Velo City Cycles

By Richard Fries

(Reprinted with permission from The Ride magazine)

“Did you see that?” I asked. “Don’t people wave around here? Why are they so grouchy?” Most of my rides these days are social and intellectual excursions. A recent spin with my friend Tom Simpson (no, really, that’s his name and he’s not dead) proved most illuminating. We disagree on on everything but remain determined not to be disagreeable. Like most old men, we DO agree on one thing: kids today have no respect for their elders.

“Nobody waves anymore,” said Tom.”It’s all about them and their ride and their time.” This came to light as we approached a hapless cyclist stranded on an interstate overpass. Having punctured, he had fixed the wheel once only to roll 50 feet and flat again. So we took care of this man named Derek, donating our spare tube to the cause, showing him how to change a tube while checking for glass or staples. While we worked, he told us about his group, Team in Training, a wonderful organization that raises funds to find a cure for leukemia. They had a coach and were conducting a rather savage regimen to prep for an upcoming triathlon.

We told him about staying out of the roadside debris. We taught him how to rub such grit off the tire while riding. And we gave him pointers on maintenance and riding. When he offered to pay, we instructed him to pay it forward.

The 3 of us re-mounted and spun over a roadway closed to motor vehicles on Sundays. As soon as we reached that stretch, Derek dumped it into the 53×14, lowered himself onto the tri-bars and pounded away from us. Content to spin easy, Tom and I watched Derek, unable to ride slow, grind up to the horizon. Then came a parade of cyclists-not one of whom waved.

As Derek rolled out of sight, a fit couple in spiffy cycling clothes passed us on titanium bikes. And they didn’t wave or say hi or even notice us doddering old farts who had been riding bikes since the 70’s.

Tom spun contentedly, but I began to seethe as rider after rider ground their way by us. All of them had poor bike fit and even worse form. Knees out; feet flopping about like flippers; elbows locked. They rode on rigs of carbon and titanium. They wore freshly sewn clothing without a smudge or rip. Helmets, shoes, bar tape, power wattage measurement devices, everything new and nothing scuffed or smudged.

I searched for some Buddhist corner in my soul to sort out why my inner asshole had appeared. Why does it bug me when people ride, well…wrong?

As we crested a hill and started to roll down a meandering descent, the couple went into a full tuck. Still in my little chain ring, I pressed against the gear and questioned the wisdom of letting everybody have equal access to watching the Tour de France. ” I just have to stretch my legs.” I said. Tom smiled and nodded. I swept the chain up onto the big ring and stepped on the pedals. I wound up the gear and blurred past the couple in the full tuck. I still had plenty of gear beneath me. I clicked the shifter and dropped the chain 2 more cogs. All that leg speed from spinning a low gear started to emerge.

Five more riders passed as if they were fence posts.

I drew a bead on Derek, grinding through a mammoth gear in the tri-bar position. I surged by him with an advantage of 10 mph. And then I sat up to drift back to Tom. As Derek stomped by me, I winked and said, “Variable leg speed-its’ the key.”

Derek opened up a bashful smile and ground by me again: he wanted to talk but his body followed some tractor beam pulling him up the road. The situation seemed almost alien.

I coasted back to Tom, allowing all the automatons to pass me again. Smiling, Tom rolled up to me, “So, did that make you feel better?” “And how”, I said.

A mile down the road we came to the end of the closed roadway, where some kids were selling lemonade. We pulled up and recognized Derek, who had re-joined his flock to check in before running 2 hours and then returning to ride for 2 more hours. Like a boy enthusiastically introducing strangers he had met to protective parents, Derek showed us off to the apparent captain of the team. “These guys are great! They helped me out and they showed me how to change a tire and look for glass on the inside and they showed me how to ride, like, out of the road debris…”

I sipped lemonade and studied his team captain, a woman with skin pulled tight over a thin, sinewy body clad in athletic apparel. She did not smile during the introduction, which seemed unnatural. She seemed threatened. I saw the chest brace, a clear indication of a broken collarbone. “Wow, what happened?”

No answer.

Derek continued to show us off. “And, and they taught me to like rub my hand on the tire to get glass off, like this…” The “coach” kept one cautious eye on us, another on Dereks’ demonstration. “Ummm, yes, you may do that, being very careful and with a gloved hand.” said the coach, who would neither shake our hand nor give us her name.

So we rolled on to leave Derek and his coach. We finished our ride, chatting the entire time. All those years of racing fast had taught us the fine art of riding slow.

When we entered the sport there were only a handful of gurus from which to learn. We had no electronics. We had fewer gears. We had no heart rate monitors. And we had no cell phones to get our flats fixed. We rode in big groups; old and young, slow and fast, racer and tourist, but we knew how to wait up and get everybody home.

There are legions of new riders entering the culture. They are too often ensnared by coaching Rasputins who teach numbers, charts, watts and calories but have no idea about the basic fundamentals of a fluid spin.

Who leaves a guy stranded with a double flat and calls that coaching? Look at all the books about technique out there. None teach the basic Tao of cycling. Too many people are being led to believe they can simply buy speed. And too few people are simply riding with truly good cyclists, studying the subtleties of their position, thei pedaling and their form to acquire such knowledge.

This does not require money, but patience. Perhaps that’s why so few can pay that price.