Cycling sucks

Hate is a strong word. Life is too short to hate anyone or anything. I don't hate Walmart or KMart, but I won't shop there for a number of reasons. I don't hate American cars but the one I've had crapped the bed way too soon and I'll never buy another.

So it should come as a shock to learn that I hate cycling. Maybe.

Swimming and running are pure. You put on your suit and goggles, hop in the water, and go. If something hurts, change how you swim. Or grab a kickboard. Or pull buoy. Or fins. Or you put on your shoes and go. If something hurts you walk, or stretch, or stop.

"Only the bicycle is pure in heart," wrote Iris Murdock. She has a point. To a point. The bicycle involves moving parts that need maintenance -- lubrication or adjustment or replacement. It's key to know when those things are needed, either by looking at them or by feel. I know my own body inside and out, but this extension of my body, 22 years after I bought my first one, remains a mystery.

Distance-wise cycling comprises roughly 80 percent of an Ironman, 112 miles of 140.6. Time-wise, that figure drops to around 56 percent. In my PR of 11:42:40 (Florida 2003), my bike split was 5:42 and something, less than half the time I spent out there, attributable to hitting the wall on the run. But in my goal for Ironman Wisconsin this year, my goal split of 5:36 is around 55 percent of the 10:45 I hope to be out there. The split goal looks arbitrary but that's 20 mph for 112 miles. And to meet that goal I'd better get cracking. Sigh.

It's no secret why triathletes like T.J. Tollakson and Jordan Rapp are tearing things up. They both have degrees in engineering, and they spend every fiber of their expertise making their bikes faster, from shaving ounces off the weight of their chains to debating the drag coefficients of 10 different kinds of wheels. None of that shit interests me. Since seventh grade, when Mr. Kannegeiter suggested I just don't have the mental faculties to do math, I've been more than happy to fulfill that prophecy (witness the mental gymnastics to figure out my pace in St. Louis, at least until I mailed it in the last 5.2 miles). Mechanical things puzzle me, and my seven-year-old bike, like most everything that's seven years old (including humans) requires more attention than I can muster. Beyond lubing the chain once a week and changing tubes, however, I have no idea what to do. And I have no idea (beyond general fitness) why I feel so damned slow and cumbersome on it.

Cycling in the sustained 30 mph winds of the Laramie Valley can be frustrating at best, dangerous at worst. You think you're headed straight into the wind and then it shifts 45 degrees, blowing you either into traffic or into the ditch. Or maybe it doesn't shift and you spend an hour-and-a-half in your third-smallest gear, spinning into the zephyr, only to turn around and spend an hour coasting back to town. Is there any real aerobic benefit to that? Let's not forget that the only viable north-south route (guaranteeing an equally dangerous crosswind) is a U.S. highway favored by drunk motorists and methed-out truckers, and reputed to be a 65 mph graveyard.

All this is to say nothing of the ridiculous culture divide between cyclists and triathletes. Cyclist culture is one of conformity, from their packs and arcane rules of etiquette to the attire, matching the jersey to the shorts to the socks. Triathletes are just out to ride, to get from the swim to the run in the most efficient manner possible, and it doesn't have to look pretty. Put me in the "just ride, baby" camp, which of course runs counter to the local culture. Fuck that noise.

So there. My bike leans against some shelves in my interior hallway, ready to go. I lay in bed and wait for the alarm to go off. When it does, I go to the bathroom, pass my bike, return to my bedroom... and get dressed for work.