Cycling is almost by definition a group activity. The more people you ride with, the easier the ride becomes. You can draft, you can talk, you can challenge your companions in a sprint or help a slower friend up a hill. But sometimes it isn’t possible to pedal with others. Life, timing, plans, all of those things can put a crimp in an otherwise dialed riding agenda.
In my early days, such impediments sent me into a tailspin. To get the needed miles, I would ride twice, sometimes three times a day. Then I spoke with a friend who touted the joys of The Long Solo Ride. The ride where it’s just you and your bike and the road for five to six hours. Though skeptical, and more than a little intimidated, I decided one day to saddle up as a Lone Ranger and head out the door.
I’m so glad I did. Not because of the workout I get, or the miles I log, but because of what it’s taught me about myself as a rider.
I bore easily on roads that don’t light me up if I’m pedaling by myself. Thus, I always plan my routes carefully. If I’m looking at the map the night before and I think “meh,” then that’s a road I avoid. Sometimes, this means driving to a place I’ve never ridden before but have heard great things about, and sometimes it means revisiting old favorites that I haven’t seen in a while, family reunion style. The night before a long ride, I dream of the amazing adventure I’m going to embark upon in the morning; that’s how I know I’ve done my homework correctly.
I’m a spontaneous rider. It contradicts the above point, but I relish the ultimate freedom I have to do whatever I want. Who cares if the gameplan says Zig but I have the yen to Zag? It’s my prerogative to get crazy should the fancy overtake me.
I lose all sense of vanity, as the Long Solo Ride completely upends my super pro aesthetic. My pockets bulge with preparedness for every possible contingency. I bring food as if I will hit no stores. I bring an extra tube and a pump, even if I’m carrying CO2. I bring a patch kit. I bring my phone. I bring my ID, cash, and my medical insurance card. Upon swinging my leg over the top tube, the diameter of my body around my midsection appears to have doubled. But it only takes one error (see above) to learn the lesson the Boy Scouts teach from day one: Always Be Prepared.
Most importantly, I become zen. I detach. I try to be ready for whatever may come my way. It could be a breathtaking vista where the sun hits the trees just right. It could be a descent that finally sharpens into a perfect, apex carved focus. It might be a new friend I meet at my café stop. It might be all three, or none of the above. But because it’s a wonderful Long Solo Ride, I know it will always be something.
These are the truths I’ve learned about myself. My friend who first talked me into embarking on the journey has an entirely different set of truths. You may relate to some, all, or none. But that’s ultimately the great thing about Long Solo Rides: they take an activity usually defined by how you behave in a group, and redefine it based on how you behave in no one’s company save your own. My spontaneity? My Zen? These are parts of my personality I honestly didn’t even know existed. And I’m sure there’s even more the bike can teach me about myself in the days to come.
But first, I had to learn to give it my undivided attention.