip and unclip with the road pedals; the mechanism did not feel clunky or death-grippy. With the SPD cleats last year, even on the weakest setting I felt as if I were stomping on the pedal with all my might to clip in and jerking the bike sideways in order to unclip. With the road system, the mechanism on the pedal felt as if it grabbed the cleat without much effort on my part, and I could also unclip fairly easily. On the downside, I found the road shoes slippery to walk in, which made me nervous. A number of people I ride with discouraged me from going with the road system for this very reason.

Having already tried the typical Shimano SPDs and determined that I did not like them as much as the SPD-SL, the one system left to try was Crank Brothers. This is technically a mountain bike system, and the cleat looks very similar to SPD cleats. However, the pedals are 4-sided and use a different mechanism. I had hope for these pedals, because those who use them report that they are very easy to clip in and out of compared to the other mountain systems. I tried them, and I agree. The mechanism engages and releases very easily, and I know that I will be able to practice with these without the "what if I can't unclip?!" anxiety. The model pictured here is the Egg Beaters, but I ordered the Candys - which are the same, except with a platform. I wanted the platform version, because I do not like the feel of tiny pedals and want more support for my foot. I think the platform will also make it easier for my foot to locate the binding mechanism, before that part becomes intuitive.

It is yet to be determined whether I'll be able to master clipless, but I have a feeling that if I can do it at all then I'll be able to do it with these Crank Brothers. My biggest problem so far has been fear over the effort of unclipping, which should no longer be an issue with these. I will keep you posted on future progress or lack thereof. But for any beginners reading this, I encourage you to visit a bike shop that specialises in this stuff and talk to them, try different pedal/cleat combinations and see how they feel - as opposed to struggling with a system just because a spouse or a friend uses it. 

Road to Trail: Speed, Skills and Bikes

Among the people I ride with it is popular to mix stretches of dirt roads, paths and trails into what are otherwise fast road rides (well, they call the rides "social pace," but there is a certain level you have to reach in order to be social at that pace!). At first I would only join the rides that promised not to do any off-road whatsoever, but now I am gradually starting to ease into riding stretches of dirt trails.

Doing this in the company of experienced cyclists has given me a different perspective than riding in similar terrain alone. The biggest difference is that they go fast, whereas on my own I used to see cycling off road as something to be done cautiously and slowly. Now I am noticing that going fast can actually make things easier. Riding on rock-strewn dirt and gravel requires more effort and lower gearing than riding on pavement, particularly when going uphill. Ride too slowly, and the bike can get bogged down. But maintain speed, and the momentum "carries" the bike through sections that might otherwise seem difficult or scary. It's counterintuitive for a beginner, because the natural inclination is to slow down if the terrain gets challenging. And this is where riding with a group is helpful: following their pace means quickly learning the "faster is easier" lesson through experience. Of course part of it is also psychological. When I am focused on trying to keep up with the group, I don't really have the opportunity to worry about every single ditch and rock and root formation - my instincts kick in and somehow I end up riding through sections I would have considered too challenging if given a chance to think.

As far as skills, I am finding once again (as I did with roadcycling earlier) that I improve quickly with others and very slowly, if at all, on my own. I've ridden on dirt trails before, but now I feel that all those rides taken together did nothing for me compared to the single stretch of off-road I did as part of a ride last weekend. It wasn't a long section, but it had a bit of everything that terrifies me: ditches, rocks, mud, a bit of climbing and descending, even a tad of residual snow and ice. We rode through it quickly, and afterward I suddenly felt like I "got it," whereas on all of my slow and cautious lone rides previously I wasn't really getting it at all.

It seems to me that a good bike for transitioning from road to trails and back needs to be fast, light, responsive, and ideally to have wide tires. Last year I would probably have started with "wide tires" and listed everything else as optional, but recent experience makes me reconsider. I have found it easier to "push" a faster, lighter bike through dirt, especially uphill, than a slower and heavier one. And I have found it easier to avoid obstacles on a quick-responding bike than on a stable but sluggish one. And while wide tires would make things better still, it seems to me that those other factors are crucial.

My impression is that for a while there was a tendency in the bicycle industry to associate wide tires with more relaxed, heavier and slower touring-style bikes - the reasoning being that if you want wide tires, you probably do not need to go fast. Therefore, it was difficult to find bicycles that both had clearance for tires over 25mm and were sufficiently fast and aggressive. That began to change with the rising popularity of cyclocross, and with people like Jan Heine reviving interest in the classic randonneuring bicycle. Races and other competitive events with both road and dirt sections have become more mainstream over the past several years as well. I am not sure whether in the long run any of this will be relevant to me, but it is an interesting development. More builders and manufacturers are starting to specialise in fast road-to-trail bikes, and locally this type of riding seems to be all the rage. Whether I have what it takes to take part in it remains to be determined.

Riding a Coaster Brake-Only Bike

I like coaster brakes on city bikes and I am very comfortable using them. My preferred transportation bike set-up is to have a coaster brake in the rear and a hand-operated hub or rim brake in the front. Typically I use just the coaster brake most of the time, employing the hand-operated front brake to keep the bike still when coming to a complete stop or to supplement the coaster when braking at high speeds. The role my front brake plays in these scenarios is small, but crucial - which I realise more than ever when riding the coaster brake-only Sogreni I picked up last week. 

Slowing down on the coaster brake-only bike is exactly the same as on my own bikes - I'd be using the coaster brake alone for this anyhow. But coming to a complete stop and keeping the bike still when stopped is trickier without a front brake. The main thing I've had to learn is not to ease up on the coaster brake when stopping as I normally do, but to continue pushing back on the pedal with the right foot firmly even as I put the left toe down at a stop. If I ease up the pressure on the right pedal, the bike will keep rolling forward. Coming to a complete stop on a downhill is trickier still, because the bike really, really wants to roll forward and my right foot has to push back with all the force I can muster. Squeezing a front lever is much easier in this context.

Stop-and-go traffic presents its own challenge, because a coaster brake can only be engaged effectively from certain crank positions. There is also the transition from having the right crank in the optimal braking position (previous 2 pictures) to having it in the starting position. To transition to the starting position from the braking position, I quickly hook my right foot under the pedal and move it forward as I push off to get started. But once the pedal is in the starting position, what if I then have to immediately stop again? Inching forward in traffic is tricky, because it is difficult to keep the pedals in a position where I can both stop and get the bike started again with equal immediacy.

Finally, there is the question of speed. When going over 13mph or so, I find that I cannot brake as well as I'd like with just the coaster brake alone. The coaster brake is enough to slow down, but for an emergency stop at that speed I need a front brake to supplement.

Riding a coaster brake-only bike is certainly possible, but in a city like Boston I feel that it is safer to also have a front hand-operated brake. The motivation behind bikes without front brakes today seems to be the "clean handlebars" look, which has always baffled me. I fail to see what is so gorgeous about not having a brake lever on my handlebars, when that brake performs an obvious and necessary function. 

Passion and Mediocrity

Prior to my interest in bicycles, I seldom seriously pursued activities that I wasn't good at. Mostly this was because I did not enjoy them. I always hated mathematics, chemistry and physics in school - subjects I was bad at, while I loved literature, history and art - subjects I was good at. Playing most sports was living hell, whereas performing in plays was exhilarating. Once in a while it would happen that I was good at something, but did not enjoy it: chess, tennis, leadership roles, jobs involving sales. But it almost never happened that I enjoyed something I was bad at. Doing something that we cannot do well is discouraging, embarrassing, and literally painful in the case of sports. Even if we like the idea of the activity, it is difficult to enjoy actually performing it, when all it does is highlight our weaknesses and make us experience failure again and again.

As a teenager I fell in love with Chopin, and got it into my head that I had to learn how to play piano or life was not worth living. So I learned. For a late starter (I began at age 15), I wasn't bad. My teacher said that my ability to communicate emotion was ahead of my technique - which she meant as encouragement, since in her view the emotional part was more difficult. But I was terribly disappointed in myself. The more I practiced, the more aware I became of my technical limitations. I was sloppy, my fingers were not flexible enough, and I could not grasp music theory. For my 2nd year recital my teacher agreed to help me prepare two beautiful pieces that I had no business playing: Chopin's Prelude in E-minor and Tschaikovsky's Autumn. As far as "serious" music, these pieces are not difficult. But still to play them well required experience I did not have. I made no blatant mistakes. But I just didn't have sufficient control over my hands for the more nuanced passages and as I played in the recital I felt this acutely. The parents in the audience were thoroughly impressed by my performance. But after the recital one of the guest instructors approached and shook his finger at me: "Young lady, that was beautiful. But you should not be playing those pieces until your technique improves." And as he spoke, I knew that I did not have it in me: that I would never improve beyond mediocrity and would never be truly good enough for these pieces, no matter how much I slaved over the keyboard. I could use my ability to play "emotionally" to mask poor technique, but I would feel like a fraud. It was painful to be aware of this and my personality was not strong enough to withstand it. I quit piano within a year and took this as a lesson to save my energy for things I could truly excel at. Piano would never be one of them.

And, of course, neither would skating. No matter how much I loved watching the figure skaters on television and wished to be one of them in my younger years, it seemed stupid to waste my time to pursue something where my natural ability was so far below average. Yet now something's changed, and I find myself putting my self-esteem to the test at local skating rinks - shuffling around like an injured duckling as others around me execute graceful spins, jumps, and other displays of skill. The Co-Habitant tried to skate a week ago, and turned out to be a natural. Others too get on the ice for the first time in their lives, and after a half hour they are already gliding easily. Clearly I am a special case of ineptitude when it comes to skating. I am trying to decide how this makes me feel, and oddly it's not too bad. I am not even embarrassed, I just accept it. I also accept that even if I throw myself into learning how to skate with an obsessive passion, the end result of my dedication and hard work will be mediocrity, at best. Maybe I am older now and my ego can take it, because knowing this feels okay: I want to learn how to glide smoothly, how to turn, and how to stop without falling, and maybe if I am lucky, to eventually execute a leg lift like the girl in the picture. Those are my meager aspirations, and somehow they seem worthwhile despite the fact that I will likely have to work 10 times as hard as "normal" people to achieve them. 

Watching the figure skaters practice at the Skating Club of Boston reminds me of my first visit to the Velodrome in Vienna. Seeing how unattainable the track cyclists' level of skill was for someone like me did not put me off road and fixed gear cycling. I realised then that I saw value in pursuing cycling as a sport independent of my ability to succeed in it. It was good for my character to have to work hard at something I loved, even if it yielded disappointing results, rather than to accept praise for being "talented" at things I was naturally good at. Talent, after all, is not an achievement - it is simply there. 

My pursuit of cycling over the past 3 years - starting from a place where I didn't know how to turn other than using the handlebars and needed to have both feet flat on the ground while in the saddle - has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. This may seem ludicrous to those who know me in person in light of my other "achievements" and life experiences. Nevertheless, my passion for this activity that I am at best mediocre at, has taught me more about myself than I probably wanted to know. It broke down some of my defenses that kept me from understanding my true goals in life and it has made me more comfortable with myself overall.

It is hard to say whether, generally speaking, there is value in pursuing things we are bad at. Sure, we can make the argument that facing one's limitations and attempting to work through them - whether successfully or not - builds character. But we can also make the argument that it is more worthwhile to pursue the things we are good at, in the hopes of achieving true excellence - which could benefit not only ourselves, but in some cases society as a whole. In the end it is about the individual's life journey. During mine I found that passion and mediocrity can co-exist.  

Bikes, Balance, and Riding No Hands

So, yesterday something monumentally cool happened: I rode no hands for the first time. (Before anyone points out that the picture shows one hand on the bars - this is not captured in the picture!) I was alone with no one to witness my no-hands magnificence but the drivers passing me on the quiet side street. I had both hands off, and not just hovering above the bars, but properly off - dangling at my sides as I sat back on the saddle. I rode that way for an entire block, then put my hands back on the bars when it was time to turn. Then I took them off again and rode that way for another couple of blocks. I would have kept practicing, but it was freezing. 

I was riding the Paper Bicycle, coming home from skating, and somehow the bike seemed to whisper to me "You can take your hands off the bars now, do it..." - so I did. I was absolutely amazed that I could do it, and that it felt relatively safe and intuitive. The front wheel just kept going unwaveringly straight as I pedaled. But having tried the same maneuver on a couple of other bikes (both upright and road), it didn't work and the front end seemed way too unstable with my hands off the handlebars. So this appears to be bike-specific for me. I am wondering what it is that makes some bikes easier to ride no hands than others.  If I practice long enough on the Paper Bicycle, will I eventually feel comfortable riding a "normal bike" no hands as well, or is the skill unlikely to transfer? I will try not to get too excited, but this is making me feel like maybe I am not an entirely hopeless case!

New Old Moser: a 400 Mile Assessment

Having now ridden Moser 2.0 for about 400 miles, I think it is time for a report. For those who do not feel like reading about the bike's entire history, this is a lugged steel racing frame circa 1978 fitted with nice Campagnolo components circa 1999. The Columbus "tretubi" frame is 52x53cm, with an 11cm stem, handlebars 1cm below saddle level (I would like to set them lower, but the stem won't go down any further), 700Cx23mm tires, and 175mm cranks. Gearing is 52/39t in the front and 12-26t (9-speed) in the rear. The complete bike weighs 22lb without the waterbottle. I have been riding it since the end of November, and the individual rides have ranged from 30 to 60 miles. Mostly these have been group and club types of rides, and mostly with riders stronger and faster than me.

I know that people are interested in whether building up an older steel racing frame is feasible for "serious" roadcycling, and based on my experience with the Moser I do not see why not. As far as weight, 22lb is not bad at all for a complete bike - I have picked up new bikes with aluminum frames and carbon forks and they felt heavier. If I want to shave even more weight off, it could be done with some strategic component upgrades, but honestly I did not feel that the weight was an issue for someone at my level of ability.

As far as speed, I was able to ride with strong cyclists the likes of which I did not think I'd be good enough to ride with, at what they call a social pace (15-18mph on average, depending on the ride), while also feeling some reserve. At no point did I feel "if only I had a faster bike!" while riding the Moser.

When climbing, the bike itself feels "eager" to ascend, and the only limitations I felt were my own and also the high gearing. I would need to get lower gearing in the long run, no question. But the bike itself was fine climbing. When I ran out of gears, I would simply "heave" us uphill. Sadly my legs no longer fit into my jeans as a result of this practice, but we can't have it all.

The ride quality on bad roads has no harshness to it despite the 23mm tires, I am very happy with this aspect. The frame's tubing feels wonderful and just right; perfect amount of flex and all that.

At slow speeds (and I mean very slow - like less than 10mph, when stalling in traffic) the Moser is a little twitchy (compared to my fond memories of the Seven at least, which remained stable even at a crawl), but I do not mind and can still easily control the bike.

The one and only inherent aspect of the handling that is a problem - and the more I ride, the more I realise it is a problem - is descending. I do not entirely understand what is going on and why. But basically at high speeds, the bike is extremely resistant to turning and this was rather scary to discover. At first I thought that I just needed to get used to being on a racy bike again, and that I was holding myself back because I was nervous. But nope, something odd is definitely happening with the high speed turns - not just 90° turns, but even following the curvature of a winding road on a descent. I cannot make the same turns that I know I had no trouble making on the Seven over the summer. So while the bike is capable of great speed, this handling issue ultimately makes me slower, since I hold myself back on descents when I do not feel in full control of the bike. I've been trying to understand what is causing this, and what I can do to counteract it, but my instincts are failing me. Naturally I try to take wider turns, but it isn't always possible, and I am just never at a point where I can let myself go on descents.

Exacerbating the descent problem is that I am not entirely happy with the braking power. I did not have a brakeset that would fit this bike, so I bought some Campagnolo Veloce calipers. While I realise that Veloce is not top of the line, I still expected it to be fully functional. I guess with my weak hands, not so much. We have adjusted the brakes this way and that, but coming to a complete stop (like at a stoplight or traffic light at the bottom of a hill) after a high speed descent is problematic.

There are other issues that have surfaced in the course of riding the bike. For instance, there are only braze-ons for one bottle cage, and during longer rides I needed more water. I could get a second bolt-on bottle cage, but it seems a shame to do that to this frame. As mentioned before, there is also quite a bit of rust on the frame that is not visible in pictures (like along the underside of the top tube). It might make sense to get the frame stripped, the rust cleaned up, a second set bottle cage bosses brazed on, and then the frame repainted.

In addition, the rear wheel does not want to stay put in the chromed horizontal dropouts unless the skewer is tightened with a death grip. When initially the skewer was closed with reasonable force, it became misaligned and jammed against the chainstays the first time I rode the bike. It is now tightened as tighteningly as can be and this has not happened since. But it means that I cannot remove the wheels on my own despite them being quick-release; I am not strong enough to budge the skewers.

On top of the too-high gearing, the pedal strike from the 175mm cranks, and the too-tall stem, all in all that adds up to a lot of stuff I would have to replace on the bike (the crankset, the cassette, the brakes, and the stem at least) even without the re-paint and second bottle cage question. I would be willing to make this investment for sure if I was 100% comfortable with the bicycle's handling, but this problem with descents now has me concerned.

And that is where I am right now with my assessment of the bike. More than anything, this experiment has convinced me that I do very much need a fast road bike. Despite the issues mentioned here, I just wanted to ride-ride-ride it all the time, even in the winter.  No time to ride? I found the time. Too cold? I got over it. Too early in the morning? Nonsense, the Moser beckons. Tamer, more sensible bikes are wonderful, but for whatever reason they do not have the same effect on me as this bicycle does and as the Seven did over the summer. I want a bicycle that is fast enough for club and paceline rides, comfortable over bad roads, and handles well for a ballance-challenged person like me. Is the Moser it? I love it and I hoped so, but I honestly don't know at this stage. Holding back on descents is a problem; I need to feel in full control of the bike if I am going to improve, not to mention for reasons of safety.

Reaching for Water

Spending lots of time on the roadbike has improved my speed and endurance more than I ever thought possible. Unfortunately, my bike handling skills are lagging so far behind that the gap is becoming almost comical. 

What's causing some frustration at the moment, is that I can't drink water on the bike while in motion. Other cyclists will nonchalantly remove their water bottle from the cage without reducing speed, drink while continuing to cycle as if this were the most natural thing in the world, then replace the bottle in the cage and keep going as if it never happened. For me this maneuver is impossible to execute; I need to stop the bike in order to drink.

Prior to now this was never a problem. For the most part I cycled alone, and if I needed a drink I simply stopped the bike any time I felt like it. And the paceline rides I went on were only 20 miles, plus our stops at intersections were sufficient to sneak a quick guzzle. But now that I am going on longer rides and with groups of people, I am finding it more difficult to manage my water intake. I need to learn to drink without stopping the bike!

It's just so sad, because I've been practicing the water thing since summer, but progressing at a snail's pace. I can now grab the bottle with my left hand, but the bike jerks wildly when I attempt to yank it out of the cage. And if I do pull it out, what on earth will I do with it? Should I need to turn or stop the bike suddenly, will I be able to do it with one hand holding a bottle? Panic! Panic! Swerve! Panic! Yes, I am really that neurotic. 

It doesn't help matters that I am extremely resistant to being taught. "No, really! If I could do it, so can you. Look, I'll teach you." Yeah... Suffice to say, I've never met a well-meaning cyclist whom I couldn't frustrate with my inability to learn technique. So, for now I'm stuck drinking water at stops and gazing in awe at those who can drink while cycling. Maybe some day I will read this post and laugh. Till then, I can only resume my snail's progress.

The 'Slideways' Dismount

In the past I've been asked to demonstrate my quirky bicycle dismount, so here it is! Over the course of riding step-through city bikes, I've gravitated toward the sideways dismount: swinging my right leg over the frame while the bike is still in motion and then jumping off the saddle to the left as I come to a stop. It's really more like a "slideways" dismount, because what I am doing is leaning the bike and sort of dumping myself off the saddle. I've tried to recreate it here in slow motion while testing my camera's remote control feature (the remote is in my hand - can you tell?).

I know others who dismount their bicycles in this manner, and, like me, they find it completely natural and intuitive. But I've also been criticised for this move. A couple of people have told me that doing this to the bike repeatedly might distort the frame. Others have expressed concern that one of these times I am bound to get "tangled in the bike" while swinging my leg over. The latter does not really worry me; my body seems to have an inherent awareness of where the top tube is in relation to my foot. The frame distortion idea is intriguing, but seems far fetched: Can the sideways jump really exert sufficient force to twist these tank-like frames? 

I never set off to adopt this style of dismount; it just sort of happened. As I kept raising the saddles on my city bikes higher and higher, eventually I could no longer reach the ground without leaning the bike to the side. The "slideways" move was the natural outgrowth of that: Somehow I find jumping off in this manner easier and more natural than the typical method of standing up on the pedals and then stepping down. At this point I've been doing it this way for over two years, and it would be a difficult habit to break!