The problem with bike commuting into my golden years is that I can't be sure from day to day whether I feel slow and weak because I just needed more sleep or if I just broke through one more rotted floorboard on the way to the grave. I can check my stats, which I have logged faithfully since 1988. They already show an unsurprising decline from when I was 32 to my present advanced state of decrepitude. But within that steady descending staircase are shorter and longer plateaus. The drops are not uniform. Sometimes I experience a bit of rejuvenation.
Twinges in my chest could be from my remaining feeble attempts at upper body conditioning, or from stacking three cords of hardwood in 90-degree temperatures. Or it could be gas. Cramming down breakfast before hurrying out the door leads to re-swallowing the last mouthful for the next 14 miles.
This time of year, riders around here get to sample the traffic of more populated places, as the summer influx makes this area one of them. It demands more combat readiness to be able to claim space and manage motorists where things get thick and fast.
The worst hill on my route home is the traffic circle at Route 171. On the way to work in the morning, I get a little boost from gravity to speed me around and out the bottom. On the way home I pay for that. The grade is mild. As just a hill it would present no more than an annoyance. But with motorists squeezing past me it demands an explosive effort to stomp through it.
The entry/exit chutes to the circle on Route 28 are curb-lined, narrow lanes. By law, I should be free to ride through them in my rightful place in line. By normal motorist custom, I get passed wherever I am. If I want my place I have to race for it. I try to get as many of them ahead of me as I can before we're committed to the tight space, but they can really jam me up when we get to the circle itself and have to either defer or play chicken with other vehicles coming through from 171 or 28 southbound. It's worse if I have to slow to a crawl or do a track stand while drivers either bull through or screw up the traffic flow by trying to be nice to me. Sprinting from a near stop will give me sore legs the next morning. Pushing a big gear brings those hints of a chest pain and the feeling of trying to accelerate an old car with bad compression. You can almost see the cloud of oil smoke behind me as the engine grumbles impotently.
Breath control is critical to quell those alarming coronary symptoms. Breathe freely. Gear down enough to keep from grunting. Old people die on the toilet because they hold their breath and strain. The same hazard stalks the aging rider who tries to push the anaerobic threshold. I suppose my daily overdoses of caffeine don't help. The circle requires a near-anaerobic sprint to make sure that I clear it without some pushy bastard who zoomed up behind me crashing on through because I don't belong on his road. It's only a dozen pedal strokes, maybe 20, to get to the exit chute and a widening shoulder. Breathe. Breathe. Keep just the right amount of load on, so the heart doesn't backfire like a clapped-out sports car that's seen its best day. Ease back up to speed because the next stretch is unaccountably fast. Enjoy all this while it lasts.
Cadence signals to the motorists whether you are a healthy beast they should respect and avoid or a wounded creature caught out in the open. I imagine Phil Liggett describing my condition: "He can't push a big gear anymore. Notice how his shoulders are rolling and he can't hold his line." Maybe he'd say something about a valiant effort by a rider who has had a long career. That would be nice.
A smart cyclist uses terrain at any age or stage of fitness. The older you get, the more it matters. I know my commuting route very well. Don't push the climbs too hard. Recover on the descents, or use them to accelerate into the traffic flow. Save energy for the places where you know you'll need it. That's the same at any age, just at a different average speed. My commute is a road race, not a criterium, but it has its urban element in Wolfe City. I need the ten or eleven miles of warmup to feel fully ready for whatever traffic is going to throw at me that day.
On the way out of town, I get one good bit of gravitational assistance from the parking lot down a hundred yards or so to the sharp bend in Mill Street. I need to control the lane on Mill Street, because it's too narrow for a car to pass me safely with oncoming traffic. Of course this never prevents any motorist from passing me anyway. So it's a sprint out of the gate to get to Bay Street, where I can fall back to a better pace to warm up properly. The route out to the highway starts with a series of climbs, often with motorists pushing past. They need a whack on the snout in a couple of places, but for the most part I can just let them run.
E-bike riders have been leaning forward in their chairs through this whole essay, raising their hands and going "Ooh! Ooh!" The thing is, once you accept the assistance you become dependent on it. I don't mean surrendering to the atrophy already consuming you. I mean the bike itself will be miserable to pedal without assistance. I have considered an e-bike since way before they were fashionable. I've watched the technology evolve. If I did get one, it would be a mid-drive cargo bike. Might as well make it worth its weight. But I can't afford one. It's old muscle or nothing.
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