To step back for a moment, introspective pondering inevitably leads to the most basic questions that science, philosophy and religion have tried to answer: how did we get here, where are we going, and what do we do while we’re here? The answer to the latter is inevitably another question: what is the good life? The philosopher G.E. Moore contributed one answer, which was used as one of the guiding principles of the Bloomsbury Group: “One’s prime objects in life [are] love, the creation and enjoyment of aesthetic experience, and the pursuit of knowledge.”

Interestingly, modern neuroscience has done much to corroborate Moore’s philosophical position, particularly on experience and learning. Shimon Edelman, professor of psychology at Cornell University, suggests that our contentment is boosted by being in a ‘flow’ state. “Flow is the enjoyment derived from being engaged in an activity that is challenging, but not frustratingly so. You’re not challenged if you’re not tested, so I think we have this drive that pushes us to maybe overstep the boundary every now and then. And for success, we get rewarded incredibly with this feeling of well-being and excitement.” There’s certainly a corroboration with cycling there, particularly if we push ourselves in challenging situations but not beyond our immediate capabilities. It’s not so much the goal that matters – getting to the top of a climb, say, but the experience of getting there.

We might also conclude that knowledge does not have to be pursued solely by the experiences of ‘getting out there’. We can all relate to the pleasure of a good book and the insights it might offer through prompting us to think about the world around us. As Harvard English professor Helen Vendler has written, corroborating Moore and Edelman: “Without reading, there can be no learning; without learning, there can be no sense of a larger world; without the sense of a larger world, there can be no ardor to find it; without ardor, where is joy?”

Moore and the Bloomsbury Group were interested in the creation and enjoyment of the aesthetic experience, or – simply – art: its creation and appreciation. It’s not such a leap to think that ‘art’ can have a broad definition. Without making any claims to its quality, one might regard this blog as art, hence your author’s enjoyment in creating it (and appreciating the art of other cycling bloggers). Interestingly, though, there is no mention of the acquisition of art. Indeed, Edelman cautions against consumption: “If you have some money to spend and you spend it on buying goods that’s not nearly as effective in making you happy in the long run as buying experiences. If you buy an experience, you can basically revisit it and enjoy it over and over again, whereas with material goods, the fun goes away.” It’s a useful caution. Even economists agree on the law of diminishing returns as one consumes more; are we any more happy despite being surrounded by easy opportunities for consumption?

Yet such a caution might be unduly limiting. What is a bicycle if not a means to experience? Some goods are ‘necessary’, therefore, to achieve the experiences that make us happy. And what if the goods themselves are ‘art’, that the experience of appreciating them can be revisited and that they can be enjoyed over and over again? One might argue, therefore, that buying certain things can achieve two purposes that contribute to the good life – they allow gratifying experiences, and they are works of art in themselves and can be appreciate aesthetically.

Turning to the latter, we might see that design and luxury can contribute to an aesthetic experience beyond the limitations of consumption. A well-designed bike can be used for riding but can also give pleasure to its owner from the appeal of its attractive form and ingenious function. And this can be highly subjective and personal. Many of us do not need the latest ‘halo’ bike to be aesthetically engaged with our steed. Some do, and we should not judge what gives enjoyment to others, but simpler pleasures can be just as satisfying to a particular individual.

On this basis, your author must confess to some indulgences, what might be called small luxuries. To this list might be added Moleskine notebooks, Waterman pens, G. Lalo writing paper, cycling books, merino base layers from Icebreaker in New Zealand, and North American – especially Canadian – whisky (which is very affordable and highly underrated versus expensive Scottish varieties; see here, for example). Some of these are means to other enjoyable experiences – letter writing to distant friends (pens and paper), expanding one’s knowledge (cycling books), conquering climbs in comfort (merino base layers) – but do have an aesthetic appeal in themselves. One can always appreciate good ‘art’.

To this list has been added a recent acquisition (to celebrate the milestone noted above): a Rapha silk scarf. Your author has been mildly obsessed with said item for some time, defying all good reason. (In his defence, as David Hume said, “Reason is, and ought only to be the slave of the passions, and can never pretend to any other office than to serve and obey them.”) One must confess some mixed views of this luxury cycling goods company (more on that in a later post) but one can certainly not argue with its fine aesthetics. The scarf has not disappointed and can be appreciated in itself, as well as having some functionality in its wearing as an enhancement of one’s riding experience (it would also certainly be a fine choice for wiping down hand-stitched tubulars). And, purchased as part of the winter sale, it was certainly cheaper than the usual cyclist’s mid-life purchase of Super Record.

This post, therefore, might be construed as a plea for some philosophizing on your next ride. You might, on your next ride, wonder as to the utility of a particular set of carbon wheels on another rider’s bike, or their particular choice of attire (a silk scarf, for example). But we should not be so quick to judge. If we give it some thought, we are all in our own way pursuing our individual conceptions of the good life – and indulgences small and large are part of that. As riders, though, we are all ultimately united in our pursuit of the experiences that cycling can give us (including the relationships that it can foster). It gives us the immediate satisfaction of being in the ‘flow’ and those experiences – big and small – become lodged in our memories for revisiting later for our enjoyment. As one popular philosopher has said, “The point of departure, is not to arrive.” Now that’s the good life!

This hirsute gentleman has a particular conception of the good life (Rapha pic)

– Signor Farfalla in ‘A Very Private Gentleman’ by Martin Booth.

This year's Milano-Sanremo is March 27

Surely there is an expression in Italian for this as well.

Perhaps one of the other commandments could be: Thou shalt not worry over the expense (minimal relative to other cycling purchases) or waste (again minimal relative to other waste) of CO2 canisters and enjoy their rapid inflation benefits instead of fumbling with a pump in the cold.

Just a thought.

With such a sweeping brief, one is always tempted to revert to generalizations or even analogies to make sense of such a large topic. By way of introduction, we will start with a quote from the author Umberto Eco comparing Apple and Microsoft to Catholicism and Protestantism:

I am firmly of the opinion that the Macintosh is Catholic and that DOS is Protestant. Indeed, the Macintosh is counterreformist and has been influenced by the “ratio studiorum” of the Jesuits. It is cheerful, friendly, conciliatory, it tells the faithful how they must proceed step by step to reach – if not the Kingdom of Heaven – the moment in which their document is printed. It is catechistic: the essence of revelation is dealt with via simple formulae and sumptuous icons. Everyone has a right to salvation.

DOS is Protestant, or even Calvinistic. It allows free interpretation of scripture, demands difficult personal decisions, imposes a subtle hermeneutics upon the user, and takes for granted the idea that not all can reach salvation. To make the system work you need to interpret the program yourself: a long way from the baroque community of revelers, the user is closed within the loneliness of his own inner torment.

Now, bear with me dear reader, as I attempt to circle back to this starting point through a brief, but perhaps torturous, exploration of European cycling.

What cycling means

Cycling in different countries says much about their national character. Or to look at it another way, the national character sets the agenda for cycling. In Belgium, for example, cycling is a test of hardness. The races are abominably long, unnecessarily technical, and usually run in the toughest part of the season (spring). They are grim affairs. To win one of these races you need to embrace Belgian-style riding: big-ring hammerfests in the rain and crosswinds, up and down treacherous bergs, where only the hardest of the hard can triumph. There is little room for flair and style; results come from fortitude and hard work.

There are tough races in France, too, where they love their cycling and their competition. Here, racing has a grandeur that Belgium lacks. The French can give their races some panache, while at the same time investing them with near mythological status. The mountains, for example, are more than just tests of conditioning, they are a challenge to man’s place in the world. Yet at the same time, there is the air of Gallic insouciance. At some level, there is a skepticism that perhaps cycling is just a bourgeois conspiracy to exploit the working class. At any moment, the French look like they could shrug their shoulders and walk away. C’est la vie.

In Spain, cycling is a celebration. The country is larger and more diverse than others in Europe, and divisions bubble under the surface. So racing becomes an expression of joy; the Vuelta is a carnival of cycle racing. It can be a statement of nationalism (see the Basques) but also a buoyant expression of identity. The riders express themselves in this context, showing their character as well as using cycling as a philosophical learning process about themselves. Results are less important than the personal development of the rider.

Cycling as religion

In Italy, cycling is a religion. It is perhaps no coincidence, then, that Italy is also the home of Catholicism. Cycling has its own church, and its own saints. At its roots, cycling is a tragedy (see: Coppi, Pantani) where racers seek glory and salvation on earth, as a prelude to higher judgement later on. The tifosi worship at the altar of cycling, throwing themselves wholeheartedly and without reservation into its pursuit, a “community of revelers”. Rules and regulations (see: doping) are secondary to the higher purpose that cycling has – the expression of the human condition, of competition and of daring, of the revelations it offers. Cycling will save us all, so long as we worship it unreservedly. And if we succumb to it, we are martyrs.

To the victor the spoils, but how the race was won is important; it must be won just as the fans support it, with reverence and devotion and with total commitment to the glory of suffering. But it must also, like Catholicism in Eco’s terms, be a sumptuous victory; not the plodding Calvinistic inner torment of the time trial win, but the flashy showmanship of the sprint win, the reverence of the long breakaway, or the splendor of crossing the line alone in the high mountains. It should be like religion itself: the transcending of the ordinary in pursuit of the sublime or even the miraculous.

To stretch the analogy even further, one might seen parallels between Eco’s characterization and Italy’s most prominent contribution to modern cycling, Campagnolo. Is it too much to suggest that Campagnolo is the Apple of groupsets? It has its patron saint (Tullio Campagnolo), and an inception founded in myth. It components stress the purity of design, and might even be described as sumptuous. They are presented as a complete package, each groupset stands on its own, and there is no compatibility elsewhere. Devotees stress its history, its essence and its form over functionality, and maintenance is best performed by high priests with special chain tools at your local bike shop. Shimano, by contrast, makes no such lofty claims and presents components that are functional, interchangeable and open to free interpretation (Ultegra here, 105 there, and add a FSA crankset and a SRAM cluster). Its hermeneutics is the user poring over instruction manuals to make adjustments and to perform maintenance.

Reading Italian cycling

But perhaps your author has gone too far, stretching the analogies to their breaking point, offering up sweeping generalizations in place of detailed analysis. There is undoubtedly much to learn about the subtleties being glossed over here.

Despite the centrality of Italian cycling in any history of pro racing, there are surprisingly few books on the Giro d’Italia, particularly when compared to the Tour de France. There are, however, several titles available. One, The Giro d’Italia: Coppi versus Bartali at the 1949 Tour of Italy by Dino Buzzati, has already been reviewed on this blog in reference to the Giro d’Italia as epic. Two other books are quite recent: Bill & Carol McGann – The Story of the Giro d’Italia (volume 1, 1909-1970; Herbie Sykes – Maglia Rosa: Triumph and Tragedy at the Giro d’Italia. Sykes is also the author of The Eagle of the Canavese: Franco Balmamion and the Giro d’Italia.

There is also Matt Rendell’s biography of Marco Pantani, which was published in 2006. It perhaps speaks volumes about the book that it was never published in Italy, the publishers warned over the outcry that challenging the ‘official’ narrative of Pantani’s life would prompt from the public. This book was a fantastic read at the time; in light of subsequent revelations about doping in European cycling it will be useful to return to its in-depth analysis. (You can read two interviews with Rendell on Pantani and other topics here and here.)

One might question, of course, the epistemological challenges inherent in discovering the ontology of Italian cycling: how might one understand it without living, breathing or experiencing it fully. But one must start somewhere, with the resources at hand. We can never be certain that the outcome will be successful, but perhaps the journey will be illuminating. We might indeed see the process in religious terms, and salvation might be possible (your author may purchase a Campagnolo product, for example). Will it serve a higher purpose? To paraphrase Buzzati, Italian cycling is “one of the last meccas of the imagination, a stronghold of romanticism, besieged by the gloomy forces of progress, and it refuses to surrender.” We shall perhaps see if it remains that stronghold today.

Giuseppe Saronni showcasing his personal style in the maglia rosa

Three factors have made riding at this time of year bearable for your author. The first has been an absolutely essential winter riding cap from Gal Studio. The Flemish model is all wool, has generous but not overdone ear protection, and looks stylish to boot. You could wear it on the Schelde canal bike path in Belgium, or anywhere, really. Essential.

The second has been that the problem of rear flat tyres (why is it never the front?) seems to have been solved. The solution is a something-or-other model from Specialized that features their ‘flak jacket’ protection. This is basically a tread that is rubber several millimetres thick stuck on top of the tyre casing. You probably couldn’t hammer a nail through it. The tyre also has a bizarre minimum inflation recommendation of 115 psi, but it’ll run just fine closer to 100, which should rule out pinch flats. It has a wire bead, probably weighs twice as much as a Michelin Pro 3, and it cost $25. But who wants to be pulling off two pairs of gloves and struggling with frozen tools for the sake of a few grams.

The third has been a new variation on your author’s interest in tipples & tonics. It being too cold to get thirsty on a ride, and warm drinks never staying warm in the bottle for long, recourse has been to the mid-ride coffee stop to warm up. Now, your author drinks two kinds of coffee: single espressos or double espressos. Everything else is just a variation – like a macchiato, where an espresso is ‘marked’ with foam. The new variation is the caffè corretto, where the espresso is ‘corrected’ with the addition of an appropriate liqueur (brandy or Drambuie is a good choice). Given the state of the North American café, ordering such a drink is not possible here, but this can be, er, corrected by carrying a hip flask with the required tonic in a jersey pocket. Pulling out a flask, along with a Moleskine notebook or a small George Orwell novel, also adds a touch of savoir-faire (or dangerous eccentricity, take your pick) to any café visit.

The drawbacks

It has not been all bucolic winter riding, however. A tricky schedule has meant last minute, truncated rides, often without the opportunity to organize the riding partners to help to while away the cold kilometres. A quick scan of the ride diary for 2011, as well, has revealed distances down a minimum of 25% from previous years – such is the challenge of keeping up appearances with a busy job, plans on the side, and a new addition to the family. Sometimes, getting out at all seems like a miracle.

Some recent wheel maintenance also depressingly revealed small cracks around several of the spoke holes in the rear wheel of your author’s much-treasured (and sub-1500 gram) HED Bastogne wheels. The cause is not immediately clear, but may be related to the challenges of building long-lasting and lightweight Al clinchers with minimal spoke counts and high tensions. But who can say? HED is known for their attention to customer service, even offering rebuilds at discount rates for wheels that have been damaged during crashes (not this scenario, unfortunately). It remains to be seen, however, whether they will respond at all to your author’s inquiry for advice via their website.

If repair is not possible, replacement is not an option (try adding daycare costs to your budget – yikes!), so there seems to be two ways forward. First, ride the wheels until there is some sort of failure. The cracks are very small, and may not get any larger. There may be much life left in the rear wheel yet. Or, second, keep the wheels for ‘hillclimb TTs’ and baby them for as long as possible, and ride one’s winter wheels on the race bike instead. Decisions.

A festive break

Stop! Have you taken the de Vlaeminck test yet? Good. Onward. This will be the last post on this blog for 2011. Thanks to all those who took the time to read the articles presented here, and extra thanks to those who gave feedback. To the many, many folks who spammed the comments section (always on the same post, strangely), my apologies for not replying to you all individually, or taking you up on the (surely) excellent product offers that you were advertising. Perhaps next year.

In a previous post, your author foreshadowed some upcoming posts on the meaning of cycling. So far, there has been ‘Sport as spectacle’ as well as numerous recent interludes on diverse topics, all of which you have hopefully enjoyed. To paraphrase the writer and critic John Updike, the problem with blogging is that it is “almost impossible… to avoid the tone of being wonderfully right.” It is a problem, indeed! One can therefore hope, dear reader, that you have found the opinions presented here to be thought provoking. Your author bears no riders any ill will, no matter their riding choices (okay, with the possible exception of anyone still sporting a Rock Racing jersey; or those who sit on your wheel in races and yell “pull through” -  if you’ve breath left in your lungs, pull through yourself…). Cycling is a big enough tent for everyone. But that still doesn’t mean we can’t have – often quite strong – opinions and we should hear them out.

Looking ahead, 2012 presents some uncertainties for this blog, as a fresh year always does. There are a number of posts in the ‘meaning of cycling’ series still to complete: the anti-hero, Mont Ventoux and memory, and the sociology of the peloton. One hopes to be able to complete those in short order in the New Year. Subsequently, your author would like to return to a series of posts on the essence of le grimpeur – climbing. There has been an absence of focused articles on said topic here recently, so there should be some correctives offered. Finally, having discussed the decline of Italian cycling, there is going to be some effort on your author’s part to better understand Italian cycling. Despite having one ostensibly Italian-named bike (Marinoni, although it’s really a Quebec bike), your author has to profess having little real understanding of Italian cycling; one can know its history but not its passions. Some research will be required, and the fruits – such as they are – will be presented here in due course. And, with the opening of a new, authentic Italian café (Tre Galli – Three Roosters) nearby, your author is feeling inspired. So now it’s skipping past the French creperie (“Salut! Ça va?”) to the hone of fine espresso (“Ciao!”). We’ll have to have a talk about caffè corretto…

Finally, don’t forget Rule #58 from the Velominati. Even if your budget has been blown by daycare costs or the like, support your local bike shop when you can this festive season. They’re doing more to keep cycling going in your community than you realize. Merry Christmas, Joyeux Noël and, er, Buon Natale until the New Year.

Why we love cycling: spectacle; suffering. Humanity.

What is it about the bicycle (and in this entire post I’m referring to the road ‘racing’ model) in particular that captivates us so? There is the liberation that it can provide, but there is also something about its appearance – its form – than can also captivate us: the beauty, yet simplicity, of its design; the elegant way that its tubing flows and intersects, the curve of the handlebars; its seemingly timeless mechanical components, not radically different from a model 100 years its junior. In choosing a bicycle, good design is highly valued – hence the attention to form as well as function of everything from the frame to the wheels to the cranks to the bars and to the saddle.

Bob Roll calls the Tour de France the “race of the common people” but also notes that we understand that “no person will ever go faster, more beautifully on a bicycle than in the Tour de France.” So, as amateur roadies ourselves, we look to the professional peloton for our inspiration, so that we perhaps might in some small way go as beautifully on a bike as they. But there is a danger in this approach. For the professional rider, their bike is a tool. It is the primary tool of their profession. In that way, it also has a specific function – to go as fast as possible.

As amateurs, we also value speed. But speed is not important for our livelihood (unless we are working our way up the ranks). For us, the bicycle is a tool of liberation, of self-realization and discovery, of camaraderie. And because we think that the bicycle is a beautiful thing, we often value form more highly than function. Going as fast as is technologically possible is not always our highest priority.

Function

This attention to form is what often sets roadies apart from other bicycling disciplines. The triathlete, for example, places a priority on function. A triathlon bike (or a TT bike) is not a beautiful machine. There is nothing elegant about aero bars, curved seat tubes, deep-dish or tri-spoke wheels, or the various accoutrements that flourish on tri bikes – large drink bottles with straws, and behind-the-seat portage trees that with CO2 canisters attached resemble ‘devices’ from a Frank Zappa song. There is no form, only function.

On your own bike, the value you place on form versus function can be ascertained from a quick scan over its composition (or by taking the test at the end of this post). The ideal form of the racing bicycle is one that has been stripped back to its essentials, with priority given to simplicity and tried-and-true design and components that speak to us of their rich origins more than their utilitarianism. It is all about traditional materials and classic design, as opposed to drag coefficients and weight differences measured in grams. Traditionalists with this view like their accessories to be absolutely minimized and remain deeply suspicious of carbon, despite appreciating its properties. But a bicycle also has a job to do, and must be equipped to do so – it must also be functional. So there must be compromise.

This search for form is why there are debates that rage over the proper number and use of bottle cages, for example. If one is interested in form, the ideal number of cages is either zero or possibly one. A single, small bottle is the classic racing bike accessory. But sometimes more than one bottle is necessary (very long rides, hot days), so what to do? And how to carry tools and other required items?

The purest will argue that for the vast majority of rides, an absolute minimum of extras are required, particularly if you ride in mostly urban settings where food and drink are never far away (and an excellent excuse for a coffee shop stop). Tools can be easily minimized: a spare tube (the chances of getting a flat are around 5%, one might surmise, so the chances of two are just 0.25% – leave the other spare tube at home and take a few contact patches instead), levers if you need them, and a means of inflation; a multi-tool is simply a substitute for poor bike maintenance (although your author carries a very small one anyway). With three jersey pockets, all these things should go in there. If you are already carrying other items (phone, money, keys, a small novel, notebook, hip flask), consider a second bottle cage on your bike with a container – always fashioned from two old bidons – to hold them, or a minimally-sized bag or roll-up under your saddle. A so-called Bento Box, or a large saddle bag, are surely signs that function is being valued over form.

If you have eschewed power meters and cadence monitors and GPS computers from your bike, then you are also valuing form over function. For you, these tools have little to offer in value and simply clutter the clean lines of your bike. Of what importance is one’s power, speed or distance anyway (they’re never enough)? These devices simply produce numbers to be tabulated and crunched and analyzed but tell us little about our riding experience and give little succor to our mediocrity.

Electronic shifting

The development of electronic shifting is the epitome of function over form. The bicycle’s origins are from the mechanical era; it operates by a series of cables, chains, sprockets, cogs, pulley and levers. Engineers endlessly tinker and refine these moving parts but the whole operation of the machine remains a mechanical one. And it all works remarkably well. Such is the bicycle.

Electronic shifting was designed by Shimano not to overcome an inherent limitation in mechanical shifting but because they could. It exists at the far end of the functionality scale, extending that scale because there was never a shifting ‘issue’ to resolve to begin with. It might seem curious, therefore, that the readers of Cycling News rated it as the “best new product” (although choosing from a select list). The excellent review by Jered Gruber of the new Ultegra Di2 gets it right; small flaws in mechanical shifting are now only brought into relief by the remarkable efficiency of electronic shifting.

But why can’t electronic shifting be both form and function? Indeed, if electronic shifting is the Bicycle 2.0 then we can likely expect some elegant products, the new Campagnolo brake hoods giving an iPhone-esque thrill of impeccable design perhaps. If you are of this view, you may be in the thrall of progress itself with an Enlightenment faith in science and technology to make life (in this case, cycling) a never-ending series of advancements and improvements. There will be no end point to the stiffness, lightness, and smoothness that can be achieved in the cycling world. And by simply being better, these products have a natural beauty all to themselves. As visitors to the 1939 World Fair in New York were advised: “We will welcome the new, test it thoroughly, and accept it joyously, in truly scientific fashion.”

On philosophy

The philosopher Bertrand Russell once wrote that philosophy occupied the space between religion and science. If form versus function were a religious question, we would simply resolve the debate by recourse to a higher authority. In this case, our bikes would be restricted to anything that Eddy Merckx rode (or perhaps built – an interesting doctrinal issue); or there might be a competing faith: anything built by Tullio Campagnolo and his successors.

If it were a science, we would need to be objective, in which case the debate would never be resolved. For in the form versus function discussion, our only recourse is to the subjective, to our own hard-and-fast opinions and points of view, where we vociferously argue the relative merits of the carbon versus the forged crank, 10 speed versus 11 speed, aluminum versus carbon rims (and exactly how deep they should be). We would surrender, as philosopher David Hume suggested, not to reason (and science) but to our passions. And despite our passions, we might be stuck in a kind of relativism that early Greek philosophers like Protagoras argued: if there is no objective reality, just things that we individually perceive, and perceive differently, then all of us are always right.

So where does that leave us? With our treasured bicycles, but differing over just exactly where we strike the balance between form and function (and exactly what those terms mean). Still, as committed but decidedly amateur riders, in looking for guidance we might take inspiration from the recently-deceased Brazilian soccer legend Socrates (yes, named after the philosopher of the same name), who said, in describing the game: “Beauty comes first. Victory is secondary. What matters is joy.” As such, we can pay homage to the rich heritage of cycling with our attention to the form of the bicycle, the intrinsic qualities and simplicity of the machine that make it a splendid and indeed joyous thing. It is in this way that we define ourselves as roadies.

The de Vlaeminck test

The above picture, taken from Pez Cycling News, shows the Belgian racer Roger de Vlaeminck (RdV) adjusting his rear wheel. Before technology allowed frame builders greater precision, rear dropouts required adjuster screws to centre the wheel, a good example of how technology has benefited the bicycle – we now give perfectly aligned dropouts barely a second thought.

RdV was one of the true classics legends, his number of wins putting him in third place in the all time stakes behind Eddy Merckx and Rick van Looy. He was known for his aerodynamic riding position and impeccable bike handling skills, riding the regional cobbles “as if he were on asphalt”, according to Italian directeur sportif Franco Cribiori. As well, his training schedule was legendary. He won his first Paris-Roubaix in 1972 having ridden 1,000 kilometres in four days as part of his preparation. It was this sort of attention to his legs that gave him the record for the number of Paris-Roubaix wins that still stands today. He also cut quite the dashing figure in the 1970s, a kind of Belgian James Bond, circa Live And Let Die.

As such, RdV has been chosen by your author to lend his moniker to the form versus function test presented below. Take the test, add up your points, and see what your score means. And there’s a bonus question, too!

1. It’s all about the bike! What sort of frame do you ride? carbon aero (-5); carbon, aluminum (Al), or titanium (0); steel (+5); steel, and built before 1990 (+10).

2. Wheels? Deep dish carbon (-5); medium profile Al or carbon (0); 32h box section (+5); tubular tyres, self glued (+5).

3. Frame accessories? bottle holder behind the seat (-10); 2 bottle cages and seat bag (-5); 2 bottle cages (0); 1 bottle cage (+5).

4. Gruppo? electronic (-10); 11 speed (-5); 10 speed (0); 9 speed or less (+5); downtube shifters (+10, but you should really get an upgrade); Campagnolo anything (+5).

5. Hardware? aerobars (-5); full carbon bars, stem, post, cranks (0); anything aluminum or steel (+5); quill stem (+10).

6. Anything else? power meter or GPS (-5); wireless computer (0); original Avocet or nothing at all (+5); gear ratio chart taped to your stem (+10).

7. Add 5 points if you know the number of times that RdV won Paris-Roubaix.*

How did you score? If your result was a negative number, you are a rider who gives priority on your bike to function over form and you like to sport the latest and greatest (and maybe also believe that technology has its own appealing form). The larger that negative number, there’s a good chance you’re an aspiring pro or a triathlete.

If your score was an even zero, you have found a balance between form and function. You embrace new technology but like to nod your head to the traditional, believing that you can have too much of the latest gear on your bike. Be like Roger and go immediately for a 200+ kilometre training ride.

If your score was a positive number, you are a traditionalist who thinks that the natural form of the bike is to pay homage to the old school. The 1970s or the 1980s was your favourite race era and you might still be rocking a traditional steel frame. If you still have downtube shifters, the test was serious about it being time for an upgrade. Really.

* To save you having to check elsewhere, dear reader, RdV won Paris-Roubaix four times. He also did the Tour of Flanders and Paris-Roubaix double in 1977. He had a host of other victories, including 22 Giro stages, mostly in the early part of the season. Holding on to that great form for the whole year always seemed to be a challenge – just one stage victory at the Tour de France, for example – although he did win the Giro di Lombardia twice.

]]> http://le-grimpeur.net/blog/archives/450/feed 10 http://le-grimpeur.net/blog/archives/435 http://le-grimpeur.net/blog/archives/435#comments Thu, 01 Dec 2011 18:53:57 +0000 Guy WR http://le-grimpeur.net/blog/?p=435 Thanks to the kind folks at VeloPress, your author is enjoying Geoff Drake’s sweeping new book, Team 7-Eleven, niftily subtitled: How an Unsung Band of American Cyclists Took on the World – and Won. The book is an essential history for anyone who has ever swung a leg over the top tube of a racing bike and thus needs little in the way of introduction. Of note, though, is how gratifying the actual reading of the book has been. For a book gourmand such as your author, Drake serves up fine writing fare by the fork full.

The details of the team and its story need not preoccupy us too much here. PEZ already has a fine review, and the rest of the story is in the book itself. Of note, though, is the remarkable confluence of events and personalities that allowed the team to happen in the first place, and to be produced from the American milieu where cycling was at best a second-tier sport. In that respect it’s a fascinating story. Unfortunately, in some ways, the team’s Tour de France debut in 1986 was overshadowed by another American cycling success story – Greg LeMond.

The 7-Eleven team made a cracking debut at the 1986 Tour, with Alex Stieda (a Canadian no less) being the first North American to wear the maillot jaune and he made it even sweeter by winning all the other classification jerseys on the same day. That he lost the race lead that very afternoon, after a disastrous TTT, showed that 7-Eleven still had much to learn (although Davis Phinney later won a stage). Perhaps the most significant impact on the overall race was Doug Shapiro riding into Pedro Delgado causing the latter to crash and abandon the Tour.

Whatever excitement the team generated, however, was nothing in comparison to Greg LeMond’s race. This blog has already posted some entries on LeMond’s career, but these pale in comparison, of course, to the exhaustive analysis of the 1986 Tour by Richard Moore in his (essential) book, Slaying the Badger. It seems a remarkable historical coincidence that the 7-Eleven team would first race at the Tour the same year that an American – riding for a French team – would win the race and in such a dramatic fashion.

The 1987 Tour was a better year for 7-Eleven, even if Andy Hampsten, back on the team after his stint with La Vie Claire (and a prominent role in the 1986 Tour, including 4th place overall), struggled to reach his previous level. The Mexican climbing machine Raul Alcala won the white jersey for the best young rider. Davis Phinney took another stage win. The Norwegian rider Dag Otto Lauritzen won a mountain stage in the Pyrenees (a feat that countryman Thor Hushovd would repeat at this year’s Tour). And, finally, Jeff Pierce won the final stage on the Champs-Élysées – beating out Steve Bauer (who would later join the team after negotiations with Greg LeMond for the 1990 season fell through). But the 1987 Tour was another one for high excitement for the overall, with Stephen Roche winning a tough edition that maximized both the drama and the suffering (you can read about it on this blog right here).

What remains endearingly interesting about pro racing, especially the Grand Tours, are the layers of narrative – the number of stories that each race involves. With multiple teams and numerous riders, everyone has a story to tell. There were some absolutely fascinating editions of the Tour de France in the late 1908s (indeed the whole decade). Without the inclusion of the 7-Eleven team, they would likely still be races worthy of legend. But what Geoff Drake’s book does is to remind us that there are lesser-known stories to be told, ones that don’t grab the same limelight as the better known ones, but which are still worthy of reading. This is what keeps our sport so endlessly fascinating.

A final comment on 7-Eleven. As is well known, its parent company stopped sponsoring the team in the middle of 1990. The quintessentially American company was rescued from financial strife in 1991 by its Japanese franchise Ito-Yokado and became Seven & I Holdings Co., which continued to expand the brand worldwide. The stores are widely in evidence around the world these days and their logo continues to pop up in unexpected places related to cycling. For your author, the local east-west bike path is sponsored by the company; the classic logo signs are an ongoing reminder of a little slice of cycling history.

P.S. Your author spoke recently with Geoff Drake for a story for PEZ Cycling News, which will be published shortly.

]]> http://le-grimpeur.net/blog/archives/435/feed 0 http://le-grimpeur.net/blog/archives/413 http://le-grimpeur.net/blog/archives/413#comments Wed, 16 Nov 2011 03:52:53 +0000 Guy WR http://le-grimpeur.net/blog/?p=413 It has come to your author’s attention that there has been some lamenting of the absence of pictures on this blog. Naturally, with its literary pretensions, this absence has been largely deliberate as its preference is for long passages of text where one single image would do. But that’s not entirely true, and below you will find, dear reader, a couple of images that perhaps you haven’t seen before.

There’s always some small pleasure in finding a new source of cycling pictures, not reproduced in all the usual sources. The L’Equipe publication, Tour de France/Le Ventoux/Sommet de la Folie, is one such book recently added to your author’s collection, which features some great historical photos from the ‘madness’ racing up Mont Ventoux.

This climb is a particular favourite for le grimpeur, your author being the first of (currently) eight Kiwis to join the Club des Cinglés du Mont-Ventoux by completing the three ascents in one day (certainly not the hardest of cycling challenges, but also not that easy either). Mont Ventoux is spectacular unto itself, but the cycling history that has been written on its slopes adds another dimension to climbing it.

This says something about the role of ‘place’ in cycling. Professional racing is made all the more exciting by the routes it takes – Belgian bergs, French cobbles, the hills of the Italian Riviera, the Pyrenees and the Dolomites, and even the coastal vistas of California. Many of the climbs or descents or stretches of road take on mythical status; if enough heroic feats are performed on them, they become something larger in the mindset of the sport, more than just a piece of tarmac (or a set of cobbles).

There is thus a symbiotic relationship between cycling and place. If you’re fortunate to live somewhere with easy access to the countryside, you can probably find almost equally picturesque or challenging routes that might even equal the classic routes of pro cycling. Any ski resort access road, for example, might indeed be Tour-worthy. But without a storied history, these routes are just another place to spin one’s tyres. The varied terrain that cycling traverses gives the races their variety and excitement. As our good friend Roland Barthes has said: “…to conquer the slopes and the weight of things is to allow that man can possess the entire physical universe.” Well, perhaps that’s a bit excessive, but is it what makes races so captivating. The extra dimension is when cycling gives back to a place – it builds a history and a mythology in a particular location. When us lowly amateurs get to experience that place ourselves, we can take some small sips from the wellspring of that history and mythology.

Four faces of pain following the time trial up Mont Ventoux (L'Equipe)

The above picture is from the 1958 Tour de France, memorably won by Charly Gaul some 30 years after fellow luxembourgeois Nicolas Frantz (who led the race from start to finish) and the last rider from that country to do so. The protagonists have just completed the time trial up Mont Ventoux, 21.5 kilometres from Bedoin to the summit and Gaul (top left), despite his visage of suffering, smoked the course in 1h02’09″, taking him from 9th to 3rd overall. Vito Favero (bottom left), the Italian rider, wore the yellow jersey into the stage but was only 24th on the climb, 7’59″ behind Gaul. He would go on to place second overall, though, showing incredible tenacity (and you can read more about his Tour and career in a previous post and on Pez Cycling News where he shows off his yellow jersey from this Tour).

Raphaël Géminiani (top right) also did not fare so well against Gaul, some 5’01″ down in 10th place. But he had done enough to pull on the yellow jersey at Favero’s expense and held it for three stages until Gaul put paid to Géminiani’s Tour hopes with a massive attack through the Alps to Aix-les-Bains (which actually put Favero back into the lead until the final time trial, where Gaul struck again). For Jacques Anquetil (bottom right), though, it was a Tour of suffering on a grander scale. Looking enough of a fright in this picture, he abandoned before the final time trial with congestion and was also coughing up blood. Having won in 1957, Anquetil would be back, winning (of course) four more Tours.

The second picture, below, shows Bernard Thévenet on his way to victory on stage 11 from Carnon-Plage to the summit of Mont Ventoux. The years before and after this Tour were dominated by the battles between Eddy Merckx and Luis Ocaña, but Thévenet’s victory was perhaps a sign of things to come for this brilliant Frenchman as he would be the rider to prevent Merckx from his 6th Tour victory in 1975. Thévenet will be the subject of (hopefully) the first post here in 2012, the fortieth anniversary of his stage win (and another anniversary of sorts, but more on that later), as part of the ongoing series on the meaning of cycling. There will be more interludes in the interregnum before the year is out, but enjoy the pictures for now and look for ‘Mont Ventoux and memory’ in 2012.

Thévenet's secret? Gallic tenacity and very stylish kit (L'Equipe)

A typical discussion might begin with a question such as: “So, been doing much riding?” Such questions are purely rhetorical; they are not to be taken as literal, requiring an honest and detailed reply as to one’s training regime. One’s response is governed by ritual and is determined by a rather complex formula. For example, if you have been indeed doing a little riding, clocking up a few miles, then an appropriate response might be: “Yeah, a few miles when I can.”

But as the amount of training increases, the response should move exponentially in inverse proportion to the amount of training done. Therefore, a moderate training plan involving a variety of riding might be described as: “A few miles, but family commitments have made it pretty tough to get out.” Got an actual training plan, complete with interval sessions and an online coach? “Pretty much rested up over the winter with a bit of back pain from putting up the Christmas tree.” If you’ve been spending the last 2 months putting in 6 hours per day on the rollers in the 53×11 while watching endless Tour de France dvds, your response should take on the magnitude of a New Country song – your porch collapsed, the dog died, your significant other left you and took your truck with your bike in the back.

The intention of such responses is not to obfuscate one’s condition (all will be revealed on the road in due course). The point is that roadies do not have the slightest interest in discussing training; it is an arcane subject of no relevance to anything useful (as opposed to where to get the best espresso, say). In the world of the roadie, all rides are recovery rides to local coffee shops, even if what one actually does is long tempo group rides or hill intervals. But the ritual of appearing to discuss training is still important as one must at least appear to be polite.

When answering a question about training, one must never (never!) reply: “I’m in training for a Gran Fondo.”

Blindsided

Your author must confess to having been totally blindsided by the Gran Fondo phenomenon. On initial appraisal, your author was attracted to the idea: a long ride on a closed course, just the sort of scenic event to finish a season and put in a few extra miles. Something to train for? Well, since when does one train for a ‘fun ride’ when the distance and toughness of the course is less than, say, stringing together the local mountains in a round trip. Still, with a price tag of around $200, it had better be a good day out.

The Vancouver event (Vancouver to Whistler), having just run its second edition, attracted 7,000 riders. Far from being a fun ride, entrants are now comparing finish times and can even pay an additional fee to start with a group at the head of the pack to avoid being held up by slower riders, thus facilitating a faster finish time. Additional events are now being run in British Columbia, almost like grand tours. Needless to say, Fondo training plans (not to mention Fondo-ready bikes) are on everyone’s lips and in the pages of popular cycling publications. Gran Fondos are now, apparently, serious events with serious racing.

There would appear to be a growing disconnect between marquee events (with impeccable if somewhat pricey organization and ‘epic’ routes) and the local grassroots racing, where a weekend Masters race on quiet, country roads with no-frills organization (but usually a great bbq) might struggle to attract 100 entrants across all age categories. It would seem, as least in Vancouver, that roadies are favouring the former and that there is little crossover. Are we becoming pampered racers who prefer to drop a bundle of cash for a Gran Fondo rather than support a club-run local racing event?

On class

French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu coined the idea of cultural capital as the way members of a particular class use cultural knowledge and taste to reinforce and support their class position, particularly members of the upper class and their predilections for high bourgeois culture. Pastimes and fashion was part of this process; think of it not so much as ‘we are what we wear’ but ‘what we wear (and what we do while wearing it) is who we want others to see us as’. Being French and writing in the 1960s, Bourdieu was naturally obsessed with class and brought a particular neo-Marxist perspective to the issue. Class is a little more of a slippery idea these days. In our (supposedly) meritocratic and materialistic modern society, class does not exist in a traditional sense, but only as a function of wealth. To the extent that the more wealthy might use consumer and recreational choices as cultural capital to reinforce their identity, though, Bourdieu still has a useful idea.

Cycling now offers a pathway for consumption, upgrades and activities that can reinforce a monied identity. The industry, and indeed its promotion, is based around an upward progression of not necessarily personal performance but of equipment. Bikes are price-pointed for certain types of rider, and major publications like Bicycling neatly categorize just about everything for the aspiring rider and racer. Any wheelset over 1,800 grams is not ‘race ready’, bikes with a tiny more vertical compliance in the rear are for Gran Fondos rather than racing, and riders can choose the groupset appropriate to their ‘level’. Clothing items of unabashed luxury abound, trading on their brand identity rather than performance. (Since when did we need to be so pampered? Next time someone on their cyclocross bike with slicks schools you in a race, ask yourself if anything about the bike you ride really makes difference to performance.) This builds a myth that progress in the sport also involves a progression in equipment, an ongoing, presumably endless, upgrade path. For a new entrant, this path can be daunting and only reinforces the idea that cycling is a sport that requires a substantial monetary contribution over time; a sport that is for the upwardly mobile, and not those that just like to climb hills.

A recent glance through the magazine Peloton and an article on American bikes highlights this point. The Cannondale that won the 1997 Giro retailed for $2,700; Lance Armstrong’s Trek in 2003 was $4,730; Specialized’s top-of-the-line Tarmac in 2004 was $5,500. These are a far cry for the price tags of the pro-level bikes in 2011, more like the $8,000+ range, which are available in most cases to the public in an industry that has discovered that high-end consumers are willing to pay more and more for their rides.

To that extent, cycling may indeed be – as some say – the new golf, replete with connotations of wealth and success (the leisure time to play, the cost of the top-of-the-line equipment, and the fees for the greens). If this is indeed the case, then the Gran Fondo is cycling’s equivalent of St. Andrews.

The bigger picture

What might we make of this, is it indeed true, and does it really matter? While there might appear to be a gap between the Gran Fondo crowd and those that are the old-school local racers, the bigger picture may be somewhat more complex. This year in Vancouver saw a big boost in numbers at the Tuesday night crit series (not so much the Thursday night series, though) and the Cypress hillclimb (raising money for cancer research) saw a record number of entrants (around 350 when less than a quarter of that number turned up when the event was started four years ago). It will be interesting to see if there is greater interest and turnout for some of the other race events, particularly those a little less publicized.

Motivations should never be second guessed. Your author knows what it’s like to have a busy work and family schedule, and getting one’s legs ripped off at weekend race events through the season due to lack of time for training can get tiresome. A better option might be to focus on one event, like a Gran Fondo, and work towards it at one’s leisure. Sure, that entry fee is hefty, but can be offset by less weekend or weekday racing during the season. And why get hung up on some crit placing when a personal best can be set on a closed course without having to joust with traffic and those young guns who will ride inside your line as soon as shout “braking”.

Local racing will endure as it always has. Often under-subscribed, assuredly un-glamorous, but much loved by its participants as a regular little racing fix. But it is hard not to see it becoming disconnected from the marquee events, a poorer cousin. Still, cycling is a big tent and there may well be room for all. If it takes the big money of the Gran Fondos to pull more people into cycling, and to attract them to the other local events, then this can only be a good thing. If it brings more money to local bike shops, raises awareness of cycling in the local sporting mindset and legitimizes road racing, and gives more respectability to the sport then these are all good things.

But there’s something vaguely unsettling about the corporate aspects of these events. If cycling is the new golf, then one might keep in mind F. Scott Fitzgerald’s criticism: “An emasculated form appeared and proved just right.” If you also find the Gran Fondo crowd just a little too carbonized, then you too have probably been blindsided by the recent growth of these events and the particular participants that they have attracted. On conspicuous consumption, though, patterns in cycling are probably more reflective of wealth in the wider society than any particular reflection of cycling itself. The rise (and now fall?) of luxury brands in cycling is inevitably tied to the position of luxury brands elsewhere – not just in sport. If 2012 sees a decline in cycling bling, it is likely to be more due to economic conditions in North America in general rather than anything to do with mindsets in cycling.

It is also worth keeping in mind the criticism of brand consumption put forward in an article just perused today. The author argues that what we can tell about people by what they buy is exactly nothing. To use the author’s example, there are no Android people or Apple people, just people that buy those products. This runs counter to brand marketing that seeks to establish brand identities that consumers want to buy into, but is probably quite close to the truth. In most cases, we don’t want others to judge us by our own purchases – we’re complex individuals, after all – yet that is what we often do when judging others. Unless we’re Bordieu’s cultural elite, attempting to reinforce our status position, actual consumption choices may demonstrate little.

Religion and rituals

Ultimately, there are still divergent views as to what cycling means. To stretch the religion metaphor to its breaking point, you either see cycling as hardcore Scottish Calvinism with a working-class ethic, where you accept your lowly status as an amateur of scant ability and where the only reward for suffering is more suffering; the only luxuries you allow yourself are a wool jersey that doesn’t itch and a nine-speed cassette. Or you belong to a new, flashy Pentecostalism that celebrates all that is shiny and ‘epic’, that gives immediate high-profile gratification and takes you closer to the gods of the pro peloton through Gran Fondos and the Étape du Tour; here there are no equipment luxuries but essentials (a sub-15lb bike, carbon wheels, and soon, electronic shifting).

The above discussion has been offered not so much as a criticism but as a provocation (and also a little tongue-in-cheek), an opportunity during the off season to ponder what our sport might mean, in the spirit of the ongoing series of posts being presented here. It can either be viewed through a corporatist lens, or that lens can be coloured by our efforts to find ‘meaning’ in what we do (after all, what is religion but a form of meaning), hence the rituals and rules that help give cyclists their identity. In the end, most all of us are fairly ecumenical as to how we see our cycling, but how you answer that perennial question, “Been doing much riding”, will determine which end of the cycling religious spectrum you veer towards.

In the Italian cycling trinity, if Alfredo Binda is 'the father', and Gino Bartali is 'the son', does that make Fauto Coppi 'the holy spirit'?

]]> http://le-grimpeur.net/blog/archives/398/feed 6 http://le-grimpeur.net/blog/archives/393 http://le-grimpeur.net/blog/archives/393#comments Thu, 20 Oct 2011 16:23:58 +0000 Guy WR http://le-grimpeur.net/blog/?p=393 The English writer George Eliot lived just long enough to witness the invention of the bicycle, at least its early manifestations as a velocipede, variously invented and improved in France and in England from the late 1860s. Whether she had any interest in cycling is perhaps up for debate, but she was a fan of the fall season. “Delicious autumn!” she wrote, “My very soul is wedded to it…”

Fall is the preferred season for being a roadie. The weather, at least in these parts, can be fair and settled, with crisp mornings (yet to get icy and crunchy), clear skies, and cool breezes. It is also a great time for contemplation, amid autumnal colours, for looking at the season just passed and for making wildly grandiose plans about next year.

Such is gravity
Regular followers of this blog will have noted the author’s mentions of his diminished training time this year. The training diary bares all: few rides over 3 hours, diminished miles, and most weeks consisted of one night’s crit racing (a 70 kilometre round trip, including the race) and one other short ride. A far cry from the 7-10 hours per week of training recommended by Joe Friel for even the lowest level of racing.

Still, there were compensations. Although the course differed this year, your author may have posted a new personal best for the local Cypress hillclimb race. The secret? Weighing less. Stress is a great calorie burner and having a new family addition certainly fit the bill.

Climbing faster can be achieved without detailed training plans and lung-busting intervals by shedding the pounds. Whether this is achieved by reducing bike weight (typically expensive), dropping extraneous accessories (such as ditching that second bottle), or reducing rider weight. According to Tom Compton’s excellent calculator at analyticcycling.com, for a climb like Cypress (14 kilometres, 5% gradient on average) every pound dropped is worth nearly 10 seconds of time – not a huge amount, but significant if personal bests are in play. Therefore, being out of shape and not being able to ratchet up the power numbers can be compensated for by reducing the force of gravity that has to be overcome to climb at speed. Drop a whole bunch of pounds and you can feel like you’re flying up the hills even without much prior riding.

Fall reading
If one’s fall riding schedule is not hectic, but one’s work and family one is (causing the group ride to be difficult to fit in), a relaxed solo outing can easily fit the bill and also enhance the experience of reflection.

At the café, one can linger over a macchiato instead of the usual espresso (never a latte, of course, lest one be thought of as gauche). A small notebook, retrieved from a jersey pocket, can be a repository for words of inspiration, fantastical training plans, and unrealistic equipment upgrades. Better still, a small Penguin paperback fits easily in said pocket and a few pages can do much to pass the time. Currently, your author is enjoying F. Scott Fitzgerald’s ‘The Crack-Up And Other Stories’, with George Orwell and Mordecai Richler waiting in the wings.

Fall riding is about putting in some miles, keeping the pedals turning as winter – always a season of discontent – approaches, enjoying what remains of the clear weather and the fall colours, and rediscovering the joy of just riding (with some occasional reading thrown in along the way). Stay wedded to your bike and keep the soul nourished, for when the cold and the dark and the wet comes, and it will come soon enough, something will certainly be needed to keep us going.

For previous posts on winter riding, follow this link…