The “Hike-n-Bike,” as I still insist upon calling it (though it now includes canoes, kayaks, and so forth as well), is actually one of my very favorite recurring rides.

Twice a year, about 6,000 folks on spokes gather on the waterfront to go for a ride together (the hikers and paddlers take different routes). The route runs about sixteen to twenty miles (there are a couple of different variations) and welcomes all comers, from carbon-jockeys in full team kit to grandmas on cruisers towing trail-a-bikes … even family trains (I saw one consisting of a workmanlike road bike, a trail-a-bike, and not one, but, two baby trailers!). If you want to ride fast, you can ride fast … and if you want to tootle along, that’s fine, too. If you want to battle it out at the front of the (enormous) pack, you can. If you just want to cruise along and see the sights, there’s room for that.

From 2013-Hike-Bike-N-Paddle

The good folk of Louisville lining up at the Bike Doctor’s Bike Check tent

This past weekend, I was delighted to make it out to the Hike-n-Bike. Last year, I missed the Memorial Day ride (we miss the Labor Day ride every year — that’s when we’re out in the desert). In 2011, I rode it with Denis. In 2010, I did the Labor Day version (I wasn’t doing Burning Man yet, then), and turned out one of the flat-out fastest rides I’ve done in my entire life, banging out the twentyish-mile route in about an hour.

Quicksilver…

at the 2010 Labor Day Hike-n-Bike.

This year, Denis wasn’t feeling it, so I went alone again. That meant I got to roll out at the front and hammer like it counted … and that, in turn, meant I belted out a moving average of 18 MPH over the 16.4 mile course on the Tricross.

A view of the pack…

rarin’ to go (and, in one case, apparently phoning in last wishes, just in case). There’s a tandem with a dog riding in a rear carrier in this shot, but it might be too small to see.

…Sadly, I didn’t think to snap a shot of the Finish.

My view of the Start line.

Me at the start…

…sweaty enough that I look like I should be at the finish.

On the back half of the outbound leg, I fell into a group that was attempting to work in a paceline (which is somewhat difficult when the group in question frequently encounters riders that have decided to slow down a bit). I tried to put in a few pulls. That was pretty nice. I haven’t ridden in a group in a while now (my best intentions in the direction of the regular Friday ride out my way have thus far been eclipsed by the need to catch up the housework left over from the rest of the week — summer classes are tough!), and I had forgotten how cool it is.

My group broke up at the climb into Iroquois Park (which, deceptively, is the toughest part of the Iroquois climb altogether). I kept it in the big ring and wound up pulling ahead of a number of guys, then stopped for some fresh water. Between getting ahead of the other guys who stopped for water and behind the ones who didn’t, I lost the group pretty much entirely. I basically rode solo for the whole of the return leg.

Towards the end of the outbound leg, I formulated a goal: keep the moving average at 17 MPH. It seemed attainable, and like a step in the right direction after months of not trying very hard. Nearing the home stretch, I realized I had a shot at keeping it above 17.5, and kept the engine revving … but it wasn’t until I got home and uploaded my data to Strava that I realized I’d actually pulled down 18 MPH. My ride time was around 54 minutes or so, including the water break.

This ride puts me really close to one of my long-standing cycling goals: maintaining a moving average of 20 MPH for an hour. It also, however, demonstrated something much more important: something that I guess I’d somehow forgotten.

It reminded me of precisely how much cycling is a mental game.

At no point in Monday’s ride did I feel like I was killing myself, burning too many matches, or working at maximum capacity. Instead, I was riding a pace I could have ridden for a lot longer — maybe not all day, but certainly for a couple of hours or more. I finished the race without burning all my matches, or even I think, half of them. Only on the climb into Iroquois did I ever feel like I was making a challenging effort, and that was mostly a question of accelerating around other riders (I spent much of that little climb out of the saddle). After the ride, I snagged a quick bite to eat, then rode home.

In short, even though I turned out the fastest ride I’ve managed in about two years, I had a lot more left in me … and that tells me two things.

First, I could work a lot harder on the bike than I do.

Second, I underestimate my own capacity. Drastically.

I suspect that’s true of a lot of us, especially those of us who ride solo a whole lot (and especially, especially those of us who ride solo in the city most of the time, and rarely get to really open up that throttle for long enough to see what they’ve got).

When you ride alone, you only tend to go as hard and as fast as you think you can. Put yourself in a group, and often that self-limiting tendency falls by the wayside. Put yourself in a big group that’s riding hard, and throw in that element of competition (with yourself and/or others) that tends to arise from such situations, and it’s almost guaranteed to vanish.

Suddenly, you’re sailing over those cracks in the pavement that you thought were ravines.

If we want to get better and faster, it seems like it’s probably important to get out and ride with other riders. I suppose every guide for would-be racers out there says the same thing: to get faster, get out there, ride with people faster than yourself. Go hit up the fast club rides and get dropped. Do it enough, and eventually you’ll be able to hang with the pack. Keep doing it, and you might someday find yourself at the front of the pack.

To get fast, you have to go fast — and every time you go fast, “fast” will get a little faster. The best way to train for racing is to race. Et cetera.

Oddly, I don’t know if I would’ve done anything anywhere near as impressive in an actual race.

Yesterday, I was only racing myself (okay, and all the guys around me, and especially everyone I passed ^-^). I wasn’t worried about killing myself and having to drop out or about being too slow (I was worried, very briefly, that I’d forgotten how to corner in a pack: I hadn’t). There was no “too slow.” There was just the group with which I was riding and the pace we were riding, a pace I felt like I could maintain.

This ride left me thinking that maybe I will try a few crits after all (it’ll probably have to wait ’til next spring, when our local crit series starts up again) … and maybe this fall, in addition to my gravelicious ambitious, I’ll hit up a couple of ‘cross races for real. For any number of reasons, I don’t expect to win any ‘cross battles, but my unvoiced fear that I didn’t have the capacity to go hard for anywhere long enough has evaporated.

I feel like my big goal is in sight. If I can do eighteen for almost an hour, soon I’ll be able to pull down nineteen for an hour. Soon after that, I’ll get my twenty-for-twenty (20 MPH for 20 miles).

…Or, rather, I will if I don’t let myself get lazy again.

I think it’s time to get back on this (race)horse and see where things go. After all, it’s only six months ’til Gravel Grovel!

…PS: Pictures are forthcoming. I seem to be having upload issues. All fixed!

*No, not like that. No legions of ectoplasmic beings were released in the making of this post.

In 2012, I didn’t finish a single race.

Not one.

Okay, so I only had two starts, and I did finish the four-day, three-night 280-mile Tour of Hilly Places In A Flat State (not a race, but a whole lot of riding nonetheless) back in July — but my racing record was 100% DNF. In March, Timothy and I started the Death March, got lost, and DNFed after 42 miles in the wilderness; in November, I made it to the first turnaround in the Gravel Grovel before mechanical problems forced me to throw in the towel.

This year, I’m 1-for-1 thus far: one start, one finish. The Death March is behind us, and we finished, and — perhaps surprisingly — we finished pretty well!

In contrast to 2012’s grey and dreary Death March, 2013’s took place in glorious weather: though the few weeks before the race were so rainy that the bridge at the start location (provided by our gracious hosts, Midwest Trail Ride) washed out, on race day a bright late-winter sun consented to come out and play.

My day began with a kit decision (thermal jersey, or Gore Phantom jacket? — I went with the Phantom) and a solid breakfast at the Comfort Inn in Bedford, Indiana, where I kitted up and treated myself to a DIY Belgian waffle (as well as a couple oranges, a biscuit-and-egg sandwich, a banana, and tea) at 6:30 in the morning.

I figured a fairly sizeable breakfast wouldn’t kill me, since I had plenty of time to digest before the start at 9:00 AM.

Because the bridge was out at the MTR camp, Blackwell Limestone kindly provided parking for those of us whose vehicles were unlikely to make the creek crossing. Timothy met Denis and I there, then Team River City Cycling Society rode over to the MTR camp. Denis followed in the truck to see if he could find closer parking on the road.

I had to admit that, in that first few minutes, I had my doubts. As we cruised the mile or so up to the camp, I felt a little sluggish on the long-but-shallow climb. Timothy, too, was less than sure about our potential for the day. We were both recovering from illness-related training setbacks.

That said, the sun was shining and the temperature was cool, but comfortable. Soon, we reached the creek crossing where the bridge had been. For me, it would be the deepest and widest water crossing I’d ridden thus far. We had to ride it twice to start — once to get into camp; once to get back out.

I’ve always believed that the best way to face potentially-daunting obstacles is to charge straight at them (or, in this case, diagonally, since the crossing in question is diagonal), and that’s exactly what we did. It turned out the line we picked rolled straight through the deepest part, so my feet were soaked, but we both made it across without a spill.

At the check-in, I resisted the urge to introduce ourselves as “Team 184**” (our number from last year!). Soon, we had our race numbers, trail passes, and commemorative Death March 2013 t-shirts in hand. We weren’t entirely sure what to do with the T-shirts, so when we got back outside I stuck them in my trunk bag.

We hit the head one last time, then headed out to the start. I was pleased to see that the field was pretty large even given the situation with the bridge (or lack thereof). I was a little worried that only the really seasoned, intrepid riders would actually show up under the circumstances. Instead, 150 teams (300 riders!) lined (or, more accurately, bunched) up at the start.

Next came the most nerve-wracking part of the day: the wait for the drawing of the last two mandatory stops. Along with everyone else, we were hoping that Gorbetts cemetery would not be drawn, since it was way out on the other side of creation and up a long climb.

Fortunately, Gorbetts did not make the cut. Instead, Houston and Robertson — both conveniently located near other cemeteries already on our planned route — were called. This meant that we could ultimately shave about 10 miles and at least one wicked climb off our ride.

Relieved, we briefly consulted and decided on a strategy of waiting patiently at the back of the pack during the start. With 300 riders trying to cross one creek, a hurry-up-and-wait strategy that would allow us to cross in the clear seemed well advised.

We made the second stream crossing without incident, though we both forgot to gear down and had to practice our cyclocross dismounts as we rolled up the steep, slick bank on the far side.

There, we hung a right and briefly hooked up with Denis, who collected our T-shirts. We debated changing our socks, but decided against it (in fact, though they got wet a few times, my feet remained comfortable throughout the day) and headed for our first stop.

Predictably, our day began with a climb. It wasn’t a hard climb, though — just long and shallow, and we set ourselves an easy pace. At one point, due to the lay of the land, we appeared to be rolling on a slight descent and were mystified briefly by the fact that we still had to work to maintain speed. Then Timothy noticed that his Garmin indicated that we were, in fact, still climbing: we had encountered one of those pesky optical-illusions, a true false flat!

Soon, we turned left and headed down an actual descent (which was quite fun) to bag our first cemetery for the day.

To Team RCCS (AKA Team 144, AKA Former Team 184**), this was a pretty big deal. You see, in 2012, it took us a full hour and a half to bag our first check point. In 2013, we had our first within a half an hour.

In the next hour, we snagged two more checkpoints. We thought about doing the Fire Tower, but ultimately decided against it (in retrospect, a wise decision; I don’t think we would’ve gained as much time as it would’ve taken us to get up there, wait for everyone else to finish taking pictures, get our pictures, and get back down). Maybe next year.

Thus far, we’d ridden mostly on a combination of paved surfaces and really nice “strada bianca”-style terrain. Last year, the Powers That Be had dumped fresh, enormous, chunky, horrible gravel right before the race; this year, they hadn’t. This made for much smoother (though sometimes also much slicker) sailing. It was in the wettest spots that I realized the brilliance of Maxxis’ Raze tires: they’re fast on the road, but on the slick stuff, they have just enough texture to keep things rubber-side down.

Moreover, I quickly realized that the Tricross is a straight-up mountain goat. It climbs beautifully, handles with sure-footed ease on all kinds of stuff, and feels nice and stable on the descents. I was able to really let ‘er fly even on some of the non-paved descents (though I was still summarily dropped by a few much-more-confident descenders). As in 2012, I generally stayed ahead on the climbs, but this time I didn’t drop so far back on the descents as to lose sight of my partner.

After a beautiful stretch of rolling climbs and descents and a nice, flat road parallel to a creek, we rounded a corner and came at last to the start of Combes Road. We rolled off the pavement and onto some more lovely lightly-graveled clay surface. A little ways on, I paused to swap out my gloves and remove my jacket’s sleeves. The winter gloves and the sleeves went into the trunk bag; I proceeded in arm warmers and my light long-fingered gloves for the rest of the race.

This year, I knew what to expect from Combes Road. Because of that, I was probably feeling a little more cautious than I did the year before.

In retrospect, I shouldn’t have worried — once passed beyond the famous gate, the Tricross just rolled on like a tank.

Through streams, mud, rocks, roots, and countless creek crossings, I was able to remain mounted with a few exceptions. There was one turn sharp enough that I can’t imagine any bike making it (with a fallen tree on one side and a drop-off on the other, for good measure!); the rest of the dismounts were mostly tree-in-trail related. Even on the dreaded Combes Road Climb, I dismounted only for a few yards, where the terrain was both steepest and slickest. (For what it’s worth, I still hate pushing my bike.)

Soon, we had bagged Elkinsville Cemetery. By this point, I was starting to feel pretty giddy. A non-DNF finish was in sight, and with Gortbetts off the table, the only remaining serious challenge was Callahan, which involved the longest true off-road stretch I’ve ridden to date (as far as I can recall, anyway).

Leaving Elkinsville, we hit a steep climb — the kind, as I said to Timothy, that I’d power up if it was July — and we both dismounted and pushed for a bit. We then proceeded to bag a few more checkpoints and grind up a long, steep climb that beat the crap out of me last year. This year, I rode most of it.

At the top of that climb, a wild SAG wagon appeared! We were completely stoked, having failed to find a SAG stop even once last year (Death March features roving SAG stops). This one couldn’t have come at a better time and place; I had just emptied my Camelbak and was definitely ready for some serious snacks. The SAG wagon offered water, another beverage choice, and an array of delicious comestibles. I snagged a bag of BBQ potato chips, some pretzel rods, a Mandarin, and some more pretzel rods, all of which were the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted right at that particular moment.

For a little while, we hung out and chatted with our fellow SAG-stoppers and the SAG-driver. Then, refueled and feeling optimistic, we rolled out.

…Or tried to. It was as he attempted to clip back in that Timothy realized he’d lost a cleat. We realized that, while both of us have bags of extra cleats and bolts at home, neither of us had possessed the foresight to bring so much as a single extra SPD cleat. Um. Oops?

To our defense, neither of us had ever lost a cleat mid-ride before — or, rather, I had, but it was because I hadn’t screwed it in well enough in the first place, and it has never happened since. While my pedals offered a flat side as well as an SPD-compatible side (which came in handy, by the way, whenever my cleats were chock full of clay and I couldn’t clip in), we didn’t have a wrench on hand that would let us swap pedals out, and Timothy didn’t think his carbon-soled shoes would pay nicely with the flat pedals anyway.

In the end, we decided to simply roll on as we were. For Timothy, this meant riding the last 18 miles with only one cleat!

At the bottom of the descent, I overshot Thompson (or was it Todd? I’m always getting them confused) Cemetery by a few meters; fortunately, Timothy stopped in time. We snagged a picture, then rolled on to …. er, the one cemetery at the Callahan trailhead and to Callahan, our final checkpoint for the day.

I don’t even know how to describe the experience of riding to Callahan. We took our final on-road cemetery picture, then descended into the trees. Sometimes — read, any time we were actually able to ride our bikes — it was wildly fun. Sometimes — read, any time we were pushing our bikes up ridiculous, clay-slicked ascents — it was horrible. Have I mentioned that I hate pushing my bike?

For the most part, I enjoyed the ride out to Callahan. At one point, as I gave the Tricross free rein on a bumpy descent, I said out loud, “This is just like riding hunters!” I was glad for the years of horseback riding experience that taught me to balance with my legs and core while my arms did something else entirely. I was grateful for the gift of what horse people call “following contact” and the “automatic release.”

The woods en route to Callahan offered one more major water crossing; one we would ride twice. It was at the bottom of a steep and rather wicked hill; a climb (largely unrideable) on the way out and a descent (totally rideable, though I also totally unclipped and stuck my feet out at the steepest point) on the return leg.

The outbound leg constituted the single worst bout of pushing-the-bike on the ride, though not the worst I’ve ever encountered (pushing Denis’ 60-pound folding mountain bike up loose scree on a ridiculous incline at Hippie Camp in 2011 was a thousand times worse than anything Death March dished out this year). That said, I got back on and rode as soon as it was humanly possible (I’m happy to say that Death March has made me much more confident off-road and also taught me how to get the bike going again when remounting on a gravel, loose-surface, or mud climb.)

For Timothy, there was an extra helping of horrible. With only one cleat, he lost a significant degree of mechanical advantage on the climbs and much of the finesse required for off-road riding in sloppy conditions. I was able to ride climbs where his mechanical limitation required a dismount-and-push approach.

Even so, I was now starting to feel tired, hungry, and cranky, and after our stop to snag our final checkpoint photo, I was often annoyed with myself for churning out a neck-breaking speed of approximately 1.7 miles per hour on long stretches of the trail. I can honestly say that I don’t think I’ve ever ridden so slowly for so long: the trail surface continued to be wet, often gnarly, and strewn with occasional obstacles that required a dismount-and-lift approach.

Soon, though, Timothy announced that we were two tenths of a mile from the road!

Okay, so I’ll admit that I didn’t quite believe him at first, since it took bloody long enough to get there — but, in fact, he was right. Abruptly, after rounding a long bend, the trail dumped us out at the base of one last wicked gravel climb. We both wound up walking part of that one.

With that bastard behind us, though, we were home free. Suddenly we were sailing along at speeds upwards of fifteen miles per hour, often hovering around nineteen. I couldn’t help but think back to the awful start of last year’s Gravel Grovel, when I watched the field ride away from me as I fought my bike with everything I had to crank out a measly 16 MPH.

Soon, we were returning to camp. Because my shoulder was not cooperating, Timothy lifted the Tricross over the barriers on the closed bridge we had to cross. We spanked along at a nice clip, and soon we came to the parked cars lining the bank opposite the MTR camp.

Denis was waiting at the spot where the end of the bridge would be. We waved to him as we passed and dove into the creek crossing. Just as we began the descent, someone zoomed up on my left side and took the line I was heading for without so much as an “On your left!” I was a bit nonplussed, but this last-minute passing attempt apparently didn’t work out for the rider in question.

Without losing another spot, we rolled up the far side (I nearly rammed Timothy from behind as his cleatlessness caused some climbing difficulty, but managed to get around without killing anyone), hung a right, and rolled through the finish line. I’m pretty sure we were both elated that we’d finished.

Our finishing time was 4:08, and we were told we could feel free to kick back and stuff our faces and take our time; the checkpoint check-in desk was in no hurry.

Inside, I crammed a Naked Burrito, a cookie, and a glass of lemonade down my gullet as fast as I could (thanks, QDoba!), then we checked in our pictures. At last, I bade Timothy good-bye, noting that I might be back if Denis wanted to cross the water, but wasn’t thinking that seemed likely.

Back at the truck, I managed to load the bike and my stuff without dropping dead; Denis observed that he thought we’d placed pretty well. On the road, we saw a good number of other racers still out plying their routes; some of them looked completely bushwhacked. Denis was optimistic about our standing in the GC; I was simply elated that we’d finished. For me, finishing the Death March marks the beginning of a new era in my racing life; one in which I plan to finish a lot more races and to finish decently well.

Today, Timothy discovered that, in fact, we did finish pretty well — 52nd out of 110 in the mens’ division; 75th out of 150 overall! Since our goal was to place in the top half of the field, we’re both pretty excited. In fact, I believe the word for what I’m feeling is “stoked!”

Anyway, that’s it for this year’s ride report. I took exactly no pictures and apparently somehow killed my Garmin out there (update: the Garmin is not dead, but it also failed somehow to record Saturday’s miles and lost a bunch of data somewhere; I’ve reset it and it seems to be functioning again), so I will have to gank pix from Timothy’s blog when he posts them.

I was planning on hitting the hills today, but I’m feeling iffy about it. Tomorrow, I will probably do the full commute to school for the first time in a number of weeks. Spring is near and my racing season is off to a great start. I’m looking forward to more of the same, with more racing opportunities this year than I’ve had before. There’s even a new team adventure race up in Hoosier National Forest in September — more on that soon!

Keep the rubber side down!

Notes
** I just noticed that I was totally wrong about this. We were Team 182 last year.

*That’s as opposed to a DNF, by the way.

I haven’t had a chance to upload my Strava data yet, and I don’t know what our exact standing in the rankings was, but Timothy and I finished Death March this time. w00t!

This is a nice way to start off this year’s racing season, after last year’s ignominious collection of DNFs.

It was a tough ride, with more off-road action than I’ve ever done in my entire life (one of the off-road cemeteries was a mandatory control), but I had a fantastic time. My bike handling skills really surprised me, and the Tricross really proved itself capable in the rough stuff (even with 35s on; I had hoped to acquire some slightly fatter tires, but never got around to it). The trails were muddy and sloppy. I rode stuff I definitely would’ve walked last year and powered across creek crossings that I’ve previously approached with trepidation.

As far as I’m concerned, that’s a win for me. We kicked last-year usses’ butts, and as Denis pointed out, in the end, your most important competitor is yourself.

All told, it was a rewarding experience — a fun day in the saddle with plenty of bike-nerd camaraderie, and a chance to see to training we’ve put in starting to pay off.

I intend to write a slightly-more-complete ride report, but right now I’m ready to pass out. Tomorrow morning I need to haul my bacon outta bed early and ring bells, then get over to New Albany to visit a friend, then finish a project.

Keep the rubber side down!

Recently, the League of American Bicyclists commissioned a study (through consulting firm Bernuth & Williamson) about bike advocacy that was presented at the National Bike Summit. You can find it here (PDF; opens in new tab/window).

The findings are interesting, I’ll grant that. There’s also a lot of good stuff in this report — it does look like the opinions of policy-makers are slowly shifting in favor of bikes as a transit modality; it does recommend an advocacy strategy that involves using anecdotes about the success of cities and towns that have implemented bike-friendly changes.

However, an underlying current suggest that perhaps policymakers A) aren’t listening very well and B) don’t know what they’re talking about.

Major unifying threads include, “Stop being anti-car bike-evangelists and present your message in terms of multi-modal transit systems that benefit everyone, not just cyclists” (a solid message, but there’s a problem there) and “Bicycle people aren’t paying in to the system” (a persistent and troubling fallacy).

To address the first problem: unless there’s a huge disconnect between the bike-advocacy community as I know it and cycling advocates in DC (which is possible, but I know an awful lot of DC bike people: most of them also own cars and none of them represent the extremist point of view), the bike-advocacy community, with few exceptions, is already not anti-car and very vocally supports cycling as part of a flexible, multimodal transit system.

The vast majority of us would love to see better bus and train systems (I love trains, in fact!); we would also love to see better, more human-centric public space designs that put people first — which means employing human-scale development and small-but-important touches like installing a bench every so many meters so people with limited mobility can sit down and rest. Most of the cycling-advocacy blogs I read on a regular basis are as giddy about trains, trams, and buses as I am. We don’t want to run cars off the road; we just want to make it possible for more people to get around without relying on them.

Yes, there are some loud ‘n’ proud “bike supremacists” in the advocacy community who only seem concerned with bikes getting their fair share and who don’t seem to grasp the importance of other modalities. Here’s the thing, though: there are also tons of loud ‘n’ proud “automobile supremacists,” and some of them have high-paying jobs on Capitol Hill as auto-industry lobbyists.

Because they represent the dominant paradigm in this country, the auto-supremacists’ attitude is considered normal and acceptable, just as racist attitudes among whites were considered acceptable until only a few decades ago (for that matter, they still are, to an extent); just as homophobic attitudes among heterosexuals still allow people to believe that gay marriage is somehow a threat to the concept of heterosexual marriage.

In short, someone who claims that bikes should be banned from the roadways is perceived as a normal human being expressing her opinion, while someone who claims that cars should be banned from the roadways is perceived as a dangerous wacko with an anti-car (rather than a pro-bike or pro-flexible transit or pro-people) agenda.

It’s also considered acceptable to imagine bike advocates as a bunch of stinky, unwashed, raving, anti-car zealots. There are a few of those out there — I’m not denying that. The thing is, they’re a tiny sliver of the actual bike-advocacy community. Unfortunately, however, they’re the ones who get noticed: they’re the squeaky wheels, the sliver in the side of the auto-centric world, and — more importantly — they’re visibly and vocally out there. That’s how the human mind works. We’re wired to notice anything weird and fear it.

Unfortunately, we’re also wired to oppress out-groups and their members, which is to say that we’re programmed to defend our interests and our “turf.” This is less problematic when both out-group and in-group are tribes of roughly equal size using neolithic technologies to defend their hunting grounds. It becomes much, much more problematic when the in-group is enormous, the out-group is tiny, twenty-first century technologies are involved, and the very concept of “turf” is more philosophical than literal.

Moreover, the more normative-appearing bike advocates are essentially invisible. Simply put, we don’t think of the perfectly-respectable ladies and gentlemen over in Software Development or Rocket Surgery or the Mail Room who ride their bikes to work as cycling advocates. We don’t know them in that capacity. Thus, when we think “bicycle advocate,” we think “sweaty-toothed madman,” not “Jane, from Accounting.”

Thus, Jane-from-Accounting, Steve-from-the-Mail-Room, Betty-from-Surgery, and everyone else who advocates sensibly for a sane, multi-modal approach to transportation fades into the background, and Joe-the-Crazy-Bike-Dude comes to represent the entire bike advocacy world in the minds of those who aren’t already on the bus (so to speak).

Meanwhile, apparently, well-educated drivers who work in government still somehow believe that bike people aren’t paying into the system. To this, I can only say, “WTF?”

First: most cyclists also drive. Most of us own cars. Heck, my household has two! Most of us use gasoline. From what I understand, gasoline taxes do (in part, albeit possibly a large part) fund federal highways. Okay, fine: when I’m on a bike, I’m not paying for the Eisenhower Interestate system.

You know what, though?

I’m also not riding on it.

With very few exceptions, the high-speed roads of the Eisenhower Interstate system are explicitly closed to bikes, farm machinery, scooters, mopeds, “animals on foot” — basically, anything that can’t clock 55 MPH or better.

You know what else?

I’m perfectly fine with that. The Interstates were intended to be dedicated point-to-point roads for longer-distance travel. That’s not what most of us do on our bikes, and when we do, we tend to call it “Touring” and do it at a fairly relaxed pace.

Local roads, meanwhile, are mostly paid for out of general funds — and while state or local gas taxes may or may not toss a little into that hat, general funds largely derive from property taxes, payroll taxes, and the like. This is a big part of the reason that the roads in my neighborhood look worse than the ones in Beirut, while the roads in posh east Louisville neighborhoods are often like velvet carpets that beckon with their siren songs to the wandering wheels of the bike-riding public.

Here’s the thing: my household makes a lot more than the average household in my neighborhood. That means we pay a lot more in taxes than most of the people living here (indeed, we pay more than many of the people living in the aforementioned posh east-end neighborhoods). Properties on our little cul-de-sac also happen to be appraised at significantly higher values than most of the surrounding neighborhood, which again means we pay more in taxes. (For that matter, since Denis’ job means he drives all over creation all the ding-dang-darn time, we pay a heck of a lot more than average in gas taxes.)

Does this mean that I get to demand that all the people who live here whose taxes are not as high as ours pull over and get out of the way when I’m driving around with Denis or riding my bike? Does it mean I get to ticket them for parking on the street?

Um, no.

That’s not how taxes work. Taxes pay for public infrastructure. That means I have no more (or less!) right to it than the next guy.

So, basically, most bike people pay taxes. Most of us have jobs, and many of us have very good jobs (perhaps because the same character traits that make us willing to ride bikes in such a car-centric culture — confidence, self-reliance, relative fearlessness — tend to funnel us into leadership positions in our careers). We own property at the usual rates, pay property taxes at the usual rates, and so forth.

Moreover, by reducing wear-and-tear on roadways, we extend their lives, reducing their cost per unit of use. Since we can lock up our bikes just about anywhere, we also save money on the installation of parking meters and the building of parking lots and structures. We could argue, then, that not only do we pay into the system, but our dollars go further than average. We’re helping to keep costs down.

What troubles me is the persistence of the idea that the bike-riding public doesn’t “pay in.” We not only pay in, but reduce costs — so, no, we shouldn’t be subjected to “user fees.” We’re already paying them. They’re called “taxes.”

(Note: I wouldn’t object to occasional “user fees” for new bike- and pedestian-specific infrastructure — we use that approach to build bridges and roads all the time, only in that case we call the fee a “toll” — as long as the new infrastructure in question is actually useful, and not more recreational horse-hockey.)

In short, I don’t think the challenge, in reality, is one of toning down our evangelism or “paying in.” It’s figuring out how to exist in the mainstream without disappearing. Much as drivers in car-bike collisions tend to claim that they didn’t see the person on the bike, car-oriented people simply don’t see bike advocates unless they’re noticeable enough to seem weird.

Meanwhile, most of us in the bike-advocacy world aren’t about “critical mass and kicking ass” (except in races; those of us who race totally want to kick ass, even if it’s only our own asses). Most of us are about sensible plans that make things better for everyone. We get concerned about funding because, quite frankly, when it comes down to a decision between funding unnecessary, redundant, poorly-planned car infrastructure that causes more problems than it solves or funding useful, innovative bike or transit infrastructure, the car-oriented infrastructure tends to win automatically simply because the people making decisions are more likely to drive cars than to ride bikes (meanwhile, useful local roads that serve both bikes and cars quite well fall into disrepair through budgetary neglect).

I am, I suppose, cautiously optimistic about the future of cycling and transit in the US. Frankly, rising gas prices mean that drivers will feel the pinch sooner or later; meanwhile, we younger types are trending towards urbanism and choosing to eschew car ownership and surprising rates. Bike advocates are well aware that these changes have little to do with our efforts, but we’re grateful for them.

I, for one, would love to see better mass transit; things like high-speed trains (or any trains, honestly) for long-distance travel; trams and electric buses at local levels. My feelings about dedicated bike infrastructure, meanwhile, are mixed — I think well-designed roads are very capable of serving bikes and cars at the same time without everyone jockeying for space. I also think better enforcement of traffic laws — with fair-but-certain penalties — for both drivers and cyclists is a critical piece of the puzzle — and I really think those laws need to acknowledge that cars don’t maim and kill people, reckless drivers do (right now, reckless driving is under-penalized in part because we don’t blame drivers; we blame cars).

At the end of the day, the same people who kvetch about spending money on bike infrastructure are the people who whine about job creation: well, building infrastructure creates jobs. So does building a police force capable of actually enforcing traffic laws.

So, for that matter, does commissioning studies. I’m glad that the LAB funded this one. It’s important, if a bit discouraging, to know what people think.

Yes, we need to find a better way to communicate: we need to find a way to make Jane-from-Accounting, not the “sweaty-toothed madman,” the symbol of bicycle advocacy.

I guess that’s it for now. Race day tomorrow! Woot!

On Friday, I ordered a new stem for the Moto, but somehow the next-day-delivery request didn’t go through, so I didn’t ride yesterday. Today, I decided to ride anyway, even though the Moto’s new bars are skinnier than the old ones and thus are currently shimmed with a really squirrely DIY jobber. I just needed some time in the saddle.

I set out to get a couple hours in. I wound up a little less than nine minutes shy of two hours, so that’s not too bad, especially given that I sort of took a half an hour break to eat lunch.

All told, it was a nice ride. I just took it easy on the roads, mostly rolling along at a pretty easy pace, but I still managed one personal second best and one personal third best on established Strava segments, as well as a 17th out of 106 on a stretch of road where I apparently haven’t ridden since someone added a segment there. Not too shabby, for an easy day!

The highlight of my day, however, came during my lunch break. I paused at Home Run Burger at Cardinal Towne and locked my bike next to a lone mountain bike. When I emerged from my lunch break, the rack was full! …And not only was it full, but the next rack down had a bike in it, the one beyond that had two, and another just around the corner was nearly full!

A Thing of Beauty and a Joy Forever!

It’s good to see so many bikes out and about. There was a group of about four riders in varying degrees of lycra-cladding who were obviously stopping for lunch together as well; the others, I’m guessing, were just people out doing their thing on a lovely Sunday afternoon (or working at the various shops in Cardinal Towne).

I also managed to get a “Panda Portrait” (no, I don’t have the foggiest idea why they’re called that) on Adams Street. Playing with my phone while riding isn’t something I normally do, but there was essentially no traffic (some walkers and eventually another bike on the other side of the road) and I slowed waaaaaay down. The problem is, I think I kinda look like a young George “Dubya” Bush in pictures like this one:

George, is that you?

…So to make up for it, I caught this spooky and atmospheric shot of an old warehouse at the corner of Swan and Kentucky:

Hallowe’en’s Coming!

…which is also the location of locavore-specialist retailer The Root Cellar‘s new shop, their second:

Get back to your roots (and leafy greens)!

If you’re in town, you should check it out. The Root Cellar has two missions: first, to provide locally-grown, fresh-off-the-farm produce (as well as other products) to the greater Louisville community; second, to supply fresh, healthful food in an area of Old Louisville that has historically been very much a food desert. You can find hours and directions posted on the website listed above.

One last bit: one of the little bike-wrenching jobs I find that I do often is swapping out pedals. Inevitably, friends and relatives buy new bikes that come with boring, vanilla stock pedals and decide they want something more exciting (or the boring stock pedals eventually break and need to be replaced; it sorta depends).

In the process of doing a bunch of such pedal swaps over the past few months, I’ve been convinced that bike shops throughout the country are secretly part of an experimental government program intended to help deinstitutionalize gorillas (presumably because they’re capable of learning basic sign language and they have thumbs and good self-awareness and possibly even creative ideas, which probably makes them at least as skilled as most of us are, especially before our morning coffee). We’ll call it “gorilla workfare” (not to be confused with “guerilla warfare,” which is something else entirely).

I say this because Every. Single. Fresh-from-the-Shop Pedal. requires the application of our one-meter torque pipe. There are essentially no exceptions to this rule. Even when I worked in a bike shop, we were forever applying our torque bar to pedals installed at other shops. At this point, I just keep the torque pipe in the front of the garage, in case I should need to perform a random pedal swap at any moment. (Some pedals, such as the set I swapped out tonight, also require extremely creative crank-immobilization techniques.)

I guess I’m glad that gorillas out there are finding jobs in bike shops. Even though I’m a roadie, on the other hand, I really hope they don’t start shaving their legs.

That would just look weird.