Bike Snob Page 10
But the truth remains that, while cycling is mostly about riding, it’s also about the stuff beyond riding. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to revel in the history, equipment, or even the aesthetics of something that you love to do. It can be educational and inspiring, and it’s also perfectly reasonable to want to express your passion for something to the world. “Cycling” is more than just the bike, or just the riding. “Cycling” is all of it together. And yes, it’s a big part of our culture, too. So while there is no bike culture, there certainly is a cycling subculture.
Cycling Subcultures
Necessary Evil, or Unnecessary Stupidity?
Unlike “[insert possession here] cultures,” “subcultures” are actually about something, though that something is usually unimportant to anybody outside of that subculture. Simply put, they’re cliques with a mission statement. Just as damp basements are hospitable to mold and water parks attract people with un-ironic mullets and bad tattoos, cycling is an environment that fosters subcultures, and believe it or not, some of these subcultures refuse to interact with each other based almost entirely on differing attitudes towards sock height. Whether this is part of its appeal, or simply the reason non-cyclists think cyclists are geeks, is hard to say.
There are many people in this world who have the wisdom and self-assurance not to mess around with subcultures. Historically, I am sorry to say I have not been one of those people. Apart from cycling, the most significant subculture in my life was what for simplicity’s sake I’ll call “punk.” When I first saw punk clothes and heard punk music it immediately excited me. It was exactly like the scene in The Jerk when Navin Johnson hears white people’s music for the first time: “This is the kind of music that makes me want to go out there and be somebody!” Sure, going out there and being somebody mostly meant writing band names on my clothes with a Magic Marker, but it seemed no less important at the time.
Punk was an anti-establishment statement born on the rough streets of New York City and London in the 1970s. By the 1980s, though, it had evidently grown tired of the streets and was instead fomenting revolt in summer camps across America, because that’s where I first discovered it. Nonetheless, punk’s urgency was hardly diminished, because after only a few hours with my off-brand Walkman and a borrowed cassette tape I had not only adopted this music as my own, but I’d also vowed to wage war against the establishment. Of course, in my case the establishment was the camp’s director, an affable, bespectacled man, with a strong resemblance to Woody Allen and a penchant for Gilligan hats, named Eric “Scobes” Scoblionko. Drunk with power (and probably some bug juice) “Scobes” did not allow us to ride our skateboards at camp, and insisted that we keep them stowed up in the rafters until the end of the summer or else he’d take them away. Well, once I took those headphones off, nobody—but nobody—was going to tell me I couldn’t skate at camp. And there was no way anybody was going to take my board from me—I’d like to see them try.
Well, it turns out Scobes’s nebbishy persona belied a steely resolve, and even though I was emboldened by eighties hardcore I ultimately proved to be no match for him. He did give me my skateboard back on the last day of camp, though, and I came home with both it and a new wardrobe. (Actually, it was just my old wardrobe, but it had stuff drawn on it.) And more than that, I returned with an identity. Once I was home, I immersed myself further in this exciting new world. Before long, I’d been there, done that, and literally purchased the T-shirt (on Saint Mark’s Place, where else?). I was inscrutable and mysterious to my classmates, and I’d even get the coveted barely perceptible head nod of approval from others like myself.
But I was soon to find out that basing your identity on a subculture is a tricky thing, because they don’t always dovetail neatly into other subcultures. It so happened I was also getting interested in BMX racing, and around this time I made my first trip to Newbridge Road BMX track in Bellmore to do a race. Naturally, outfit selection would be critical, so in order to display my Camp Wekeela-via-the-Lower-East-Side street cred I picked out my least intact jeans, my most damaged sneakers, and even hand-drew a fresh T-shirt for the occasion. I topped it all off with a Pro-Tec skateboard helmet complete with bubble visor and snap-on chin guard and prepared to intimidate my fellow racers.
Unfortunately, though, it turned out that the BMX racing subculture was different from my punk subculture, and when I lined up at the starting gate, instead of being intimidated, my fellow racers had the audacity to laugh at me as though I looked ridiculous. Of course, I did look ridiculous—between my tattered clothing and the helmet I probably looked like a homeless stunt man about to launch his shopping cart through a ring of fire—but I certainly didn’t think so at the time. And they of course looked equally ridiculous, since everybody was decked out in full motocross gear, right down to the colorful nylon pants with giant logos all over them. They looked exactly like the kids hanging out at Chuck’s Bike-O-Rama in Pee-wee’s Big Adventure.
So there we were, a bunch of leering twelve-year-olds already sizing each other up, waiting for the gate to drop and the race to begin. Little did I know at the time that this was a moment pregnant with significance. See, when I got to the track I was already vibrating with nervousness—if you had placed a tuning fork against my forehead it probably would have resonated audibly. I was under more tension than the spokes lacing my Araya rims to my Peregrine hubs. (Cyclists never forget their components.) My nervousness mounted until the gate dropped. Then, something amazing happened. The nervousness disappeared, leaving only total clarity. The entire race lasted maybe thirty seconds, but in that time absolutely nothing existed except the track and me. I didn’t worry about my sneakers because I was in a heightened state of consciousness in which there were no sneakers. I didn’t worry about science class because there was no science class, and science was doing its job anyway whether or not I paid attention to it. And I didn’t worry about whether my grips matched my seat because there were no grips and there was no seat (figuratively speaking, of course. Had I been racing without a seat my cycling career would have come to an unfortunate and untimely end). My bike just went where I wanted it to go, and I was aware of my competitors without actually worrying about them. It was as close to being a perfect moment as anything I’d experienced. I was hooked.
Sadly as with most fleeting moments of enlightenment, the central message here didn’t stick. After a few hours I’m sorry to report I was thumbing through magazines lusting over race gear. Sure, I had raced well in my jeans, but I needed those pants. At the same time, though, I never forgot how great that feeling was, and unlike other brief moments of ecstasy I was able to reproduce the joy of racing again and again. I still do, and I feel that nervousness followed by elation almost every time I race. It’s there no matter what, and how much you worry about clothing and equipment is mostly just a matter of choice. I mean, the stuff has to work and all, but at a certain point it’s sort of like worrying about which suit to be buried in.
Subcultures aren’t all bad. Sometimes you’re attracted to a look or a machine (such as a bike), you try it out, and you discover something you love. Then again, sometimes the subculture can be all about the trappings, in which case it’s mostly just a trap. Not only can fussing with the trappings keep you from enjoying the valuable thing that lies beneath your own subculture, but it can also keep you from exploring a different one. The only thing worse than obsessing over your race bike is obsessing over your race bike you’ll never race. It’s like tuning an instrument you’ll never play. And swearing an oath that you’ll only ride one type of bike (“Fixed Forever!”) is almost as bad as never riding at all. As a physical endeavor cycling requires some thought about equipment and clothes, and where there’s equipment and clothes there are subcultures. But the most important thing to remember is that nobody has stewardship or dominion over the joys of cycling. Just treat all the posturing like a BMX race—a bunch of nonsense that evaporates the second the gate goes down.
 
; PART THREE
Advanced Cycling
LETTING GO
The burden of bicycle ownership
Nothing compares to the simple pleasure of a bike ride.
—John F. Kennedy
If you’re a cyclist, you’re a cyclist no matter how you ride, where you ride, why you ride, or what you ride. Outside of formal competition, where strict rules govern the type of equipment used, or local laws, which might require things like lights, you can ride whatever you want. All you need is a bicycle. Any bicycle. Granted, you don’t technically need to own a bicycle. Theoretically, you can still be a cyclist if you scrounge around and borrow a bike whenever you feel like taking a ride. But really, that’s extremely inconvenient, and even the most frugal cyclists eventually part with some money in exchange for a bike.
It can also feel really good to own a bicycle. If your bicycle is well-suited to you and the kind of riding you do, you tend to form a bond with it. And as long as you keep your wallet closed and your pants on, forming a bond with your bike is a good thing—it’s part of the pleasure of being a cyclist. After all, if you’re a cyclist you almost certainly have an appreciation for the machine itself. In addition to—or perhaps because of—what the bicycle can do, the form itself is visually pleasing. Bicycles are compact and lightweight, especially considering the fact that you can ride them for hours at a time at relatively high speeds. Sometimes they’re also the product of a skilled craftsman, which can add to their appeal. You might even catch yourself gazing at your bike while it innocently leans against a wall. It’s a vehicle, a tool, and an instrument. And again, as long as you stay clothed and refrain from slobbering, that’s all perfectly fine. Simply put, bikes are pretty cool.
But as any Buddhist monk or person who’s dated an obsessive-compulsive can tell you, there’s danger in attachment. Because the bicycle is so enticing, sometimes the love for the bike can overwhelm the love for the ride. This can happen in a lot of different ways, and it can be dangerous for a number of reasons. But by knowing a few simple truths about how the bicycle works its way into your heart, you can stop it before it gets all Glenn Close and starts boiling a bunny in your kitchen.
1. Bicycles Do Not Have Souls
People attribute “soul” to all kinds of inanimate objects, including bicycles. As far as I know, nobody has proved conclusively that people have souls, much less bicycles, so the notion that your Colnago has one is completely ridiculous. And of course, not all bicycles have souls; just certain ones. They’re usually hand-built frames, and they’re often older steel Italian bicycles, generally owned by the sorts of people who are really into wine. The whole “soul” thing is meant to distinguish these craftsman-built bikes from the mass-produced ones, or the ones that are simply more common. It is, however, completely ridiculous.
Bicycles do not have souls. I don’t care if it was hand-crafted beneath the wooden boards of a velodrome by a master craftsman who was standing knee-deep in a pool of chianti while Fausto Coppi himself was doing laps overhead. That bicycle does not have a soul. Riders have souls; bicycles have wheels, and pedals, and occasionally cool paint jobs.
But what’s wrong with thinking your bike has a soul? What’s wrong with old-world craftsmanship and beauty? Well, nothing—at first. But after a while, once you start thinking your bike has a soul, you start treating it like a person. You baby it, you lavish attention on it, and eventually you’re afraid to ride it. Instead, you purchase another bicycle to ride so that you can reserve the bike with the soul for special occasions. But this makes no sense for a machine like a bicycle. Barring catastrophic accidents, any well-made bicycle will easily outlive its rider. Yes, you’ll wear out the tires, and the bar tape, and the brake pads, and the chain, and maybe even the saddle and the rims, but most of the bike will survive you even if you ride it a hundred miles per week for the rest of your life.
Still, you tell yourself your “soul” bike is too nice to ride. You clean it obsessively, you post pictures of it on forums so people can drool over it, and you occasionally list it for sale but then retract the ads so that you can reassure yourself that other people want your “soul” bike yet you don’t have to part with it. And once you attribute a soul to a bicycle and start treating it like a living thing, you often start paying less attention to actual living things. You become one of those people who doesn’t listen to their spouse because they’re too busy polishing their bike, and who yells at people who attempt to touch it or move it. Consequently, people start treating you like a freak. You have people over and they tell their dates, “Oh yeah, don’t touch Frank’s bike,” as they roll their eyes. You might as well just collect Barbie dolls.
This may sound extreme, but any experienced cyclist has seen too many people reduced to the status of handmaidens by their “dream” bikes. This is why I refuse to accept the concept of the dream bike. There are no dream bikes, only nightmare bikes. Babying a bike is like getting a washing machine and liking it so much you never use it and instead just build a second laundry room. Really, you should treat your bicycle like a washing machine—you should constantly subject it to sweat and filth.
2. There’s No Such Thing as an Upgrade
If you purchase a bicycle, you will be tempted to upgrade it. I promise. This is true regardless of whether it cost $100 or $10,000, and it’s true no matter whether it’s your first bike or your fifty-first bike. You might be an experienced rider, and you may have been saving up for the past ten years to buy the perfect bike. The ne plus ultra. The last bike you’ll ever buy. It doesn’t matter. You’ll ride it home, you’ll love it, you’ll ride it every day, and you’ll show it to your friends. Then, one day—maybe a month later, or maybe a year later—you’ll look at it and say, “Hmmm, those new Whatever™ cranks would sure go nicely on this bike.” After all, it’s your “dream” bike. When a new product comes out that’s “better” than what’s already on your bike, you’ve got to get it, right? Otherwise, your dream bike is now just a regular everyday bike. And what’s the point of that?
It’s perfectly normal to want to upgrade. It’s human nature. Stuff gets old, and you don’t notice it’s getting old—until you see it next to some new stuff. Then the old stuff looks bad, and you have to have the new stuff. It spreads like a disease. You put a new part on your bike, then the part next to it looks crappy, so you’ve got to replace that one as well. Before you know it you’ve replaced every single part on the bike, but it’s still the same bike you had before, only a lot more expensive.
The upgrade bug is extremely dangerous because human nature itself is inherently dangerous. And what’s even more dangerous is that anybody with even the most rudimentary marketing skills knows how to prey on human nature, and how to create a frenzy of need. We all know what the frenzy of need feels like. It certainly isn’t limited to bikes. If you waited on line when the new iPhone came out, you felt the frenzy of need. If you’ve ever hovered over a computer keyboard in order to snag tickets to a show, you’ve felt the frenzy of need. If you’ve ever seen a celebrity wear a certain article of clothing, and then read certain style authorities anoint that article of clothing the next must-have, and then suddenly felt like you were a hobo wearing pants made out of burlap, you’ve felt the frenzy of need. And the frenzy of need is even more effective when it comes to bike stuff, because there’s that pretense of performance. After all, new technology is better, and bikes are meant to be efficient and fast. So a new component with better technology that’s faster and more efficient is a must-have, right? You’ve have to be crazy not to want it!
But it’s very easy to unwittingly downgrade when you think you’re upgrading. That’s because most components these days come out of the same handful of factories and are simply branded and marketed after the fact. Too often, you’re not buying a better part—you’re only buying a different color and logo. Sure, you’ve got to buy stuff for your bike sometimes. Parts wear out. Your riding style changes. You need something that fits better, or that work
s better than something you already have. But you can easily cross the line if you’re not careful.
That’s why, if you start feeling that frenzy of need and simply have to buy something, you should just buy the exact same component you’re tempted to replace. At least that way, instead of slowly transforming your bike into a more expensive one, you’ll eventually just have a replica of the one you already own. And that will come in handy when your bike gets stolen—and it will get stolen. It’s always better to have two $500 bikes than one $1,000 bike.
3. Don’t Fear Your Bike
Many people are actually afraid of their bikes. This may sound crazy, but if you’re one of those people who won’t ride your bike in the rain because you don’t want the bike to get wet, or who freaks out over a dent or a scratch, or who interviews bike shops like they’re day care centers before trusting them with your ride, then you’re probably afraid of your bike.
Just as you have to get over your fear of traffic in order to ride comfortably in it, you also need to get over the fear of your bike in order to ride comfortably on it. Firstly, unlike other luxury items, bikes are not delicate. Furthermore, there’s not an inverse relationship between cost and durability, like there is with other items like clothing. A $40 pair of jeans will be vastly more durable than a $2,000 dress, but a $2,000 bike will probably be far tougher than a $100 Wal-Mart special. That’s because bikes are built to be ridden. Race bikes are built to withstand the rigors of competitive use. Yes, there are exceptions—plenty of companies make ultra-lightweight frames, wheels, tires, etc. that are intended for specific events only and will not stand up to everyday use. But generally speaking, this stuff is meant to be used. It’s meant to get scratched, dinged, dropped, and even crashed occasionally. A bike should be scratched. Using the bike will bring you joy; preserving the bike will only bring frustration. Even if you never, ever ride the bike it will still age. So you might as well ride it while it’s pretty and enjoy the process of making it ugly.