To read part one, click here.
So let’s talk ride quality. I’ll be blunt—I haven’t ridden another bike that offered as vibration-free a ride while maintaining a lively, responsive nature. I’ve ridden bikes that were stiffer in overall torsion. I’ve ridden bikes that were stiffer at the bottom bracket, too. But of all the bikes I’ve ridden that were meant to put a pillow over the face of vibration, none did so as effectively as the 622 slx. The closest was the Serotta Ottrot, and while I loved how that bike handled, it wasn’t exactly light and it lacked a certain lively feel on the road that the 622 slx possesses. That’s also a quality of geometry and can be part of the flip side of a bike that descends like water poured from a pitcher.
Allow me a slight restatement of that last idea. The last time I rode a bike that possessed as quiet a ride as the 622 slx, I was on a carbon fiber bike that didn’t particularly impress me. While it could turn a fair road into smooth pavement and a good road into a marble floor, those bikes (I’m not singling out any one manufacturer because there are so many of that ilk out there) lacked the stiff, responsive ride of something like the Specialized S-Works Tarmac SL4. The 622 slx is unusual because it combines great stiffness—stiffer than most carbon bikes on the market as recently as 2005, though not as stiff as some current offerings like the Cervelo R5 VWD or Specialized S-Works Tarmac SL4—with a ride quieter than even the new S-Works Roubaix SL4.
Let me add that while the Serotta Ottrot is a fine example of a bike that mixes titanium and carbon fiber, it is by no means the only bike that does it. Sampson has offered one; it had most of the ride quality of the Ottrot at something like 60 percent of the cost. There have been other examples—especially Seven’s own Elium—but outside of Seven and Serotta no one has done a bike with as attractive a mix of ride characteristics.
I’ve made it clear previously that my favorite bikes send a fair amount of vibration through to the rider. Now it’s true that the amount of vibration that any bike delivers to the ride can be influenced by a number of factors; that’s a detail I’m aware of and do what I can to mitigate. I use the same bar tape on all the bikes I review. I will run a couple of sets of wheels I’m very familiar with on the bikes. Those wheels feature the same tires pumped up to the same pressure. The point is to zero out as many variables as possible, so that if a bike seems to be sending less vibration to my hands and butt, it’s not just a matter of needing to pump the tires up another 20 psi.
So while I’m a fan of bikes that deliver as much high-frequency vibration as possible to the rider, I have to admit that the feel of the 622 slx was something I quickly came to appreciate. Imagine driving a Ferrari for your daily commute, then you go on a weekend jaunt to Yosemite in a big Lexus sedan. The ride is ice-cream smooth, quieter than a field of wheat on a windless night, and more comfortable than your mother’s arms. It’s the sort of experience that could make anyone rethink the attraction of a sport-tuned suspension.
I have friends for whom vibration is a real issue, that it causes nerve impingement. I see them on rides sitting up to shake their hands in an attempt to restore feeling and bloodflow to their deadened mitts. For anyone who faces issues with nerve impingement and numbness, whether it be in their hands, shoulders or back, reducing vibration can increase not just enjoyment, but the number of miles someone can ride without feeling the discomfort of numbness.
When considered against bikes like Time’s VRS Vibraser or the Specialized Roubaix, the 622 slx does more to reduce vibration and insulate the rider from rough roads. Of course, that shouldn’t be the only reason someone chooses a bike, but let’s be honest—we are all aging. Every one of us. And while vibration may not be an issue for you today, it’s fair to harbor some concern that being rattled like a paint can for a dozen hours each week will result in some sensitivity as you pass your fifth decade.
Another factor contributing to the 622 slx’s comfort was the fact that this isn’t an über-stiff bike. In plain terms, this isn’t a race bike. It reminded me of the Kestrel that I rode for an afternoon at last year’s Interbike. That bike was designed to be enjoyable, not adrenal. There was no mistaking that when considered against the other two road bikes I was riding at the time, the Felt F1 and the Specialized S-Works Tarmac SL4, the 622 slx simply wasn’t as lethal. Sure, it was sharp in its handling like any great road bike ought to be, but this was paring knife-sharp, not scalpel sharp. So what’s that in an absolute sense? Here are the specs from Seven:
- Seat tube length: 50.0cm
- Top tube length: 58.1cm
- Head tube angle: 73.5˚
- Seat tube angle: 73˚
- BB drop: 7.0cm
- Chainstay length: 40.5cm
- Top tube slope: 8˚
- Front center: 59.7cm
- Head tube length: 16.8cm
- Head tube diameter: 1.125″
Seven allows customers to choose four different parameters of ride quality as they go through the purchase. They are all specified on a 10-point scale.
- Handling: 6 (1 is stable; 10 is agile)
- Drivetrain rigidity: 7 (1 is lightweight; 10 is stiff)
- Vertical compliance: 3 (1 is comfortable; 10 is stiff)
- Weight-to-performance: 8 (1 is lightweight; 10 is responsive)
When I went through the custom process back in ’97, there were only two scales to choose from—handling and stiffness/weight. Seven has a much improved ability to control for these different variables now. What is perhaps most impressive in these numbers is that they were able to achieve such high numbers for drivetrain rigidity and weight-to-performance while keeping the bike remarkably vertically compliant.
Perhaps the most remarkable detail I haven’t revealed about this bike so far is that it wasn’t custom. Though the fit was remarkably good, this bike came from a demo fleet. They shipped the frame and fork to Shimano for my review of the Dura-Ace 9000 group. It was assembled by one of Shimano’s techs. Incidentally, after our tech presentation and initial ride on the 9000-equipped bikes, I had a chance to speak with the tech who assembled my bike. Actually, he approached me. He wanted to make clear to me that of all the bikes that they assembled for this shindig, the Seven was the easiest to install the group on, the most fun to work on because the cable routing was so straightforward, and all the fittings and threads so perfectly cut.
Even though the folks at Seven expressed a high degree of desire to take me through the custom process again, I sold them on the idea of letting me do a “stock” bike. If after my review hit they didn’t think they’d gotten the high marks they hoped for, I said we could then do a custom bike. So why do this? I wanted a chance to ride a bike that was meant to be emblematic of the ride Seven wants to sell. I don’t know if they would necessarily call this bike emblematic, but because it was built as an example of their work meant to woo a prospective customer, this bike must possess many of the qualities Seven thinks are among its most winning. Sure, they can build a lighter bike or a stiffer bike or a pig that can carry panniers, but this bike is meant to be nothing so much as a good time.
And I can say it is. Once you’ve let go of being the fastest guy (or gal), or having the ultimate climbing bike or whatever, and you just focus on the qualities that will make a bike enjoyable on group rides, on solo rides, at long gran fondos and short recovery rides, this bike does it all very well. It was yet another occasion of packing a bike in a box only under duress. I’d have continued to ride it regularly.
Here’s the thing I keep thinking about when I contemplate reviewing a custom Seven: I don’t think I would have requested this bike and in that you, the readers, would have been cheated. Sure, the dimensions in the wake of my fitting last winter would be different, but I’m talking about issues larger than just fit. The fit on this bike was perfectly workable. I probably would have requested a bike that was a 7 or 8 in handling. I would have asked for an 8 or 9 on drivetrain rigidity. I’m not sure I’d have had the presence of mind to request the maximum in vertical compliance relative to the drivetrain rigidity I requested. And for weight to performance, that’s the one number that is probably close to what I would have requested.
To me, the point of going with a demo bike was to learn more about what Seven thinks is a good time, not what I think is a good time. It was a chance to gain more insight into what Seven hopes to deliver to customers. Granted, their bread and butter is custom work, but once you’ve built tens of thousands of road bikes, you come to some conclusions and they are reflected in this bike. When you’re not driven by making a race bike, you’re suddenly free to make something that places enjoyment ahead of performance.
There ought to be more bikes made with that priority.
Live Coverage: 2013 Vuelta a España, Stage 8: Jerez de la Frontera to Estepona, Alto de Peñas Blancas 167km
It is late to run a prediction thread for the Vuelta. Things have happened in Spain. Dramatic things. The stuff that makes Grand Tours so Grand. And yet, we haven’t discussed the Spanish race in this forum. All week our good friends Charles and Patrick have been stoking the flames of the thing like Eugene Christophe’s young assistant. If you have not “tuned” in, then you have missed the craic, the part of watching a race that makes it a socially constructive and celebratory event. If you HAVE been following by LiveUpdate, then please do the right thing.
And so, here we are. Astana won the opening team time trial (TTT). On Stage 2, Nicholas Roche reminded us that he is still riding bikes professionally and is still, on his day, really good at it. Then Chris Horner became the oldest ever Grand Tour stage winner when he crossed the line at Mirador de Lobeira in Stage 3. Katusha’s Daniel Moreno attacked and won on the final climb in Stage 4, before Michael “Bling” Matthews of Orica-GreenEdge opened the sprint battle with a win in Stage 5. Stage 6 saw Tony Martin perpetrate the most brilliant, gutsy, painful solo break that most of us will ever see/remember, only to see it end in tragic failure a few meters from the line. Michael Morkov was the horrible jerk who stole the win from him.
Finally, today, Zdenek Stybar continued to prove that he has something very real to offer on the road by besting World Champ Philippe Gilbert in Stage 7 to Mairena de Aljafare.
Vincenzo Nibali is in the leader’s jersey, maybe too early. Michael Matthews is in the sprinter’s shirt, with not a lot of sprint having happened. And Nick Roche is in the climber’s kit. The top of the GC is clustered closely with 18 riders within a minute of the lead.
There, now you’re caught up.
This week’s Group Ride asks, who’s going to win? How’s it going to happen? If Nibali wins, it will be his third Grand Tour win. Will it make him a contender for a race like the Tour? Or is the gap between what he’s done in Italy and Spain larger than it looks from the top step of the podium?
Image: Fotoreporter Sirotti
Statement of bias: To the degree that I’m not impartial where Seven Cycles is concerned, I, like many other people, have admired the company since its launch. My affinity goes further than just a Facebook-deep “like.”
I’ve owned an Axiom for about as long as anyone has been able to own one. Mine is C0028. Back in 2010 I had it cut in half and S&S couplers installed to turn it into my travel bike, a purpose for which I’ve used it several times a year since. When I originally reviewed the Axiom I called the bike, “the best I’d ever ridden,” a statement I was able to stand behind for 10 years. They used that quote in marketing materials for nearly as many years and I don’t mind admitting to feeling some pride at seeing the way they put that quote to use.
I’ve wanted to revisit Seven for a review ever since they introduced the Odonata, a bike that changed the course of the industry back in 1997. Before the Odonata, there were no road bikes with titanium, aluminum or steel frames sporting carbon fiber seatstays. The Odonata was the first bike to substitute carbon fiber seatstays (and seat tube) for what would otherwise have been 100-percent titanium construction. Plenty of other bikes had mixed materials. Trek had helped popularize carbon fiber main triangles bonded to an aluminum rear triangle. But Seven turned that formula around, using lively titanium in the main triangle and then positioning carbon fiber in low-stress spots on the bike.
The influence of the Odonata cannot be overstated. It was introduced at the ’97 Interbike show and at the ’98 Interbike every company who wanted to be seen as contemporary had an aluminum, ti or steel bike (or all three) with a carbon fiber wishbone. That wishbone was a response to the Odonata and companies produced them like McDonald’s makes burgers for the simple fact that it worked. Just how we define “worked” is something I’ll return to later.
Long before Seven ever existed, Merlin Metalworks had done some research to determine which areas of the bicycle flex the least and are subjected to the lowest load under riding forces. Their research led to the RSR, a frame that combined less-robust commercially pure titanium (known to the industry as CP) with the more commonly used 3Al/2.5V———
The RSR was an attempt by Merlin to offer a less-expensive frame without lowering their standards for welding or alignment. The bike wasn’t a success, at least not in the commercial sense, but it did teach Rob Vandermark a lasting lesson.
My old boss at Bicycle Guide, Garrett Lai, reviewed the RSR and said he’d pick the RSR over any other road bike Merlin produced “based on ride alone.” After joining the staff, I had a chance to put a few miles in on the bike before it was sent back to Cambridge. It was a remarkable bike and unlike other ti bikes I’d ridden up to that point, it made me realize it was possible to make a ti road bike stiff enough to race.
So what the hell does the RSR have to do with the 622 slx? They are kissing cousins. To complete the connection, though, I have to go back to the Seven model called the Elium. The RSR and the Elium are nearly brothers. The Elium replaces the RSR’s CP ti tubes with carbon fiber ones; it features 3/2.5 tubing in the head tube, down tube and chainstays, and carbon fiber in the top tube, seat tube and seat stays. The 622 slx differs from the Elium in that it takes the carbon fiber usage to its logical conclusion. It is a six-carbon-tube frame: top tube, down tube, seat tube, seat stays and head tube. Only the chainstays remain titanium, partly for ride quality, partly for durability in the face of chain slap.
It’s worth noting that the Odonata had simple, blunt joints. To the degree that the bike was attractive (and I thought it was gorgeous), its beauty arose from its precision—the stack-of-dimes welds, the gap-free joints, the rich luster of the titanium tubes’ surface finish and the nearly iridescent look of the fiber-wound carbon fiber tubes. However, the 622 slx takes a page from its steel forebears by shaping the titanium lugs, giving them points like steel lugs would have. They even cut windows in two of the points to include the brand’s signature numeral 7.
However, I need to note that without the history of point shaping the way a guy like Peter Weigle has, there’s a certain flair that these points lack. Don’t get me wrong, this bike is gorgeous, front to back, but when I see lugs, I’ve been trained to look at the lines of the lugs, to watch how the points curve. The best among them have a certain geometric progression to them, starting shallow and then flairing out as they near the joint; it’s not a line, but a curve. There’s an angularity to the points and windows that doesn’t reflect the look of the most heralded steel lug work. It’s important to keep in mind that lug points weren’t just a triumph of aesthetic; they had a function, too. They were meant to distribute stress over a greater area and the swoopy curves were part of the effort to make sure that stress didn’t collect in some corner, so part of what my eye sees in a beautifully cut lug is artful engineering, defeating stress before it gains a foothold.
Having just written that, I’m aware that people have a right to wonder if I’ve got bowling balls for testes for criticizing the look of a Seven frame, but I know that had those points been shaped by the likes of Peter Weigle, Brian Baylis or Peter Johnson, they wouldn’t take quite that line. My gall notwithstanding, it’s an opportunity to make the frames even prettier. The particular workmanship required to shape said titanium points might be a nightmare, just not my nightmare, though.
Some years back a mechanical engineer friend of mine told me that if bike companies got smart, they wouldn’t need to use funky elastomers or even suspension to insulate a rider from vibration. He works in aerospace, where a common method of reducing vibration has been to change materials between point A and point B. Think of a seatpost. Imagine that seatpost is 100 percent carbon fiber. Vibrations will move up that post toward the clamp and the saddle. If you transition from carbon fiber to, say, titanium, a great deal of vibration will stop dead at the transition point. I’m simplifying here, but the point is that by mixing materials, you reduce vibration more than you can with a well-made carbon fiber frame. I have to add that modifier “well-made” because while on paper a mixed-materials frame ought to eliminate more vibration than a full carbon frame, my experience is that there are carbon fiber frames out there that are as lifeless as a rubber glove. In those instances, part of the issue is that they don’t offer the same level of stiffness that most of us have come to expect from a top-shelf frame today. While the 622 slx attenuates vibration, I need to be clear that this frame is not lifeless. It’s far from that.
So when I wrote earlier that the Odonata “worked” what I meant was that the amount of vibration at the saddle was less than many similar frames. For most riders, that translated to less lower back fatigue after three, four, five hours.
Even though the 622 slx appears to be an essentially carbon fiber bicycle, it’s very different from most other bikes on the market. The presence of the titanium lugs and chainstays means that a good deal of vibration that would ordinarily reach the rider doesn’t. It would be really easy to deride this bike as old tech. after all, Specialized and Trek both made something very similar to this bike. However, neither of them used carbon fiber tubes that were as stiff, strong and light, so it’s impossible to compare the ride quality. The Treks, of which I rode a few, were only slightly more lively than a cadaver. They were popular because it was a lot of bike for the money, not because they rode like a signal flare on methamphetamine.
Next up, Part II: the ride.
Images of Seven Odonata and Merlin RSR pilfered from the Interwebs thanks to Google
At 5:45am, heavy fog sits in all the hollows and rolls up to the roadside and leaves everything beneath it wet. We park in the fresh-cut field and walk over to the registration tent where all is moving along in the proper subdued, pre-dawn manner.
During this, my third year at D2R2 (Deerfield Dirt Road Randonee), I realized how much I love this tent. The volunteers who staff it are uniformly cheerful and kind. There is never a time when someone isn’t having a friendly conversation there or warm food isn’t being spooned onto a plate. It feels like a good launching point for what will be my biggest day on the bike all year, and I hold it in my head throughout as an oasis at the end, those conversations multiplying exponentially, the smell of pulled pork heavy on the evening breeze. If I can just get back to that still, happy place, all will be well.
Soon we are at the business of nervously pinning on numbers and pulling on gloves. Everyone in the field is in some state of undress, bib straps dangling, shoes being buckled and re-buckled. The long route, the 180km (14,777 ft vertical) , leaves first, and so those who have camped in the adjacent field are still only just stirring in their sleeping bags or stumbling over to the main area for coffee and a bagel.
We roll out later than we intend to, as we always do, but there are enough miles in front of us that we can’t spend too much time caring about timeliness. D2R2 is not a ride you bang out and then head home to mow the lawn. D2R2 is your day, and the nature of the riding, mostly up and down in alternately daunting and thrilling bursts, defies your ability to over-plan it.
The morning is cool, verging on cold, just at the edge of arm-warmer range, but I resolve to go without so as to have less to carry throughout the day. My over-sized seat bag has multiple tubes, CO2 cartridges and tools in it; my jersey pockets are stuffed with food. I feel ready, in as much as you can ever be ready for a thing like D2R2.
Almost straight away we are climbing and we are on dirt. These are the event’s two main characteristics. If you are coming here to ride this course, any of the courses, you will be climbing and you will be on dirt.
Another primary characteristic is creaking. Chain ring bolts. Bottom brackets. Spokes. All of them straining and lurching against the grade. Torque making itself heard. Dozens of wheezing machines, off key, out of time. And then the whole mess popping and cracking down the descents. Rocks pinging off aluminum rims. Chains slapping stays. The occasional WHOOP of a rider whose rear wheel has momentarily lost traction in the sand.
After the first water break the riding goes from serious to extremely serious. We are only ever going up or coming down. It fatigues the body, but also the mind as it requires close and constant concentration. I force myself to run back down the cassette on the descents, to milk every ounce of gravity for what it’s worth. Up over 40 miles, over 50, we are just grinding them out, stroke-by-stroke.
And then, at last, there is a long, twisting descent that careens into the lunch stop at a grassy area by an idyllic covered bridge. Smiling faces pile in. Sandy, the svengali of this particular brand of suffering, is there, as he always is, stalking about in his heavy boots and shorts, making sure everyone is ok, but more importantly that everyone is having fun. The morning’s stories are already tumbling out. Minor crashes. Mechanicals. A general sense of disbelief at the scenery and the effort it takes to reach it.
If I am honest, I have been riding with a stomach full of doubt all morning. I have done the thing you must not do, which is to think too much about the miles to come rather than focusing on the road beneath your wheels. At lunch, that doubt lifts. I still feel good. I have seen the sun rise through the pines and haven’t put a tire wrong yet. We are past the halfway point.
I stuff my face with food, a sandwich, a handful of cookies, a banana, a bag of chips. I down three ibuprofen with a soda, and I’m ready to go. I know I can do the rest. My companions are going well, and in the early afternoon we crest four steep rises in a row with little effort. Then the course eases up, gives us some long stretches of smooth, easy travel. My Garmin, naively, reins in its estimate of our arrival time.
Free of the constraints of self-doubt and full of calories, the afternoon at D2R2 becomes a sort of spiritual experience. All year, as I ride my local hills and trails, as I incorporate dirt roads into as many road rides as I can, as I sit at my desk day-dreaming of my best moments on the bike, I am thinking of this part of D2R2. This is the part where I am finally inured to the suffering. This is the part where I am able to pick my head up from the bars and see the sweeping vistas, to smile at everyone on the road, knowing that we are all in that same magical place.
We roll inexorably to the finish, anxious to be done, to be back under that tent, but also savoring each mile. Of course, Sandy and his wide grin never allow it to be easy. There is a wall called Archambo, 27% of impossibility, loose and stupid in its difficulty. Of the 40 riders I see there, one makes it up. All others walk.
Then, somewhere past the 90th mile, the road pitches up vertiginously again. Patten Hill Road is a long, dusty, stair-step climb that pushes my heart rate dangerously close to its maximum. I have to find that point between blowing up and falling over, and somehow, just as I suspect I will put a foot down, the angles all tilt in my favor again. Then we are into the last rest station, water melon juice dripping off our chins.
We feel done and begin, at least mentally, to congratulate ourselves. We are not done.
At mile 105 we begin a serpentine downhill through deep sand and large stone. This is, perhaps, the worst road of the day, and it pushes each of us to the brink. Our forearms burn from the effort of steering and braking. Our legs go heavy from pushing through the soft surface. We are crawling again, so close to the finish, so close to finished.
Perhaps the final distinguishing characteristic of D2R2 is that it is relentless. You will need to ride hard all the way to the end.
By the time we spill back onto pavement, adrenaline has taken over the controls and we barrel into Deerfield at 20mph, headed for the salvation of the tent. We finish through the timing corral, which is, in our case, really just a way for the organizers to know we’re not still out there, dead in a ditch somewhere. And then we’re back at the car, half-dressed again, just trying to get some of the way back to clean and comfortable before attacking the buffet line.
I am not a high-fiver, by nature, but back in the tent I high-five Jesse, who I met on the 115km route two years ago. He lives just off the course himself, and seems to know everybody. We had ridden together throughout the day. He has the misfortune of being as
slow fast as I am.
I also high-five the guys from Brooklyn who I suffered through the 150km route with last year. They wonder why they only ever see me when they’re at the very end of their rope. I high-five this guy and this guy. I might be delirious with fatigue.
I down a pile of mac n’ cheese and another of barbecue. I stuff down a roll. Sodas disappear like singles at the craps table. Everything settles. Someone mentions that there is hot coffee.
It’s just getting dark when I leave the comfort of the tent. I don’t want to leave. I want to bask in the warm glow a bit longer, but the ibuprofen I gobbled at lunch have long since quit and my back is starting to complain about the folding chair I’m in. Still, it’s hard to walk away from D2R2. I spend so much of my year idealizing it, visualizing it, looking forward to it. It has a strange hold on me.
And now I find myself in the same predicament I did in 2011 and 2012, sitting in front of a keyboard, trying to get my head around something larger than myself. There is the scale of it, 180km, nearly 15,000ft of climbing, a whole day on the bike. There is the scenery, picture book New England, technicolor and high-res. There are the people, the ones I only see at D2R2, the ones I meet every year (Hi, Dave Kraus!), and the ones who ride with me. And then there’s what happens in my head.
I never believe, despite the evidence, that I can have a day like this on my bike, this big, this beautiful. But year after year, D2R2 delivers. Whether that’s by design or by accident (or both), I can’t really tell you. This ride will push me forward all year, and maybe a piece of inspiration that size is worth whatever price and whatever effort it takes to get.
This morning, as I climbed up the gentle gradient to Scott’s Valley from Santa Cruz, one sentence resonated in my head:
“Krabbé’s 20 was clean as a whistle.”
It is a line from Tim Krabbé’s The Rider, which a friend lent me the week before and I subsequently devoured. The book is without question one of the most iconic narratives about riding bikes ever produced. You feel the torment he’s going through on each climb. You relate to the shortcomings in his own riding, and you experience each of his emotions as he takes you from Km 1 to Km 150. You put it down knowing at least a little of what it meant to race in Europe at the amateur level in the mid 1970s. A time when nutrition equaled fruit, hydration equaled water, and gear selection occurred cog by cog.
So when Krabbé referred to his 20, he meant the teeth in his gear ratio. As in 43/20. But he wasn’t even in his 20, he was climbing in his 43/19. Probably on a gradient of at least 6%. At race pace. He was truly suffering.
I thought about my own gear ratio on the easy, 3% ascent out of town. 34/24 probably. I wasn’t in my 28, but I was sure before the road ended it would get used. I was not suffering. Truly.
And it hit me that cycling today is infinitely easier than it used to be. And that probably sounds like the understatement of the century to some riders out there. A better way to put it is this: cycling used to be prohibitively difficult. Cassettes maybe went up to 23, compacts weren’t even a twinkle in Campagnolo’s eye, and wheel technology has come a long, long, (long) way. Because of these facts and more, riding bikes used to be inescapably agonizing.
Even if I weren’t a woman, it’s safe to say that it would have been impossible for me to enjoy the sport even 30 years ago. I’m simply not that strong on my own. To get that strong would have taken hours and hours of punishment to a degree I simply can’t bear. I love to cycle, yes, but what initially turned me on to riding? The fact that I initially was pretty good right off the bat sans pain. Modern technology, as compared to what Krabbé rode, allowed me to be pretty good right off the bat sans pain. In his day, that was nonsense. Nobody was good right off the bat sans pain, because it was an impossibility.
Upon finishing The Rider, I finally understood what the Golden Age of cycling represented: an age when every man was a hardman, and the level of passion required to even be a recreational cyclist pinnacled anything that’s needed today. The suffering of riding bikes couldn’t be separated from the act itself, so if you did ride bikes, you had to whole heartedly love said suffering. I mean, love it with every pore of your body. If you didn’t love it, you didn’t ride bikes.
Today, we cheat. We have super light bikes and super easy gearing, allowing virtually anyone to get on a bike one day and climb a mountain the next. You don’t have to suffer. You don’t have to experience discomfort in order to participate in the sport. Modern technology has given us a choice which wasn’t available in the Golden Age. You can sort of like to ride bikes and still ride them. You can take it seriously, or not seriously, as the spirit moves you.
Do I believe that my love of cycling is in some way tarnished because I side stepped that particular learning curve? Hell no. I plan my Saturdays around long rides and can’t imagine going a week without swinging my leg over the top tube. I whole heartedly love to ride my bike with every inch of my body. It’s not less than Krabbé’s love, it’s just different.
To those who feel sad about the passing of the Golden Age, I say that’s OK. Romanticizing the past is a universal human tendency. But to those who believe cycling has diminished since the Golden Age, I say open your eyes. Take a look at the wonderful diversity of the cyclists in your community. I promise you, every single person who rides has a unique story describing how and why they fell in love with the bike, full of just as much nuance as yours or Krabbé’s. Many of them have stories like mine, where cycling took away suffering instead of inflicted it. Ultimately, the power of the bicycle to relieve inner turmoil, or calm a frenzied mind, or soothe a broken heart, trumps any power it has to deliver physical pain.
And I think even Krabbé would agree.
Image: John Pierce, Photosport International