Aug 30 2010
The Joyfulness of the Long Distance Cyclist
I typically clock up between 20 and 25 miles a day on my bike. Some trips take me into town for shopping, others take me away into the nearby hills, on photo shoots or “amphibious” excursions. And sometimes I just ride for the fun of it.
Trips like these don’t require much in the way of preparation. But longer rides, rides of 50 miles or more, are another story altogether. They often take me into remote areas with few (if any) services—the days when every crossroads hamlet boasted a general store are long gone—not to mention spotty-to-nonexistent cellphone coverage. Self-sufficiency is therefore the order of the day. The logistics are still pretty straightforward, of course: food, water, tools, foul-weather kit… There’s more to preparing for a long day than remembering to pack a spare tube and a bite to eat, though. Getting a good night’s sleep is critical, as is locating the source of any nagging, unexplained squeaks or judders in my bike’s powertrain—and then fixing the problem pronto.
But even these things, as important as they are, are not the most important. Morale looms ever larger as the miles mount up. Colin Fletcher, counting down the hours until the start of an epic Grand Canyon trek, found his eagerness waning as the day for departure grew near. Before long, he’d succumbed to an inexplicable malaise. Soon he was doubting his ability to see the journey through. If I remember aright, he christened this pernicious malady “Fletcheritis,” and he found that the only cure was to start walking. Much the same enervating paralysis can strike a cyclist about to leave on a long ride. Small obstacles—a sore toe, a bar-bag bracket that stubbornly resists all efforts to tighten it, even the inexplicable failure to locate a favorite pair of socks—suddenly loom large. “Is this trip necessary?” you ask yourself, again and again. And your answer, all too often, will finally be, “No. Not really.”
But the cure is as simple as the affliction is debilitating. Just park your butt on your saddle and pedal. That’s all it takes. Before you’ve gone more than a mile or two, you’ll discover that your toe has stopped hurting, that the bar-bag bracket is plenty secure just as it is, and that your second-best socks are every bit as comfortable as your favorite pair. After that, you’ll be free to enjoy the ride.
Which isn’t to say that long treks are always easy. It’s important to set—and keep—a reasonable pace. Push yourself too hard, too soon, and you’ll have nothing left in reserve when the wind begins to blow a gale straight in your face and the hills start getting steeper. Farwell, whose internal governor was damaged by over-revving in his younger days, has been known to finish a long day by collapsing beside his bike. It makes for a dramatic finale, but it’s not exactly a goal to strive for.
The alternative? Easy. Let pleasure rule. If you’re not enjoying yourself, you’re probably pushing too hard. And if the wind and the hills take too great a toll, just stop. That’s all. Stop. Get off your bike. Take a swig from your water bottle. Brew up a quick cup of tea. Gnaw on the heel of a crusty loaf, dripping with honey. Pass the time of day with a neighborly horse. Hurl a good-natured epithet back at a scolding squirrel. Almost before you know it, you’ll be ready to get back in the saddle. Neither gales nor gradients can defeat you now.
Then, at the end of the day, when you’ve come full circle, you won’t have to sink to your knees by your bike while the feeling returns to your tortured limbs. You’ll stand tall and walk proud—a little stiff, perhaps, and maybe a bit sore, but basking in the quiet satisfaction that can only come from meeting a physical challenge head on. Yes, you could have covered the distance in just an hour or two in a car, but would you have seen as much? Felt as much? Learned as much? Not likely! And that’s the joyfulness of the long distance cyclist.
