I’ve always liked moving fast under my own power, especially on my bike. When I was a kid I’d ride up the only hill in town so that I could zip down, legs splayed to avoid the madly spinning pedals. I yearned for a speedometer so I could put a number to my rate of descent, which I thought had to be at least 50 mph. Of course, I climbed a lot more slowly, and because it was a fixed gear bike, that meant standing out of the saddle and grunting up the 10-percent grade using my weight to help the pedals go round. But I worked hard to climb up as fast as I could so I could ride down even faster.

That was a long time ago in another life, and while I still enjoy riding fast, I’m more cautious than when I was a kid. And I ride uphill with less vigor, too, but I try to ride up as quickly as I can while remaining just this side of what I call “the burn,” that point when my muscles and lungs scream. So climbing is always a struggle.

Then the other day, when climbing up a road that from the bottom of the last stretch looks like a vertical wall, I just geared right down. It was an experiment. I’d been pushing, but the wind was pushing harder, and my bike felt heavy. Why struggle? I was only minutes from home, and nothing was pressing, so why work so hard to keep my speed as high as possible? Instead of gasping, I breathed deeply and more slowly. Instead of straining every muscle, I spun with little resistance. My speed dipped, but that once, I didn’t care. Nothing hurt and I felt no strain. Instead of squeezing every last bit of energy from my body, I conserved it, like I would on a very long demanding ride. And for once, I wasn’t gasping like a landed fish when I pulled into the home berth. Most days I push just about as hard as I can, but on this day, it was just plain fun to take it easy and let my granny gear do the heavy lifting. Sometimes, I realized, slower is better.

 
Send a Comment