Icons

We're constantly surrounded by icons these days, as our televisions, Web browsers, digital thermometers, smartphones, and computers all attempt to distill complicated data into simplistic graphical elements. Perhaps the most prevalent icon set is the weather set, consisting of simple drawings combining sun, clouds, rain, wind, and snow. For cyclists, who often need to plan ahead in order to set aside ride time, the deceptiveness of these weather icons can be infuriating.

As I write this, I am looking at a 5-day forecast in my browser, which shows three days of rain and two days of sun. Looking at this gallery of horrors, I could deduce that the next 72 hours will be predominantly rain-filled, with only days 4 and 5 having any chance of possessing the right weather for a long ride, assuming I want to avoid getting wet. However, pushing further into the forecast, I find that actually the number of hours with likely rain to be less than 20, or less than 1/3 of the hours presented as rainy via iconography. This is akin to someone saying that you will be asleep for the next 3 days just because you sleep 8 hours each night.

Yet, people take these icons to heart. I have heard many people groan at the sight of a rainy cloud icon over a weekend day, only to learn by drilling into the data that the rain is a) for a small portion of the day, or b) for the region but not for the person's particular locality (rain to the north, etc.). Some defense mechanism informs the creation of these icons, as if the news they convey should be the most pessimistic possible so that the meteorologists can't be accused of presenting a forecast of false hope.

The oversimplification of forecast presentation is perverse, given the vast amounts of data about the weather now available instantaneously. For cyclists, this facade of icon simplicity is just noise they have to fight through to get to the gold of the hourly forecast. It is misleading, however, and almost comical that we now depend on cartoons of the weather for our first-glance assessment of what's to come.

These icons are more powerful than they deserve to be. I have even seen people check these icons, see sun or rain, and conclude that was the weather, only to look out the window and be confused at how the actual weather -- the actual weather, now -- doesn't match the icon in front of them. How could it be sunny out when the icon shows rain? Well, because it's now 2 p.m. and the rain was for the morning commute, but the lazy icon format only allows one icon a day, and it's always the grimmest one . . . It's as if we've forgotten that the world is out of our control, that the world is not a cartoon manifestation of our imaginations.

Luckily, cyclists are data-driven most of the time, wanting the precision of miles to the 1/10th, at least. Imagine if all your ride data were eradicated and you were just presented with a simple green circle for a good ride, an orange triangle for an average ride, and a red square for a poor ride. Icons have their place, but when it comes to expressing complex data over time -- whether that is a cycling event or the weather -- they are not icons of virtue.

Parallel and Perpendicular

Cycling can seem complicated at times, especially after the disassembly of a bike, the analysis of a year's riding, and the selection of winter riding gear. But could it be boiled down to two simple dimensions, parallel and perpendicular? I first observed this simplicity while zipping along a favorite road that had a crack in the asphalt running parallel to the edge of the road. By staying just between this crack and the edge -- by going parallel myself -- I could avoid innumerable bumps and potholes, in addition to annoying jarring ribbons of repair tar set down hastily by a late summer road crew.

Crossing some railroad tracks later, I instinctively made sure my trajectory was perpendicular to the tracks, to minimize the risk of a tire wedging itself along a rail's cheek and taking me down hard.

These kinds of calculations occur all the time while we're riding, and include how we use our bodies. When we stand on our pedals to climb a steep hill, we move perpendicular to the flat surface of the road. Yet, when we seek speed and aerodynamics, we tuck ourselves into shapes that parallel if not the road, at least the wind.

Running parallel or perpendicular to the wind is another noticeable phenomenon. Parallel a headwind for a down and dirty fight for dominance, with the wind usually prevailing. Parallel a tailwind, and you fly forward effortlessly, with speed high and effort low. When we form a paceline, we indulge in group parallelism, and the advantages can be wondrous to experience.

Switchbacks thwart this simple categorization, and I find climbs that include them to be some of the toughest. Part of the difficulty of the climbs, of course, is what forced the road designers to include switchbacks -- these are usually long, arduous climbs that needs to be buffered by switchbacks. But riding parallel to a switchback creates real drag as you round the inside corner, as gravity pulls hardest on you from more angles than at nearly any time. Of course, going perpendicular leads you off the road, so the best answer is to compromise, and do both a little, swinging wide on the turn to modulate the forces of gravity while also completing the turn.

Certainly, cycling's physics are more complex and subtle than just these two simple and contrary dimensions. Angles, speed, draft, aerodynamics, inertia, and many other factors figure in. But these two simple relationships cover a lot of what we experience. But don't ponder it too long while riding -- remain perpendicular to the road.

The Peak

Periodization is a training approach advocated by many cycling coaches. It involves carving your year into four zones, typically: transition, preparation, foundation, and specialization, all culminating in peak fitness usually attained during the specialization period. These terms and phases get pushed around by various coaches, but the general message is the same -- strive toward a peak, and take a measured, stepwise approach to attain it.

The peak is a mysterious notion in athletics. In the physical world, a peak is something you can see from a distance, climb to stand upon, and stay atop as long as you like. Some people even build houses on the peaks of some accessible mountains. In cycling, the peak does not have these topographic characteristics. While you know it is far off, especially after a long winter returning to the valley of your fitness, you can't tell how far away it is, the climb can't be reliably measured, and you certainly can't plan to stay once you arrive.

In the springtime, the peak can seem impossibly remote, especially on those cold, rainy days riding amidst the detritus of winter's sullen fury: the sand, the sticks, and the puddles. Sluggishness blends into aches and pains as your body works to respond to the familiar demands of longer rides and faster paces. At times, you cannot see how you can yet again achieve the impervious fitness that was yours mere months ago.

A physiological peak is elusive, fragile, and transitory. It also cannot be summoned by precise actions or plans. Your body conducts an underlying and complex set of negotiations within itself outside of your awareness or knowledge. The methods we are given to elicit the peak are crude at best -- training, rest, nutrition. You may titrate your training, taper your efforts, plan out your nutrition, and periodize until your head hurts, but you can still arrive at a crucial event or race feeling tired, sick, or out of sorts. Then, a couple of days later, with nothing at stake, the peak will appear unbeckoned, you will seem to fly, and then the peak will fade again.

The peak is also troublesome in that struggling to maintain it can make it crumble away or slip out of reach all the faster. Effort wears the peak down rapidly, yet too much rest and you slide down from the top. Keeping a peak as a plateau isn't possible. However, it is possible that achieving a new peak repeatedly will raise your training plateau, your base camp.

When the peak manifests itself on event day, the results can be memorable. I can recall a few centuries during which I was at peak: the speeds were fast, the high effort sustainable, and the recovery quick and effortless. In fact, one annual event that requires nearly two back-to-back centuries was so easy to complete one year that I felt by the end that I could ride it all over again.

Achieving the peak through periodization is sensible and straightforward. It requires discipline, planning, and sacrifice, but the benefits are clear as you approach top form, and sustain it. For me, the most difficult part of periodization and the peak is leaving. Once you achieve the condition from which you can ride for hours, pace at high speeds, and enjoy climbs, consciously dropping back to riding more slowly for shorter distances and less intensely is difficult. You can feel the fitness slipping away. While there are moments when you experience the reassuring feeling of healing and relaxation -- along with the mental break from training -- you worry that you may not see the peak again. I find the discipline of staying away from cycling during this period very difficult. Rituals have to change, and measurements of success shift from miles and speeds to gaps in training and diversity of activity.

In pursuing peak fitness, you realize it is the pursuit itself that is the substance of the cycling life. The peak is a goal, not a state. It is like having your true love flash a glorious and unexpected smile your direction -- your heart jumps, you savor the moment, and you find yourself recharged, your affection affirmed. And you begin the chase anew.

Wandering

In training season, before I leave the house, I often know by heart the route I will follow, and nearly to the minute how long it will take to complete, as well as the usual average speed. The hours leading up to the critical moment of departure during training season are filled with competing rides jostling in my mind to be chosen, with those only recently done competing on the grounds that training means repetition. Then, one route will suddenly crystallize with a feeling of completeness and appropriateness. It will be my ride du jour.

This time of year, however, when training has tapered off to become just plain old riding, I find myself leaving the house with not much of a riding plan, and after no real mental preparation or evaluation of options. In fact, with schedules winding down overall so that there are fewer demands on my time, I am finding a definite lack of a need to start early or define an upper boundary to the length of time I'm away. So, I have taken to wandering around on my bike.

Wandering is a completely different mode of riding than purposeful, route-driven training. Instead of completing a well-worn route by ticking off the mental cue sheet as you go, and monitoring time and speed and hydration and nutrition as the miles go by, you instead think mainly of what to do next, and have to improvise as you go. This improvisation takes a fair amount of getting used to after a season of pre-programmed riding, especially if you are integrating familiar roads as you go. It's easy to lapse into a habit, like accidentally driving to work on a weekend just because you're on the highway with that exit on it. If you don't concentrate, you might find yourself on the old route and have to work your way out, grumbling at your own Pavlovian responses to the jingle of a familiar landmark.

You have to learn to plan ahead, but in smaller batches, and strike a balance between going far enough afield to make it a long ride (usually, you know about how many miles you want to log), without going so far astray that you end up either needing a map or logging 40 miles when you wanted to do 25. This leads to relearning pieces of routes and how they relate to each other. The wandering season is a time of discovery, and I have often been surprised to realize how two routes I've ridden as unconnected traversals turn out to be linked by a sneaky little sidestreet or an unusual set of twists and turns.

This kind of stitched together riding makes wandering feel a bit melodramatic, like a plotline forced together for maudlin effect. Terrain can add to the unintended drama, as you may find yourself having scripted in 10 miles of hills unintentionally or a long stretch of divided highway, something that would make any work of fiction or drama deathly dull. Making sure there is some comic relief, a pastiche of emotions, and interesting characters can make all the difference to the wandering cyclist's level of enjoyment.

But the fun of wandering is in the freedom, the fact that today's ride has no label in your log, in fact may be completely new if not in parts at least as a whole. And who knows? You may just find a new combination, a new route, that will be enshrined in next year's training load. And then you'll have to wander away from it again . . . next year.

Envy

You know the feeling -- you're traveling somewhere, you hear the familiar clatter of a gear shift or the sizz of a freewheel, and there you are, watching a cyclist fly past you, decked out in full kit and totally focused on the ride. Or, you're in the middle of your commute, trapped in your car for another session with National Public Radio, and there they are, a flock of brightly clad cyclists, chatting and laughing and working out the pack structure.

These encounters usually come when there is no recourse, no way to gain access to a bike, no time to ride, no way out of the current situation, yet when the urge to ride is high. Usually, time pressures or business travel have forced an unpleasant choice, a week off or a glorious, sun-drenched morning without a ride.

The empathy for the cyclists you observe is immediate. The focus and energy they throw off is easy to feel, and you know how it is to possess those traits, to feel the power of a strong hill climb, the speed of a fast paceline, and the adrenal kick of a quick descent. Intensity radiates from these cyclists, a blaze of energy and determination you hope to reignite soon.

In the midst of this envy, there is also the obligatory scrutiny. What brand of bike? What level of equipment? What brands? Any interesting new lights or gadgets? How fit are they? How young or old? Are they dressed correctly for the weather? Are they at the beginning of their ride or nearing the end? Could you ride with them? Would they trash you? Or slow you down?

These thoughts flash by too quickly to observe clearly, but they do flash through your mind, even in the midst of open envy, and they mitigate the jealous feelings to some extent, especially if the cyclists in question are obviously riding worse equipment too slowly and look cold and tired. That subtext to the observation ameliorates the sting of envy. It's not noble, but it is true. We're all petty at times.

However, most cyclists observed from afar are fit, fast, and riding nice bikes. They are happier than you are, because they are focused and active, and doing something that completely absorbs them. You know this happiness, and you admire it in them, and envy them for it.

In this sense, envy in cycling is like a one-way mirror. When you are riding, your focus obscures the outside world to some extent, boiling it down to navigation, obstacles, noises, and terrain, a set of external factors competing only slightly with the pack you're riding in or with your solo ride. You don't have the spare attention to observe the hangdog looks from the earthbound cyclists you pass, the knowledgeable scrutiny they give you, the second looks from the passersby who are a little more fit than usual, and who pay more attention than usual to the passing cyclists. Because there is nothing to envy, you don't peer out from the cycling world. You are where you want to be. Why look beyond? But from the seat of envy, you are an observer, not a participant, and like watching a psychology experiment, you can only jot high-minded notes without visceral involvement in the activity. You become a cycling academic, a quasi-professional attendant to the sport.

All of this aside, there is just the smoldering envy as you are left in the dust, standing roadside or trapped in a vehicle. Nurture the feeling. You will soon be the source of envy for someone you don't even know, someone you won't even see, and you will be purified of your sour envy when that time comes.

Noiseless

Looking back over the thousands of miles I've ridden over the past few years, one dimension lurks interstitially, bolstering and binding the larger elements of events and seasons. This aspect of cycling often goes unnoticed, and can be taken for granted, but it is one of the treats of riding. It is the hush, the quiet, the silence, of riding. It doesn't come often, but when it does, it's a time to savor.

The potential to find silence in modern culture is limited. Ambient road noise fills most of our lives, either from a nearby busy road or a nearby freeway. Stand outside on what seems a quiet evening and listen for it, and you will realize that it's there, in the background, blocking silence just as the cityglow blocks the stars. Indoors, noises from stereos, computers, HVAC systems, and plumbing keep silence at bay, as well. There always seems to be something whirring, ticking, or gurgling inside any building. Add to this the nice chatter of the folks in a building, or even the snoring of a placid dog, and silence once again proves elusive.

I first palpably detected silence on a winter ride while climbing a short hill between two forested hillocks about 20 miles from home. With the snow, the trees, and the mounds of earth on either side, along with the remoteness of the area, I suddenly noticed that I was in complete silence. Even the sound of my tires on the ground was being absorbed by the terrain. There were no car sounds, no voices, no breeze, no distant train, nothing, just pure stillness and silence on this sun-soaked winter's day. A hush had fallen over the world I was in.

This arrangement lasted just a few minutes, but left a deep impression. I can still conjure the memory. It was so unusual, so different, and so magical that it stands out among all the places, roads, and situations I've ridden in the past.

Since then, I've become more attenuated to the hush, and have been able to apprehend shorter periods of silence and stillness. Whether it is a 30-second stretch riding streamside when all other noises have abated, or 20 seconds of smooth road on a sleepy Sunday morning, I can now identify and curate smaller pieces of the same gem, seizing these moments with bright realization of how fleeting and unusual they are. When they occur, they can provide the centripetal of a ride, the moment around which the memory shapes.

While it is tempting to despair about the lack of silence in the busy modern world, I'd rather think that the better alternative is to learn to find and delve into those hushed moments we can still find, to enjoy the secret world that suddenly unfolds and that makes the moment yours in a way that is rare and immutable. Cycling can deliver these moments. This is the gift that sits out there for us to grasp, a hushed moment of tranquility, away from it all.

BMI

Like many recycled cyclists, I have a story about a body mass index (BMI) that was much different than the one I currently can calculate. In the "pre" version of my BMI, I was out of shape, overweight, and not using much judgment in nutritional matters. Of course, I could rationalize how I looked in the mirror, and the occasional diet plan would knock enough weight off sporadically to give me false hope that I might find a sustainable non-exercise way to stay trim.

Now, in the "post" version of my BMI, my body fat percentage has fallen more than 10 percentage points, clothes that used to cling now hang, and muscle contours are clearly discernible. Yet, my BMI number has only fallen a few points. Why is this?

BMI has many problems as an accurate measurement of overweight in active people. Interestingly, part of its design was to account for the fact that most members of the general public will overestimate their height and understate their weight in the process of calculating their BMI. Therefore, the BMI scale was designed to accommodate these tendencies. This means that active people, who generally know their actual height and weight, will appear to have higher BMIs than average (they will calculate as relatively shorter and heavier than a sedentary peer who just estimates his or her height and weight as taller and lighter than actual).

In addition, the BMI measure does not take into account the fact that muscle weighs more than fat. If you train in the hills a lot and are generally a mesomorph (someone who adds muscle mass easily, a jock), you will gain muscle mass while maintaining or shrinking your fat stores. In either eventuality, you will weigh more despite having accomplished a generally commendable thing -- losing fat and gaining muscle.

Finally, BMI does not address anything like cardiovascular or respiratory health. So, a sedentary smoker may have a great BMI of 23 but an LDL cholesterol that is dangerously high and an inability to climb a flight of stairs without becoming winded. BMI is not a measure of health, in other words. It is a potential signal, but not a precise one. In fact, many who think hard about these things are beginning to drop BMI as a measure. It is too crude, even as a public health tool. For instance, BMI in Africa is quite low, but life expectancy and incipient health are both worse than for places with higher BMIs but better health and social infrastructures.

For cyclists, BMI should also be shunned as a measure of fitness or health, I think. My experience these past years has been of losing fat, gaining muscle, and maintaining my weight (even increasing it slightly this past year). Yet, despite gaining weight, my power:weight ratio seems better than ever, because what I've gained has been muscle. My legs are better-defined, small areas of flab have disappeared, and I continue to shrink in profile. I've become leaner and meaner, BMI be damned.

Cyclists are typically in-tune with their health. You probably know your cholesterol levels, your resting heart rate, your body fat percentage, your maximum heart rate. You probably have a nutrition plan, and a training plan. You don't smoke, and probably drink less alcohol than your counterparts who don't ride. And, best of all, you know how you feel when striving to do your best on your bike. This is the real test of fitness and BMI, the bicycle mass index. When you fly up a hill, you know your BMI is right. Otherwise, it's just a number.

Riding Cold

For people who don't regularly go outside in the winter, it's amazing that cyclists can ride all year long in the cold and snowy parts of the country. Even skiers and other outdoor athletes can be astounded by the fact that we cyclists can log hundreds of miles during the coldest months of the year, and enjoy nearly every minute of it.

What makes this all possible? Winter cycling gear. With the addition of just a few strategic pieces of winter gear, and picking the best days to ride, winter becomes just another season to ride.

To begin assembling your winter cycling gear, it's best to start from the farthest extremities and work your way toward the center. So, the fingers, toes, and head are where the biggest improvements come.

For the head, I've found two options that work, one for mild cold and one for more severe conditions. On days above 20F, a winter cycling cap that covers the ears is usually all you need. The best ones breathe, and cling tightly to your scalp. Nike and Giordana make good ones. When the temperature drops below 20F (or wind chill is an issue), I'd use a balaclava made out of good materials and designed so that you can opt to pull it over your mouth or keep it beneath. One annoyance I've found with balaclavas that aren't soft enough on the sides is that the wind noise can be distracting because they flutter a bit in the breeze as you ride.

Your eyes are definitely worth looking after in the cold. I have to wear glasses, so mine were nearly always protected to some degree. However, during the winter, I would often return from a ride to find that I couldn't focus my eyes on things nearer than about 10 feet away. It would take an hour or so for things to return to normal, and I noticed also that my eyes felt cold and the movement in their orbits stiff. I began to think they were just freezing on these rides, so I plunked down some money on a pair of nifty cycling goggles with gaskets, the kind designed for motorcycle riders, in hopes that they would keep the wind and cold out. They worked like a charm, and to this day my vision is sharp when I return from cold-weather rides.

Traveling down to the other end of your body, you will need neoprene booties to cover your feet. Combined with decent socks, this combination usually does the trick. For the really cold weather (and to enjoy longer rides), you'll need chemical foot warmers, the kind skiers use in their boots. These are a real toe-saver on some rides, and make the whole experience much more pleasant. On days I've skipped these, I've regretted it.

Now, to the hands, and their needs. Silk glove liners are a great place to start, then a traditional cycling glove liner, a chemical hand warmer, and then a good winter cycling glove. The outer glove is where the options exist for me. For cold days, a lighter winter glove with fingers will do, but for those bitterly cold days (or, again, for longer rides), lobster gloves are the best choice. Even though they are scoffed at publicly, anyone who has tried them soon gains a silent respect for their design, which allows your fingers to huddle together for warmth while also leaving you freedom of movement to shift and brake with ease.

For the legs, full-length line bib tights with front panels that are both water- and windproof are necessary in the winter. You can get these either with a chamois (to wear alone) or without (to wear over cycling shorts). Either way, the front panels make the difference, especially when the cold winds assail your more sensitive areas. There's nothing like a descent at 30 mph in 15F weather to bring the "shrinkage" episode of "Seinfeld" to mind.

The torso is the final stop on this tour of winter weather wear, and there are two major items needed. The first is a good windstopper undershirt, full sleeved and with a front panel that blocks the wind. Combined with the right jersey and/or jacket, these things will keep you happy during the cold months. Just remember, you should feel a bit chilly going out the door. Once you're exerting yourself, you'll warm, and being overdressed in the cold can be as unpleasant as anything else.

Now, for the bike, which will take a beating in the winter, unfortunately. A front fender is a priority, to keep back road spray, and a rear fender is vital to protect your posterior from same. Winter riding means more diligent cleaning and maintenance of your bike, usually after each ride. Chains have to be cleaned, clusters wiped down, and wheel surfaces cleaned. The frame will get a coating of salt and crud, and this should be removed after each ride. Tires should be changed over to the kind that can take a real beating -- leaving your supple summer tires on is just an invitation to flat (and bear well-deserved derision).

Winter riding is something special. It takes preparation to do it, but once you've taken the plunge, you won't regret it. I've had some of my favorite riding experiences in the months between November and April. Ride cold.