The day was hot and so humid that distant vistas were smeared like a smudged pastel drawing. A stiff wind was in my face, and I cursed at the cyclometer not to drop below 6.5 mph as I cranked at about 60 revs on the steepest portion of the climb. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” I thought. I don’t really believe that sentiment, but it’s hard not to think of it when sweat’s stinging my eyes, my heart’s pounding, and my quads are burning. I was almost at the break in the grade, but that didn’t mean there’d be relief. I had three minutes of hardship ahead of me before that. I was simply coming to the top of the first steep step, and then there would be a less steep but still rising slope of about three percent grade, followed by a longer tough step before the top. And that’s when I heard him.

Another cyclist came even with me on my left, climbing the hill out of the saddle — very hard on the legs, but it maintains speed. He was breathing as hard as I, but he was hauling a lot less weight. I had a box of wine on the rack and a fully outfitted touring bike; he was skinny, and he rode a bike with skinny tires and not one ounce more than was absolutely necessary — no rear rack, no lights, no second water bottle, no fenders. He was a cheerful and encouraging guy. “You’re doing real good,” he gasped. “This is a hard hill,” he muttered as he inched ahead of me, bobbing up and down with each stamping pedal stroke. “One of the hardest!” he blurted before sitting on his saddle and pulling away on the less steep spot. I couldn’t be sure if he was speaking to himself or me, but it was encouraging to see that he wasn’t gaining on me very much.

Whatever route I choose to ride, there’s no gentle glide back. The least difficult route requires climbing about 600 feet over about 12 miles, with one climb over three-quarters of a mile on an average 10 percent grade. To reach my berth, I’ve got to climb hills. Some are long and steep and end with screaming descents that leave brakes smoking. Others are shorter and much steeper with no descent at the end, just a breathless relief that it’s over. Usually I choose the route that ends with a stepped ascent of a pair of short arduous grades. They’re especially fun with 50 pounds of groceries in tow.

Few roads in the northern foothills of the Adirondack Mountains are level for any distance. The best a tired cyclist can hope for is gentle winds and a rolling stretch of state highway (with heavy traffic to endure) or secondary roads that parallel the state highways, and which come complete with mongrel dogs, deep cracks and potholes in the road, and the occasional speeding vehicle piloted by a driver who’s more interested in talking on a cell phone than watching for cyclists.

Still, this is a great area for cycling, when it’s not snowing. You can ride for miles without interruption by a stop sign, never mind a stoplight. Pleasing surroundings make enduring winds and hills easier. You like pastoral farmland? It’s here. Woods and rivers and ponds? Those too. The hills build strong legs and condition the cardiovascular system. Steep grades may be hard work, and fast descents can be a mixed blessing, but that’s what brakes and all those gears are for. And there’s always the option of walking.

This last week, I rode some roads that make it plain WHY there are so many undulating routes — if you know what it is you’re looking at. As little as 12,000 years ago (“little” being a relative term), this area was covered with glaciers. In the closing days of the Ice Age, glaciers melted and receded north. As they ground their way out of the area, they left behind a thick blanket of loose sediments. Meltwater rivers distributed such sediment far and wide, and a lot of it accumulated in poorly-drained areas. The result? Piles of sediment — elongate hills called drumlins, sinuous raised riverbeds called eskers, and high-and-dry deltas that once were drowned under glacial lakes and inland seas. As those seas and lakes drained away, the exposed deltas were further dissected by rivers and streams, by wind and rain, snow and ice.

Today, as I ride my bike up steep grades and swoop back down the other side, I’m reminded of the countless streams and rivers which carved gullies that became the vegetated valleys we see today. When I see a deep gravel or sand pit, I think of the briny or fresh waters which covered the area, and of the animals that lived in those waters. Every so often, a seal or whale or other marine animal’s skeleton is found in those deposits, reminders of a long ago time before man inhabited the area. For this geologist, these reminders are rewarding. But you don’t have to be a geologist to enjoy the cycling, though a knowledge of our geologic past enhances every trip. Read more about remnants of the last Ice Age…

Tags: cycling, geology, Ice Age

 
How often do YOU think about handlebars? Not often, I’d wager. Unless you ride a bike with bars that don’t fit. THEN you think about them a lot. A few months ago I bought a new bike which came with good basic bars, but they just didn’t suit me. They were narrower than I liked, and made steering a tad nervous. But the worst problems of all were that I could find no position which was comfortable for more than a few minutes at a time. And another thing was wrong. I like a handlebar bag, and the one I like best was a tight fit. My thumbs caught on the side pockets or were crushed against the bag’s side, making them go numb. So after some shopping and getting the opinions of other cyclists, I decided to swap out the stock handlebars with a pair of 44 cm Nitto Noodle handlebars.

What sold me on the Noodles? Their geometry seemed just what the doctor ordered — literally. I get tingly hands and occasionally have a flair-up of carpal tunnel syndrome. The relatively flat upper portion of the Noodles extend from the clamp area in the center all the way along the ramps. The slight flare of the drops — the lower part of the bar — would make riding “in the drops” easier. But most of the time, I ride on the ramps and hoods — the rubber cover over the brake levers. And the width would permit me more “thumb room” between the bars and my bar bag.

The exchange was a success. Here are comparative photos:

 
In the pair of pictures above you can see how little room there is between the handlebar and my bar bag. My thumb rubs against the pockets on the left side of the bag.

 
In the next set of photos, see how much more room there is for my thumbs. Four centimeters more width gives me more real estate for changing hand positions, and permits the mounting of necessities without cramping my riding style. The photo on the left above shows the old bar resting on the bar bag bracket with the new Nitto bars mounted. See the difference?

Unless you’ve done this job yourself before, there’s more to mounting new handlebars than you might imagine. The original handlebar had a different clamp diameter than the Noodles. That meant that the stem (the “neck” which extends forward to clamp the handlebar) had to be replaced with one which would clamp tightly to the Noodles. Is this sounding like a project? You’re right, and there’s more. The brake levers had to be removed, too, but only after unwrapping the handlebar tape. And then the biggie was to move the bar end shifters (“barcons”) from one bar to another. Read how in “Bar-End Shifters: How to Remove and Install Them.”

Here’s where it helps to get the advice of others who know more than you do. After asking for assistance on the Surly Long Haul Trucker and Cross Check group online, I felt confident that the swap would be well within my abilities. After two hours and a few wrong turns, the job was done. After a few test rides, I profess myself happy.

 
If riding your bike causes pain, numbness, or tingling in your hands, arms, or shoulders, maybe swapping handlebars and/or the stem could make riding more enjoyable. Get some advice, and if you have basic tools, a place to work, and can get the components you need, consider doing the job yourself. It’s satisfying, and it saves you money. But if you can’t tackle it yourself, ask a friend who is mechanically adept, or take it to a reliable bike shop and get them to give you some help. Your hands will thank you.

 
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Tags: bikes, cycling, handlebars

Cycling is far better than cocooning yourself in a car if what you want is to enjoy the countryside. You see more animals and details of the landscape, hear more birds and other natural songs like the wind in the trees and chortling brooks, and you smell more of the sweet greenery and fragrant flowers. The downside is that you also see more dead animals. Motor vehicles take a terrible toll.

There’s hardly a minute’s passage at bike speed between one dead animal and the next. It seems animals are sometimes killed deliberately, too. What else explains squashed turtles on the very edge of a four-foot wide shoulder? Drunks and distracted drivers drive blind. I see an alarming number of these two species of motorist.

For many drivers, a phone call, the dog, the kids, tuning the stereo, or preening all seem more important than driving. They might as well be sitting in the easy chair at home in front of a video game for all the importance they place on moving their tons of metal at high speeds from one destination to another. There’s another vehicle of destruction on the roads, too — irresponsible young drivers. Far too many of them are let loose on the public thoroughfares to roar at breakneck speed, going nowhere. Where are their parents? Adult or teenager, whatever the excuse, the result or carelessness behind the wheel is a significant death-toll among the innocents who live adjacent to the roads.

As I ride my bike around the local roads, I keep my eyes peeled for living animals who are alongside or on the road, and do what I safely can to escort them to a safe place. It’s always satisfying to give them a new lease on life. Some might wonder why I bother. After all, what difference does it make if this turtle or that garter snake is killed? The answer, for me, is simple: It matters to that animal.

All these pictures of turtles are portraits of those who lived longer because of a safe rescue on northern New York roads. This is only a small selection of individuals, for this has been a life-long devotion to save animals from a terrible and needless death. Sometimes I’ve been alone, sometimes Farwell was with me. And I know there are others who do what they can, too. The snapper to the left below was yesterday’s rescue, but she and the others here represent the rest. And whenever I look at the beautiful eyes and marvel at the design of the turtle body, I feel great.

Today another turtle made it. A female painted turtle tried to cross a busy highway, and drivers were especially frenzied. Maybe the gusty, erratic wind is to blame, or perhaps the hot weather, the first warm stretch of the summer. No matter. The turtle needed to get across the road, from swamp to upland, where she’d lay her eggs. She had little choice in her nesting area, and the road was in the way, a wide gaping canyon of hot asphalt. For a six-inch long turtle, it’s quite a crossing, with sight lines measured in a few feet from only a couple inches off the surface. She was courageous and determined, and she set out when traffic stopped blowing her with its slipstream.

That’s when I came along, on the side of the road where she was heading. I parked my bike off the shoulder and relied on a bright jersey to warn any motorists who appeared that someone was in the road. By now she was well across, and no sooner did she reach the white fog line than she stopped for a rest. Ungood. Traffic was picking up again after the unusual lull. I walked toward her, and that was enough. She scooted toward the hillside grass. I prodded her tail to help motivate her, and she reached safety quickly. I wished her luck and set out myself, glad I went riding on this day, at that particular time. Any day a turtle is saved is a great day.

Tags: cycling, turtles