Long-winded thoughts on 175-mile ride in the Austin area
I’ve been thinking about Bill and Al’s Excellent Adventure, Part II, and figured I’d write down some of my thoughts in a more or less systematic manner. Maybe they’ll prove interesting to some of my clubmates. Last weekend Bill S. and I rode 175 miles of a sanctioned brevet in Travis and Caldwell Counties--somewhat less than one half of the full route of 600km. What we did was by no means a long ride (to the contrary) in randonneuring terms; randonneurs routinely ride 200, 400, 600 and even 1200 kilometer rides with minimal, if any, stops for sleep. Bill and I were tourists. To us, believe me, the ride seemed plenty long. We were in the saddle for roughly 11 hours. The obvious question is “was it hard?” And that question itself turns out to be kinda hard. Here’s why. When most of us train, we’re working on strengthening our muscular, pulmonary, and cardio-vascular systems. So when we do something tough (a race, a BS ride, a climbfest route, a particularly taxing club-ride), we’re -*test*-('")ing the limits of the “systems” that we’ve been developing. We talk about “lung-burning” or “leg-burning” rides and about red-lining our HRs. We learn what we can do and what to expect when we push harder than we usually do. In a manner of speaking, we’re engaged in an on-going negotiation with muscles, heart, and lungs. This becomes very familiar to us. Considered thus, the 175 mile ride was pretty easy. My HR never spiked; my lungs never complained; and my legs felt just fine during the ride and, more surprisingly, the next morning. In fact, I felt like I could have put in another long ride on Sunday, just like the riders who’d signed up for the full brevet. But here’s the catch: these rides seem to be very tough on parts of our bodies that we don’t, and perhaps can’t, train--specifically the bones, joints, and, at least in my case, the gastro-in-*test*-('")inal system. (Don’t worry: no horrible details are forthcoming or even lurking in my Closet of Shame: it wasn’t that bad.) After about 150 miles, and after having successfully “ridden through” what Bill calls my “usual 85-mile foot-cramp,” both of my feet felt like they were being attacked by savage imps with incredibly sharp knives. My stomach felt awful. And I had a headache. I rode poorly for the last 25 miles, in spite of what being in evidently good muscular, cardio-vascular, and pulmonary shape. I did make a few mistakes that I think might have hasten the onset of my problems. I started pushing slightly harder gears when I got within 30 miles or so of home, and this might have contributed to the foot-pain. Stupidly, I ignored my coach’s suggestion to alternate bottles of plain water and bottles of Cytomax--perhaps too much sticky, sweet stuff brought on the stomach pain. But my friend Geoff (visiting from San Francisco and clearly the strongest rider of the group) tells me that foot-pain is the primary physical problem that randonneurs experience; this was borne out by comments that many of our fellow riders made. And here’s where it gets weird, at least for folks accustomed to regarding hard rides as -*test*-('")ing grounds of the areas in which we train: I’ll be darned if I see how one can “train” ones joints and bones. (An exception: when muscles bolster bones, as in core musculature and back strength, one, obviously, can affect one’s bones via one’s muscles.) Conceptually, this is a wholly different sort of ride from what most of us are accustomed to. As I understand the matter, then, a randonneur--like a member of the pro peleton, I suppose--has to be able to accept and to transcend pain of a sort that even the most rigorous or sensible training is unlikely to prevent. My guess is that the best randonneurs are very good at pain-management. Whether or not many of them are good cyclists in the terms in which most of us are accustomed to conceptualizing good cyclists (again, as riders with strong muscular, cardio-vascular, and pulmonary systems) is another matter. Certainly the best randonneurs (like Geoff) have awesome hearts, lungs, and muscles, as well as a superior ability to manage pain. But rank and file randonneurs, I suspect, are super-specialized riders with average (for athletes) muscular, cardio-vascular, and pulmonary development, and awesome powers of pain-management. I mean these remarks both as praise to randonneurs (whose abilities blow my mind) and as a way of getting at what I take to be essential differences between what they do and what I and my clubmates usually do. There’s a big difference, and I don’t see the kind of cross-over that pertains between say, serious club-riders and short-distance (one-day) racers. What I got from this experience (in addition to the usual pleasures of great company, beautiful scenery, and physical challenge) was a desire to determine how far my muscles, heart, and lungs can take me before my bones and joints start rebelling. I’m just not into courting joint-pain. Be forewarned, friends: even now, I’m hatching plans for a “Four in Two” ride comprising two consecutive days of double-metric centuries, separated by a good night’s sleep in the comfort of one’s own bed. I’d love comments, and I’ll hope that Bill will post up, too. Caveat: as most of you know, my area of specialization is 18th-century British literature. I’m totally unqualified to discuss, for example, physiology. But I haven’t let that stop me, have I? Thanks for listening!
I’ve been thinking about Bill and Al’s Excellent Adventure, Part II, and figured I’d write down some of my thoughts in a more or less systematic manner. Maybe they’ll prove interesting to some of my clubmates. Last weekend Bill S. and I rode 175 miles of a sanctioned brevet in Travis and Caldwell Counties--somewhat less than one half of the full route of 600km. What we did was by no means a long ride (to the contrary) in randonneuring terms; randonneurs routinely ride 200, 400, 600 and even 1200 kilometer rides with minimal, if any, stops for sleep. Bill and I were tourists. To us, believe me, the ride seemed plenty long. We were in the saddle for roughly 11 hours. The obvious question is “was it hard?” And that question itself turns out to be kinda hard. Here’s why. When most of us train, we’re working on strengthening our muscular, pulmonary, and cardio-vascular systems. So when we do something tough (a race, a BS ride, a climbfest route, a particularly taxing club-ride), we’re -*test*-('")ing the limits of the “systems” that we’ve been developing. We talk about “lung-burning” or “leg-burning” rides and about red-lining our HRs. We learn what we can do and what to expect when we push harder than we usually do. In a manner of speaking, we’re engaged in an on-going negotiation with muscles, heart, and lungs. This becomes very familiar to us. Considered thus, the 175 mile ride was pretty easy. My HR never spiked; my lungs never complained; and my legs felt just fine during the ride and, more surprisingly, the next morning. In fact, I felt like I could have put in another long ride on Sunday, just like the riders who’d signed up for the full brevet. But here’s the catch: these rides seem to be very tough on parts of our bodies that we don’t, and perhaps can’t, train--specifically the bones, joints, and, at least in my case, the gastro-in-*test*-('")inal system. (Don’t worry: no horrible details are forthcoming or even lurking in my Closet of Shame: it wasn’t that bad.) After about 150 miles, and after having successfully “ridden through” what Bill calls my “usual 85-mile foot-cramp,” both of my feet felt like they were being attacked by savage imps with incredibly sharp knives. My stomach felt awful. And I had a headache. I rode poorly for the last 25 miles, in spite of what being in evidently good muscular, cardio-vascular, and pulmonary shape. I did make a few mistakes that I think might have hasten the onset of my problems. I started pushing slightly harder gears when I got within 30 miles or so of home, and this might have contributed to the foot-pain. Stupidly, I ignored my coach’s suggestion to alternate bottles of plain water and bottles of Cytomax--perhaps too much sticky, sweet stuff brought on the stomach pain. But my friend Geoff (visiting from San Francisco and clearly the strongest rider of the group) tells me that foot-pain is the primary physical problem that randonneurs experience; this was borne out by comments that many of our fellow riders made. And here’s where it gets weird, at least for folks accustomed to regarding hard rides as -*test*-('")ing grounds of the areas in which we train: I’ll be darned if I see how one can “train” ones joints and bones. (An exception: when muscles bolster bones, as in core musculature and back strength, one, obviously, can affect one’s bones via one’s muscles.) Conceptually, this is a wholly different sort of ride from what most of us are accustomed to. As I understand the matter, then, a randonneur--like a member of the pro peleton, I suppose--has to be able to accept and to transcend pain of a sort that even the most rigorous or sensible training is unlikely to prevent. My guess is that the best randonneurs are very good at pain-management. Whether or not many of them are good cyclists in the terms in which most of us are accustomed to conceptualizing good cyclists (again, as riders with strong muscular, cardio-vascular, and pulmonary systems) is another matter. Certainly the best randonneurs (like Geoff) have awesome hearts, lungs, and muscles, as well as a superior ability to manage pain. But rank and file randonneurs, I suspect, are super-specialized riders with average (for athletes) muscular, cardio-vascular, and pulmonary development, and awesome powers of pain-management. I mean these remarks both as praise to randonneurs (whose abilities blow my mind) and as a way of getting at what I take to be essential differences between what they do and what I and my clubmates usually do. There’s a big difference, and I don’t see the kind of cross-over that pertains between say, serious club-riders and short-distance (one-day) racers. What I got from this experience (in addition to the usual pleasures of great company, beautiful scenery, and physical challenge) was a desire to determine how far my muscles, heart, and lungs can take me before my bones and joints start rebelling. I’m just not into courting joint-pain. Be forewarned, friends: even now, I’m hatching plans for a “Four in Two” ride comprising two consecutive days of double-metric centuries, separated by a good night’s sleep in the comfort of one’s own bed. I’d love comments, and I’ll hope that Bill will post up, too. Caveat: as most of you know, my area of specialization is 18th-century British literature. I’m totally unqualified to discuss, for example, physiology. But I haven’t let that stop me, have I? Thanks for listening!