Simple Simon

July 26, 2017 § 11 Comments

Tuesday is the holy day of the bike racing week and I was praying, nose mashed against the stem, body swaying from side to side like a tree in a hurricane, and great oaths, curses, imprecations, and foul utterances doing everything they could to exit my mouth hole if only I would stop breathing so hard and groaning.

Frexit and Peachfuzz had caught me and Attila the Hun, but what momentarily looked like the champion’s breakaway from Telo had got pulled back by the pack. Thankfully I had a bunch of Team Lizard Collectors teammates in the chase and they had worked mightily to bring back our breakaway, which contained three of their teammates.

I had countered at the catch, gotten free with Frexit on my wheel, and then sat for a lap while he ground out another fearsome gap which, thankfully, wasn’t so great that my fake teammates couldn’t close it down. Two seconds before the actual catch I sat up in defeat and despair, perfectly marking the difference between winners and  losers: That’s the moment at which Frexit made one more giant effort.

Team Lizard Collectors and the slobbering chase group, satisfied at having caught the minnow, sat up and watched the whale swim away. I drifted to the back and tried to collect my broken bits of self-respect which, in truth, I’d had none of to start with.

At that moment it became clear to me: Life is really pretty simple. All it takes to make a Frenchman who is already insanely strong, insanely stronger, is to put him in a foreign land and offer him good, homemade bread.

Because that’s exactly what Ms. WM had done, and we all suffered the consequences. My wife, you see, bakes bread. Her repertoire is narrow; she bakes round loaves, always the same ingredients, always the same shape, and always the same taste.

Those who have eaten it are never the same because bread goes so incredibly deep in our human consciousness. It is the staff of life. It is the thing we earn. It is magical when fresh, durable and sustaining when old. It pairs with every food imaginable, or goes the distance solo, with nothing alongside it at all.

The taste of fresh bread well made, not the unbaked mush sold in plastic bags at Safeway, has no peer, or even anything else in its category. It sits alone atop the food pyramid, King Tutankhamun gazing down at the minions of flesh, vegetables, and other lesser comestibles.

And what is bread? Flour, water, yeast, salt. That, plus the magic sauce of the hands that knead, watch, rise, and bake, and in my home those magic hands have come up with bread perfection. My poor son-in-law is reduced to groveling when it comes off the cooling board. Visitors hang their heads in a spent, abject foodgasm when it crosses their lips. Pot luck party hosts whisper in muted tones of sad begging, “Would you mind asking Yasuko to bake a loaf of bread?”

That is how supremely her bread reigns among those who know, and woe was unto us on Tuesday because she had said that morning, “I’m onna bake some bread and give a bread prize onna Telo champion.”

“No,” I said. “Your bread will not be wasted on those terrible people. It will be wasted on me.”

“You onna just as terrible as they is.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say, except “Okay, but please bake two loaves and leave one here. Please?”

She did, and when word went out on Facebag that Mrs. WM’s Magic Bread would be offered up to the Telo winner, we had a true lineup of hitters, and all the pain I was feeling mid-race was due to the Frexit frenzy of getting a shot at bread he hadn’t eaten since the last time he was home in France.

The fight for second was vicious. Davy Dawg led it out with Hair on his wheel and with me on Hair. Peachfuzz was slotted in behind Pooh Bear ATX, who in the final turn made a power move by slamming his inside pedal against the pavement, causing me to shit a blue streak in fear as this is exactly where Hair had come up on the inside and thrown himself onto the asphalt a few months ago, with me on his wheel. I swung wide to let those willing to die do so, and Hair flew to the finish for a glorious podium finish as everyone else fought viciously for whatever scraps you call the scraps after the first set of scraps.

As expected, Frexit won despite an eleven, then ten, then nine, then eight, then seven, then six-person rotation spilling their guts, lunch, and spittle in a failed attempt to chase him down.

You want to make a French bike champion go even harder? Bread, baby, bread.

END

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Here comes The Sun

July 25, 2017 § 26 Comments

I was digging through the mail and came across an envelope that had actual handwriting on it. It was from a lady named Ann. She had read a letter to the editor in a magazine called The Sun. The writer was from PV Estates, and in her letter she said that a story she had read in The Sun made her think differently about bicycling.

the_sun

Apparently bicycling in PV Estates has been getting a bad, or rather worse name over the last year. When you have a small community stocked with even one hairless shrub as horribly defective as Robert Lewis Chapman, Jr., it doesn’t take much to poison everyone.

tumbleweed

Anyway, this woman Ann sent me The Sun with the story by Heather Sellers. It’s called “Pedal, Pedal, Pedal.” I hope you take a few minutes to read this spectacular and uplifting memoir. It’s something that every cyclist can relate to, the story of transformation, and Heather tells it so well and with such artfulness and power that all you have to do is switch around a few names and words and the story seems like your own.

This got me to wondering why so many people have been transformed by bicycling. Maybe it’s the same with golf or basketball or any human endeavor into which you pour yourself. Maybe bicycling seems special simply because it’s so accessible, unlike golf, and the joys of full-gas basketball don’t typically go much beyond age 35 simply because your knees give out.

Whether it’s unique or not, bicycling is transformational for a whole bunch of people. Is it because cycling is the thing that most closely approximates flying under your own power? Is it because you can go long distances exerting yourself while still able to think, talk, reflect, plan, relax? Is it because no matter what your age, with proper preparation you can bury yourself physically as completely as if you were twenty? Or is it because of the funny clothes and goofy tan?

Whatever the reason, Heather Sellers got it right. Get out of the house and pedal, pedal, pedal. And don’t let the tumbleweeds get you down!

END

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Future shock

July 24, 2017 § 30 Comments

My legs had very bad cramps. “Yeah, whatever,” you say. “HTFU.”

So I did. But the cramps had started at the first water crossing on Big Sycamore Canyon and got worse. “Yeah, whatever,” you say. “HTFU.”

So I did. And they spread to both legs. “Yeah, whatever,” you say. “We don’t care about your menstrual cramps.”

As John Middleton passed me in a cloud of dirt and filth and sweat and grunting, he said, “Come on, Seth.”

“Come where?” I asked. “How much longer is this fucking road?” I silently thanked dog that it was mostly flat, an anomaly for anything in the Santa Monica Mountains.

“Couple miles,” he said. The last words I heard before he vanished were, “But the most horrible climb out here is just up the road.”

“What climb?” I wondered. I came to a water faucet where a dazed looking person was melting in his own sweat and filling his bottle, his hand shaking, his eyes glazed. When my turn came I lay under the nozzle and poured water all over my head, back, stomach, and legs. The cramps stopped for a moment. I contemplated living there under the spigot permanently.

Seizing the no-cramp opportunity I hopped on the bike and started up Horrible Hill. There were tiny little dots strewn out along it like insects stuck in flypaper, barely moving their little limbs across the painted blue skyscape that draped across the canvas of brown hills dotted with the odd green thing trying hopelessly to survive. Like me.

It reminded me of the time I got stuck on a mountain side outside of Shimogo-mura in Fukushima Prefecture. It was freezing cold and I almost died but the reason I remember that day is that it was the only time I had ever gotten off my bike because I could no longer pedal uphill.

I passed an insect on a mountain bike, barely turning a rear cog that was bigger than a UFO. He was panting. I was panting. The cramps resumed with a vengeance.

For the second time in my life I got off my bike because I could no longer pedal uphill. The insect passed me. “Good job,” I said, not adding the all important “you sorry motherfucker.”

My day ended about an hour later in wave after wave of cramping that lasted for hours. I had been attacked, dropped repeatedly, beaten mercilessly in the paceline from hell, and had had my lunch money stolen by a gang of bullies led by a meanie named Aaron Boyleston and his henchmen Marco and KK.

I’ve never felt worse, gone slower, or had so many people take gratuitous shots at my skull. I’ve never ridden slower on a 300-lb. cyclocross bike with 34mm knobby tires. I’ve never had so much post-ride pain. I’ve never had worse cramps, cramps so bad that the next day they still hurt. It was 72 miles, four hours-ish, and seemed like quadruple the distance.

In short, it was one of the best rides ever.

The Rivet Raid, as it was called, boasted a murderer’s row of elite riders, from world champion Keith Ketterer, who at age 102 smashed everyone to bits, to Aaron, Marco, Jonathan Woodbury, Jason Lavender, John Slover, Bart Clifford, Michael Penta, Todd Turley, Seth Huggins, and a whole bunch of people whose names I don’t remember and whose faces I barely saw as they blazed by me.

This ride also punctuated, for me, an amazing commentary about amateur road racing in America, if not the world. Bjorn Snider, a viciously strong dude who doesn’t race, i.e. pay stupid amounts of money to be treated like shit in ugly, faraway places by people who don’t like you, put on the Rivet Raid. It cost forty bucks, and here’s what you got (list sponsored by Pooh Bear-a-TX and Waldo):

  1. Incredible all-you-can-drink coffee, nitro/cold brew and spanking hot, from Gear Grinderz Coffee.
  2. Fresh pastries, energy bars, fruit, liquid hydration.
  3. Total tech support with VeloFix; their mobile van posted up at various points throughout the ride.
  4. Shortcuts that let you abandon when your legs fell off, and still got you back to the park in time to eat, hang out, swap lies.
  5. BEER. (Or, sigh, craft water.)
  6. Towering plates of delicious, freshly made Mexican food.
  7. Prize money in cash to the winners of selected Strava segments and to the person with the fastest overall time.
  8. Four to five hours of brain-splatteringly hard bike racing.
  9. Four to five hours of easy cruising with your friends if that’s what you preferred.
  10. Gorgeous scenery on some of the prettiest roads in SoCal.
  11. Bronchiole-incinerating climbs.
  12. All the camaraderie and friendship you could handle.

Did I mention that the whole thing cost forty bucks?

When you add up numbers 1-12, what you get is something called “fun.” It is a concept that USAC took out behind the shed and murdered with a tire iron decades ago. It is a concept that evaporated on the local level when race promoters realized that the costs of putting on an event would always create highly risky propositions that could result in huge financial losses, and in the best of times only result in very modest financial gains.

Fun died in bike racing when Lance brought his message of “you suck” to every cyclist, when the act of pinning on a number was submission to the whip of contempt by those who beat you, dropped you, and didn’t even provide a consolation beer and taco for having given them someone to abuse. Fun died when shit-ass dopers like Kayle LeoGrande, Rich Meeker, and the whole stupid gaggle of cheaters made your own puny but honest efforts count for nothing.

And people, unwilling to fork over $45 bucks for a 45-minute crit, decided to seek their fun somewhere else. Enter the Rivet Raid.

The ride was a distillation of the grand fondue, where you can ride with friends, ride slowly, ride hardly, or hop from grazing station to grazing station, and then pin it during the timed segments. The Nosco Ride has been doing this for years, and it’s only one of many reasons that thousands of people take off in the middle of the week to do that ride.

The Rivet Raid was a family affair as well. Bjorn’s lovely wife Barbara and his two brothers teamed up to pull off the event, and everything from the coffee to the food to the VeloFix tech support was spot-on. As if that weren’t enough, the Rivet Raid also hired the services of Steve Cohen, a top-notch photographer whose work speaks for itself. An adept of legends like Dan Munson and Phil Beckman, Steve’s photos truly captured the event.

Steve summed it up with stunning photography that should make you absolutely want to put this on your list for 2018, while Kristie Fox traveled the route in her pickup and took snapshots with her iPhone.

Nothing encapsulates the ride vibe better than the ending, when I struggled over Horrible Hill, legs cramping, bonking, and desperate to get back to the car so that I could make it to the airport by 3:00 PM. Bjorn came up to me. “Get on my wheel,” he said. I did. And despite my shot legs and snail’s pace he rode me back to the parking lot, but not before he had a blowout on his front tire.

“No worries,” he said. “I’ll change it when we get back.”

Then, as I slumped into the passenger seat and the pickup headed out of the park, Bjorn came sprinting up with a plateful of tacos, beans, and rice. “And don’t forget the Coke!” he added, thrusting an ice cold cola through the open window.

All I can do is sum up the Rivet Raid with a word that we need more of in cycling, and in life: Fun. And if the fun requires a beating out in the Santa Monica mountains at the hands of a gang of uber-legit riders, well, thank you, sir. May I have another?

 

END

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Climb like a pro!

July 22, 2017 § 17 Comments

People often ask me why I’m such a good climber and what they can do to improve their climbing. Okay, actually they don’t ask me that. In fact, no one has ever asked me how to climb better, except one time. This is probably because I am a terrible climber.

We were out doing Wanky Super Power Loops (that’s a totally real and uber legit Strava segment, by the way) and this individual, whose internal organs were trying to become external, gaspingly asked me to slow down. “Slow down!” the person said unhappily.

“If I go any slower I will tip over,” I said friendlily.

“I think I’m going to die!” the person said deathily.

“You’re doing great!” I encouraged the person lyingly.

“This sucks!” the person said angrily.

“I’m sorry,” I said regretfully with a touch of fakingly.

We got to the “top” of Via la Selva and the person stopped and got off the person’s bike. “How can I climb better?” the person asked despairingly.

I observed numerous qualities about the person that indicated a complete lack of commitment to the cause. The person, after a cursory inquiry, did not appear to ride often, had not abandoned the person’s family, had not quit the person’s job, or taken any steps indicating a willingness to completely commit to the goal of Climb Like A Pro Or At Least A Profamateur.

So I offered up this tidbit, and said stonily, “If you want to climb better you need to climb more.” That person never spoke to me again, proving the old coaching adage (which is similar to the old prostitution adage, as the two are so closely related, “Don’t ever give it away for free.”)

Since I only have a few minutes before I have to begin Ch. 37 of Adventures in Shaving, I thought I would compile a quick list of ways to climb better. My lone subscriber Waldo has indicated that repeated lists will lead him to cancel his subscription, so this is the last list I will ever write. Of course you’ll never climb like a pro, or even like a bad amateur, but these tips will help you go faster uphill.

  1. Purchase all carbon super light everything that is made of pure carbon and is 100% carbon. Cf. Strava Jr.
  2. Lose more weight. Repeat.
  3. Ride hills. Repeat. But don’t do “repeats.” Those are stupid and will only make you angry. However, they sound cool to a select subgroup of idiots in the following context: “I did hill repeats yesterday.” To everyone else they sound like a bloody assassination of your finite, infinitely precious minutes on earth.
  4. Drop back on the climb. When you are approaching a climb that you’re sure to get shelled on, which is basically all of them, start the climb at or near the very front of the group. Rather than flailing hopelessly to keep from getting passed, drift back towards the rear as people go by. Then, once you reach the tail of the group, put in your effort to hang on. This will get you over the hump using less energy, and if you have to go all out to hang on, it will minimize the time you are going 100%. I’ve tried this a lot in hilly road races and it never works.
  5. Do intervals. This contradicts #3 above but don’t worry. Coaching advice is filled with contradictory imperatives that are impossible to follow.
  6. Ride with climbers. One reason you suck balls on hills is because you never ride with good climbers. You will learn more riding ten minutes with Wikstrom, Strava Jr., Roadchamp, or any of the other hill waifs than you will riding years with the donut-tummy pals on your local sausage fest. For example, I rode with Roadchamp last week and learned that if you want to go really fast uphill you need to make the bike go faster than everyone else and not eat for six months.
  7. Climb on the drops. Drop climbing allows you to use your arms, shoulders, and back to supplement the incredibly awesome power generated by your heroic legs. Drop climbing also gives you acceleration uphill when trying to catch attacks or pretend you aren’t being hideously dropped. If you have a power meter, which I don’t, drop climbing will confirm that more expensive equipment makes you feel more profamateur, which is always a good thing.
  8. Mix up your climbing distances. You know the normal hill intervals you do two times every time you ride, that 300-foot stretch of pavement at .002% called your “driveway”? Well, mix it up. Do some longer. Some shorter. Some steeper. Some undulating. Variety is the spice of life and climbing is life.
  9. Go down a cog. Cruddy climbers look for comfortable gearing. This is why we have 32-tooth rear cogs, and even bigger ones that look like you’re hauling around a Frisbee on your back hub. If you’re comfortable on a hill you’re not going fast, ever, unless of course you’re going downhill. Climbing means pain and the quickest path to misery is to go down a cog. Bigger gears go faster than little ones. Yes, there’s always a point at which the gearing bogs down your cadence so that it looks like you’re pedaling in freshly poured cement, but for the most part you are a ballsuck climber because you refuse to go down a gear. Here’s a simple flow chart: Does it hurt? No? Go down a gear. Yes? Keep pedaling.
  10. Do at least one ego-reducing hilly group ride each week. No matter how much you’re improving, it’s important to remember, as the old Billy Joel song said, “It’s just a fantasy. It’s not the real thing.” By the way, this is a really funny video of some horrible looking, pudgy 1980’s dude prank calling a woman from his motel room while a voyeur with a beard watches him. And yes, I owned that album.

END

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Tar maintenance

July 21, 2017 § 30 Comments

One of the most important parts on your bike is its tars. You can’t go far without them. They are the third most important bike part. The first is the handlebars. When you jump on your bike without the handlebars nothing good is going to happen. The second is the wheels. When you jump on your bike without the wheels you are going to hurt badly that place where your legs join up.

Tars are the contact point between you and the bike shop. Once you get a flat tar you need a tube or a patch which costs a couple of bucks. And once you go into the bike shop for a new tube you need a new 100% all carbon Pinarello pure carbon frame that is made of all carbon and Campagnolo which costs several thousand. You know how marijuana is the gateway to heroin? Tars are the gateway to Pinarellos. Chinarellos if you shop online.

Lots of bicyclists spend a lot of time doing tar research. Which tar is right for me? Well hell I don’t know and I would give you a list of things to look for in a tar except Waldo is counting my lists and he is a subscriber. So instead of a list I will give you a run-on sentence. Tars should be rubber and hold air, which is measured in pounds per square inch or something called “bars.” Back in the day an old Belgian would get a flat, patch it with a piece of asphalt, get another flat, throw the bike in the fuggin’ ditch, and go into a bar. “Y’all got any tars?” he would ask and they would say “Whyncha belly up to the bar while we go look?” Anyway it took about 6.8 beers at the bar, or 6.8 “bars” to find a tire which they would inflate to 100 pounds per square inch so nowadays Euros just say “gimme 7 bars” or eight bars and etcetera.

But back to tars which are confusing. Do you need an off road, on road, hybrid, or commuter tar? Like I said, hell I don’t know. But I do know this. The other day I got a pair of Vittoria Super Fake Racer Profamateur tars that cost a lot of money. Everyone said I shouldn’t train on them because even though they were more supple than your mistress they were eggshell thin like your wife’s radar about you suddenly dressing differently and running errands at odd times of the day. In short, everyone said I would soon be getting double flats and it would be a waste of time and money and etcetera.

However I remember once hearing someone say that the way to get more life out of a tar (and maybe a mistress too) is to rotate them regularly. That sounded easy until I learned that these Vittoria race tars in addition to being supple were tighter than my bank account at the end of the month. Or the beginning for that matter even though I got a $324.15 cash back credit on my Visa card. Do you know how much money you have to spend to get $324.15 cash back credit? Answer: More than $324.15, which just goes to prove the old adage that you can’t make money by spending it. Although I try.

Anyway, I slapped those tars on the rims on May 23 and it is now July 21, which is almost two months, and every two weeks I have rotated my tars. They still have another month left on them, easily, maybe two. And I haven’t gotten a single flat.

If tar swapping works with prima donna tars like these and you don’t mind losing a few fingernails every time you rotate them, you will get way more mileage and better yet, your tars will wear evenly. Plus even if you are a horrible mechanic and can barely fill a water bottle without breaking your seat post, once you get handy at tar swapping and fingernail re-growing you will feel a big sense of accomplishment.

And if all else fails and you are standing out on my balcony with your feet in the vinegar-baking soda anti-fungal concoction bowl and your fingernails are littering the floor and you don’t have any palms left, only big raw meat holes where you ground off all the skin, you can always call my buddy Usta Befit. He will get you fixed up in a jiffy. That boy never met a tar he couldn’t change.

END

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If it’s broke, don’t fix it

July 20, 2017 § 19 Comments

Sometimes I go to parties and there are other cyclists there. Rarely there will be a cyclist who reads this blog and that person, after several strong drinks, will sidle up to me and say something like, “So how do you write stuff every single day?’

By “stuff” he means “crap.” Still, the output impresses him.

“I don’t write stuff every single day. I skip days now and then.”

“Yeah, yeah, but I mean how do you come up with stuff? For years and years? How?”

My answer is always the same. I sit down at the keyboard and think about the day and then write something. For example, today. I was in the local Sckubrats with a friend minding OUR OWN FUGGIN’ BUSINESS when this portly dude walked up to us.

“Excuse me,” he said, “do either one of you own a Mercedes?”

It was kind of unexpected since we both looked like bicycle owners (purchased on a 72-month installment plan) rather than fancy German car owners. “I wish,” I said.

The guy showed us his key fob. “Do either one of you know how to put one of these on a key ring? These fobs don’t have a little hook thing for a key ring to go through.”

“Why don’t you just give it to your butler?” I asked.

He stared for a second, then laughed. “You’re funny,” he said in a way that meant he didn’t really think I was funny at all.

See? That’s all I do. Something happened and I wrote about it. I might have made up certain parts, such as being in a Starbucks, being talked to by a person about a Mercedes, or having snappy retorts, but otherwise it was all true except for the parts I made up. Simply, really.

But I started to think about it and thought that maybe this wasn’t the best way. Maybe I should be structured and planned and disciplined and shouldn’t say “fuck.” Maybe I should plot my stories out. Maybe I should be more organized.

So I got on the Internet and read about how to have a successful blog. There are many important things about being a successful blogger, but apparently the most important one is having lists. People like lists. You should, in fact:

  1. Make lists.
  2. Write shortly.
  3. Use photos and video.
  4. Repeat.

There were many other important things I should have been doing that I wasn’t. For example:

  1. Republish old stuff.
  2. Use infographics.
  3. Meticulously research your readers’ wants.
  4. Develop algorithms pegged to categories.

In other words “Be someone you aren’t” and “Do things you can’t.”

So I decided that from then on I would be a super disciplined blog researcher who carefully analyzed each post, thought it out in advance, and produced a beautiful, well-listed product every single day. This was very different from soaking my fungal feet in a brass pot and writing about how baking soda reacts with vinegar and spores and toe juice while getting dropped by a pack of wild hyenas.

I endeavored to persevere and planned everything out carefully. Here is what my roadmaps looked like:

After all this planning, which took forever, I then went out and dutifully executed, and I can say for sure that when you go out for a bike ride planning to write a blog about your ride, your ride will totally fucking suck. Plus you will get dropped on Nichols Canyon.

In other words, it was a horribly huge amount of work and the end product was just as jake-leg as my spur-of-the-moment toenail opus. What was worse, the planning took all the fun out of the blogging. Not that there is any fun in blogging, but it’s better than, say, being dead. So the planning made it feel like being dead. Moreover, clever subscribers like Waldo noted that I had resorted to listing and wanted to know WTF was up.

So to sum up:

  1. No Mercedes.
  2. No planned blogging.
  3. No lists.

I feel lots better already.

END

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Don’t burn out

July 19, 2017 § 29 Comments

It’s hard to continue anything, but it’s especially hard to continue riding a bike, and it’s virtually impossible to continue racing one. The average life span of a bike racer is 2-3 years. I made up that fake number because in my experience that’s about how long it takes for a person to realize how out of whack the risk-reward arithmetic is.

Enthusiastic sport cycling may last a bit longer, but not much. Every year I see people get into riding, buy all the gear, do all the rides, make a bunch of friends, and then vanish, which is the time you can pick up some great deals on bike stuff with a well-placed phone call. The people who stick around have a few things in common.

  1. They actually love riding their bike, however you define “riding” or “bike.”
  2. They have a schedule.
  3. They wake up early.
  4. Riding is an end unto itself.

The people who burn out are a much more diverse group, but here are the warning signs. The problem is that these warning signs also exist among people who’ve been doing it for decades. When a new rider does all of these things, though, get ready for a Roman candle flame-out.

  1. Extremely competitive.
  2. Bikes for multiple disciplines before they’ve gotten good at even one.
  3. Strava/data/power obsession.
  4. Coaches and/or training plans.
  5. Huge miles.
  6. Only talks about cycling.
  7. Haven’t had their first big crash.
  8. Extremely focused on gear.
  9. Huge progress in a very short period of time.
  10. Big job or family stresses.

If you’re the kind of person who throws herself fully into new things, and you have a pattern of burning out in other new endeavors but really want to hang onto cycling, here are a few tips that will help.

  1. Make sure that half your rides have no competitive element whatsoever.
  2. Only own bikes you regularly ride.
  3. Do half your rides (or more) without a Garmin or Strava.
  4. Come up with a “longevity” plan with your coach. Coaches hate burnout worse than anyone.
  5. Halve your mileage.
  6. Read a (non-cycling) book.
  7. Set a monthly/annual gear spending limit.
  8. Don’t do more than 5 races a year.
  9. Ride with your significant other.
  10. Learn the names of your children

END

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