This period started with Spain in 1953, Hemingway’s first visit to the country since the Civil War (perhaps a low point for his personal conduct but a high point for his writing as it was the genesis of For Whom the Bell Tolls). He introduced his wife Mary to everything to do with bullfighting and met the talented young matador, Antonio Ordoñez, the son of Niño de la Palma who was the inspiration for Pedro Romero in The Sun Also Rises. Then it was on to Africa for their safari. The trip ended in disaster with two plane crashes and a fire that saw Hemingway badly injured with external and internal injuries. Rehabilitation would be long and slow and his physical and writing powers suffered as a result.

For the 1959 trip, Hemingway chronicled the rivalry between Ordoñez and the fresh-out-of-retirement Luis Miguel Dominguín, a famous matador in Spain looking to reclaim former glories and, to make things more interesting, Ordoñez’s brother-in-law. Hemingway had been a long time away from both Spain and bullfighting prior to this period and was reluctant is some ways to be back. He lamented the way the bulls’ horns were shaved, as well as other practices, that were not the same as ‘back in the day’ in the 20s and 30s when he fell in love with bullfighting (although at least the horses were now given some protection, rather than being routinely gored). As Hemingway noted: “So, for many reasons, especially the fact that I had grown away from spectator sports, I had lost much of my old feeling for the bullfight. But a new generation of fighters had grown up and I was anxious to see them.”

Hemingway soon got into the spirit of the adventure and become a trusted confident of the younger Ordoñez, the sort of role that he relished. He was in the thick of the action and was as well having a grand old time reliving old memories and being feted as a “local boy makes good”. He even returned in 1960 to follow Ordoñez again for the season. Still, in the end, he was reluctant to have the book published and worried that the additional material beyond the Life magazine serialized parts was tired and showed his own fatigue.

Not much to see, just an old man in Spain in 1959 (JFK Library pic)

The Tour

Perhaps, then, Hemingway should have written about the 1959 Tour de France instead. In Paris in the 1920s, as a young man on his overseas adventure, Hemingway was an ardent fan of cycling, not just of track racing but also road racing. “Hem[ingway] was mad about bicycle racing,” writes John Dos Passos in his memoir The Best Times and describes how Hemingway would don a striped jersey and do his best Tour de France impersonation on the boulevards. The six-day track races, particularly at the Vélodrome d’Hiver, were a favourite and, converted by Hemingway to “whatever mania he was encouraging at the time”, Dos Passos would join him in the gallery loaded with supplies. “Hem knew all the statistics and the names and lives of the riders.”

Hemingway warned Dos Passos off writing about cycle racing as he apparently intended to do it himself. Indeed, in A Moveable Feast, Hemingway notes, “I have started many stories about bicycle racing but have never written one that is as good as the races are both on the indoor and outdoor tracks and on the road.” Noting that all the terms were in French, making it hard to write about, and even though he was writing these words in the late 1950s long into his career, Hemingway still said that, “I must write the strange world of the six-day races and the marvels of the road-racing in the mountains.”

The 1959 Tour would have been the perfect occasion. There was the rivalry between Jacques Anquetil and Roger Rivière, the latter having bested Anquetil’s hour record on the track in 1957 (both had also ridden at the last six-day held at the Vélodrome d’Hiver on 7 November 1958 before it was demolished). Hemingway wrote in The Dangerous Summer that, “Bullfighting is worthless without rivalry. But with two great bullfighters it becomes a deadly rivalry. Because when one does something, and can do it regularly, that no one else can do and it is not trick but a deadly dangerous performance only made possible by nerves, judgement, courage and art and this one increases its deadliness steadily, then the other, if he has any temporary failure of nerves or of judgement, will be gravely wounded or killed if he tries to surpass it.” Anquetil and Rivière neutralized each other in the 1959 Tour. Anquetil stayed home in 1960 having just won the Giro (the first Frenchman to do so). It was Rivière’s chance for victory, but the Italian rider Gastone Nencini had learned to descend like no one else could do. Trying to follow him, and boosted by the painkiller Palfium, Rivière had such a failure of nerves or judgement and crashed into a ravine and broke his back. His Tour and career were over.

The Tours of 1959 and 1960 would have been perfect for Hemingway’s themes of rivalry and tragedy. The former even had a Spanish winner, Federico Bahamontes, about whom Pierry Chany in L’Equipe wrote: “On his good days he evokes the talented toreador. On his bad days a tramp crossing the bridge at Tage after a day’s labouring under the Castilian sun.” But despite his protestations in A Moveable Feast, Hemingway had long moved on from cycling. He could look back on the Paris years with nostalgia and his intentions in his 20s to write about the exotic new sports in his adopted locale, but he soon found other distractions that were to become his real passions: first bullfighting and then hunting and fishing. Cycling was long forgotten as youthful exuberance receded.

The Dangerous Summer contains some fine writing, but there was little life left in the subject matter and maybe Hemingway knew that as well. On the eve of the 1960s, who would want to read a tired account of a tired Old World ‘sport’ that was already looking increasingly contrived although enduringly gore-soaked. And we might have reason to believe that Hemingway was not as fond of road racing as he professed. In The Sun Always Rises, the road racers, all French and Belgian, are in San Sebastian for the Tour de Pays Basque. The main character, Jake Barnes, is skeptical of their motives: “They did not take the race seriously except among themselves. They had raced among themselves so often that it did not make much difference who won. Especially in a foreign country. The money could be arranged.” Was Hemingway derogatory towards the corruption or just pointing it out? Did he think that it was all just a fix? Nonetheless, whatever his true views, the rivalries and the tragedies and the “marvels” of road racing were not enough to tempt Hemingway to finish any of those stories.

The "smoky light" of the Vélodrome d'Hiver (Life magazine pic)

The future

One of the themes in Hemingway’s stories is that the hero (or anti-hero, the flawed version of the typical hero) is one individual caught up in events beyond his control; larger forces are at play, which limits what the hero can do. We might see an analogy to cycling. In Argyle Armada, author Mark Johnson explores some of the current issues that riders face in the sport. The main challenge is protecting and advancing their interests (including safety and financial security) against the established fiefdoms of the UCI and the ASO. In most cases, because they do not have a unified voice, they are easy to divide and rule by the powers-that-be. In particular, over the issue of race radios, the UCI was particularly heavy handed, blaming the riders for a legacy of doping – ignoring all other contributing factors – and even directly warning team sponsors over the commercial implications of a possible boycott of the Tour of Beijing.

While conditions have improved dramatically since the post-war Golden Age in the 1950s and 1960s (not so golden when you look back on it, though), the riders – who are the heroes of the sport – are still easily exploited by the sport’s governors. In many cases they only have their tenacity and courage to see them through. In the Vuelta in 2011, Johnson describes the horrific crash by Sep Vanmarcke that saw him end up 40 metres down the side of the road; it took him 10 minutes to crawl back up and get onto his bike to continue. “I had a lot of pain,” he tells Johnson, “and mentally I was totally broken.” He fights his way back to the stragglers in the peloton. “At this moment you just realize what you survived,” said the 23-year old. “I started crying for two hours. I couldn’t stop.” On stage 15, with the Angliru climb, Johan Vansummeren crashes into some road furniture. Covered in blood, ignoring pleas from the Vuelta doctor to get into an ambulance, and with an ice pack down his shorts to try to prevent further damage to his testicles, he continues and finishes the stage; stitches are later required to his elbow (the state of his testicles is not described). As Johnson writes, “he looked more like a soldier who stepped out of Spain’s horrifying Civil War than an elite athlete.” Hemingway would have surely approved of their courage and their predicament; tough men in a tough sport, always at the mercy of the greater powers that exploit their resolve for their own ends, but who stick with it for their own personal motives of glory and meaning.

But what does it all matter? As Dave Zabriskie is later quoted saying of the issues facing riders in cycling, “There are so many other big problems in the world that that’s a comical problem.” Those who are at the mercy of others in imbalanced power relationships continue on as best they can, finding opportunities to show their tenacity. The riders must take some solace that the fans are on their side, even if the fans have little opportunity to change the sport for the better.

This will be the final post on this blog for an undecided period of time. There will be a hiatus while your author devotes ‘blog time’ to other more pressing projects, which will hopefully include some more summer riding. There may be some infrequent updates to resolve some technical issues with the archives, and additional pages to highlight particular articles. The regular musings that you, dear reader, have faithfully supported, will not be forthcoming. May your summer of riding be free of danger. Remember, despite the entreaties of philosophers and marketers, cycling is not just about suffering and glory. It is also about passion, which is why we all do what we do. It’s why we ride.

Glory after suffering for Sep Vanmarcke (OPQS pic)

Any local riders based in or around New Westminster should feel free to check out the FR Fuggitivi page if you are interested in Sunday morning rides throughout the summer.

Fittingly, then, it was a legend of cycling that christened the later-to-be legendary climb with its first victor: Fausto Coppi. The climb came at the end of stage 10, 266 kilometres (kms) from Lausanne in Switzerland and with no other major climbs along the way. French rider Jean Robic took off at the base of the Alpe, at Bourg d’Oisans, but Coppi was soon on his wheel. The Italian quickly took over the pace making, often in his big chainring (probably a 52). “Coppi didn’t seem to exert any extra effort at all,” according to Miroir-Sprint. With 6 kms to go, Coppi was gone. Robic would finish the stage 1’20″ down.

Official timing of the climb started in 1990. Since then, the actual distances used to compare the fastest times have become shorter, making comparisons difficult. This blog has already spent a substantial amount of space looking at the evolution of the times for the climb. There has been some comparative timing of the 13.8-km section and the 14.5-km distance. In 1995, it was Marco Pantani’s 36’50″ for the 13.8 kms that is generally considered the fastest (he was 38’04″ for 14.5 kms); in 1997 he was faster overall with 37’35″ over the longer distance, which is often compared to Lance Armstrong’s time in 2004 of 37’36″ for the same distance.

According to Jean-Paul Vespini, Tour director Jacques Goddet timed Coppi up the climb (assumed to be the 13.8-km stretch) with a time of 45’22″. Riders in the late 1970s (the Tour did not return to the Alpe until 1976, somewhat inexplicably) and the 1980s chipped away at this time and pulled it down into the low 40 minute range. Lucho Herrera probably did sub-41′ in 1987. It was not until the 1990s that times went below 40′ and not just by Pantani. Not coincidentally, this was the great era of EPO. Times above 39’30″ (Carlos Sastre in 2008), like Sammy Sanchez’s 42’21″ as the fastest ascent in 2011, which are now the norm, are cited as evidence of cleaner cycling without blood doping.

Whatever the specific times in minutes and seconds (and the question marks over who doped with what and when), let us take a broad brush to the issue at hand. The difference between 45′ and 40′ – Coppi to today – represents an 11% time improvement. That’s quite substantial. Or, to put it another way, around 21 seconds per kilometre of the climb, or (roughly) 19 kph versus 21 kph. As an Italian journalist once said: Coppi was the greatest; Merckx was the best. So, something changed between 1952 and today – other than doping – and it is difficult not to conclude that a substantially significant factor was weight.

Weight and climbing

Gravity is a constant force, no matter how fast you go up a climb (unlike air resistance, which increases); it changes only with the gradient. The most significant improvement that you can make for climbing faster is to reduce the weight that you have to carry up the climb – the weight that gravity will be acting upon. (And the best thing is that you don’t have to practice an aero tuck and hold it – although reducing your frontal area can have benefits on climbs, too – you always get the benefit of weighing less.) Let’s crunch some numbers. Your author’s index climb is Mount Seymour, which is somewhere around 12.5 kms (distances seem to vary but we’re not going to be too specific here), with 900 metres of gain at 7% average with the steepest section at 16%. Using some calculations thanks to Analytic Cycling, a 1 lb weight reduction will save around 15 seconds in time over the course of the climb.

So let’s make that a rule of thumb for this discussion: 1 lb = 15 seconds. This is very helpful for considering where weight savings are best made. Take for example the 1,550 gram wheelset mentioned in a previous post as being reviewed in Peloton magazine as not a “dedicated climbing wheel”. What might we use instead? Campagnolo’s Hyperon Ultra tubular comes in at 1,231 grams per pair (wow!), a saving of 319 grams. On Mount Seymour, that would get you nearly 10 seconds off a time of <45 minutes (o.4% faster). If you are interested in saving seconds, you might agree with the magazine reviewer. Or you might note that 319 grams is equivalent to a Tacx pro team water bottle half full (around 300 mls or 10 oz). So, you could have a set of dedicated climbing wheels, or you could save the same amount of weight by ditching a half-full water bottle and achieve the same effect.

Your author is not against lighter equipment. But there is no such thing as a ‘climbing wheel’; there are just wheelsets and weights. The weight of a wheelset needs to be seen in the overall context of total bike and rider weight. It is all just subjective opinion as to what constitutes a climbing wheel. Given that total bike and rider weight will in most cases for amateur riders be north of 160 lbs, the difference in wheel weights is a tiny percentage.

The broader point is this. The biggest time gains are to be made from making the biggest reductions – and those are going to come from the rider. Right now, you, dear reader, are at least 5 lbs over weight. You may think you’re in pretty good shape but there is plenty to trim. And that 5 lbs might even be more than the difference between Andy Schleck’s bike and the bikes that most of us are riding. Yes, you can take over a minute off your favourite long climb simply by dropping the pounds – and you can do it for way less money than trying to gram shave you bike. Even dropping just one pound is the difference between a high-end set of wheels and an average pair.

What is your ideal weight? According to Joe Friel (in Bicycling magazine, May 2012), top male riders are 2.1-2.4 lbs per inch of height. Yup, crunch those numbers and you may get a surprise; if you’re going to be a dedicated grimpeur you will want to be at 2.1 or under. As Bicycling notes, “For many cyclists, these numbers may be aggressively low… not be realistic… or even healthy to maintain long-term.” Yikes! Published numbers suggest that Cadel Evans is at 2.2, along with Pierre Rolland (who is taller and heavier), with Sammy Sanchez at 2.1 (a little taller than Evans and the same weight); at the extreme, John Gadret posts 1.9 – five feet seven tall and just 130 lbs.

Rolland versus Evans, 2011 Tour (Getty pic)

Training (and talent)

Fausto Coppi may have been hauling what in today’s terms was a lead sled up Alpe d’Huez in 1952, but he still did it faster than any of us could ever hope for. This was possible because of his training and – let’s be honest – his enormous talent (and possibly a few tablets, but let us not dwell on that). The whole point of this discussion is that the rider matters. The rider matters a lot. Equipment and wheels and gram shaving matters, too, but just not as much (someone with more access to the numbers should do an analysis of Coppi’s climb and the benefit he would have had from a lighter bike; his bike was probably at least 7-8 lbs heavier than today). The biggest gains you will get in climbing will come from trimming down (as noted above) and training smarter.

According to Joe Friel, the minimum amount of training for a cat.4 or masters racer annually is 7 hours per week or 364 hours per year. Even if you average just 25 kph, that is 8,750 kms. If you want to be competitive at cat.3, you had better put in at least 500 hours or somewhere north of 12,500 kms. If, like your author, 6,000 kms annually is a good year for riding, then you might be wondering just how you can be competitive.

Chris Carmichael has a training book for the ‘time-crunched’ cyclist, based on a minimum of six hours per week. That number should probably be regarded as the absolute minimum for any training plan. Less than six hours and you are not training, you are just riding. But this is no bad thing. As numerous coaches have pointed out, you need only make your ‘training’ rides as long as your longest event. If your biggest goal for the year is a <45 minute maximum hill climb or crit race, you only need rides of that duration as preparation.

What is important, though, is intensity. As Chris Carmichael noted in a recent column, the problem with the traditional ‘base building’ approach of long, slow rides is that for amateurs with not enough time to dedicate to a proper base (15 hours per week), the body soon adapts to the infrequent schedule and gains are limited. But a big base is not needed for shorter events. What is needed is intensity. If you want to be able to ride hard, you need to practice riding hard. On a limited training schedule, recovery is not usually a problem, so you can afford to push things a little more. Want to be able to stand up and attack on the hills? Practice doing just that.

If you want to get really serious, you will probably need a training plan of some sort. But if you are just ‘riding’, there are gains to be made just from variation – throw in some hills, a few sprints against your riding buddies, some long periods in the drops in the big ring (also good for developing a more aerodynamic position). In addition, if you are a masters rider, Friel recommends strength training as well to offset the effects of the aging process. Finally, if you are serious about dropping the weight, a diet is like training while not training and you still get the benefits on the bike. Overall, even with a limited riding schedule you can still make performance gains – and race competitively in shorter events if that is one of your goals. If climbing faster is part of that, remember: lower weight + intensity = climbing faster.

Final thoughts

As has been stressed throughout this series, equipment matters. Aerodynamics and lighter weights all make a difference in certain contexts. What matters more, though, is the rider. We all know this to be true. There is no reason not to invest in better equipment if you are serious about racing or personal performance goals. At some point, though, we all start to think, “If only I had X, I would be going faster.” It is probably true, you would. But there is so much untapped personal potential that us amateurs have, that we must not forget that the biggest gains will come from our own self improvement. That is the great thing about cycling, it is the great leveler. Despite our bike weight, we will never be faster than Coppi up Alpe d’Huez. Training – and ultimately talent (and there is nothing that can be done to improve that) – is the primary determinant of performance.

Ultimately, though, what is riding all about? This three-part series has looked at the tools for climbing faster. But to what end? It is all too easy to become enslaved by a training regime whose purpose over time becomes nebulous. It can become like a strait jacket, particularly if time is short. There are many other rewards from riding than the relentless pursuit of personal bests. Sometimes the simple pleasure of simply riding should be enough.

Wait - isn't this supposed to be fun? (Glotman Simpson pic)

Crisis may be too strong of a word to use in respect to the finances of pro cycling at present, and it is difficult – if not impossible – to comment with great accuracy on the situation as an outsider. But teams are struggling to find sponsors, many minor races are struggling for financing, and – despite solid fan support – securing the sport’s financial future appears perilous. The UCI seems convinced that once the doping problem is solved, the money will come back. It also thinks that expanding to the New World is key and, in the lingo of modern finance, has tipped its hat to the BRIC countries (Brazil, Russia, India and China) and wants races in all four. China is already in the bag with Russia shortly to follow. Critics of this approach argue that cycling in these countries has no heritage and that the UCI should focus on the heartland of cycling – Europe – and get the local races in order before trying to expand.

As well, team managers are trying to find ways of putting their teams on more secure footings, such as the idea of franchises where the team can have more of a fixed identity and access to other revenue sources such as television rights. The system of UCI points that ‘values’ riders does not help the teams, particularly for World Tour rankings. The big money that some teams are able to bring into play, whether from wealthy individuals (BMC) to Russian oligarchs (Katusha) to state funding (Astana), his led to distortions. Yet cycling has always attracted a particular type of sponsor, like Bernard Tapie, often with out-size personalities and extra-deep pockets that bankroll the stars for a few years before moving on. The longer stayers, like Quick Step or Francaise des Jeux for example, tend to be more modest contributors. The original pro teams in cycling were sponsored by bicycle manufacturers, so teams have always been subordinate to those that held the purse strings.

It is difficult to speculate what the future may hold. Pro cycling may find itself, as it often has, struggling for sponsors and will remain a second-rate sport that simply cannot turn its popularity into solid financial returns. Fans don’t want to pay to watch races (cycling remains a sport of the people for the people). The entrenched powers-that-be don’t seem to want to change the current balance of power, which is in their favour; the largest players, the ASO and the UCI, seem content with the status quo – although the ASO holds most of the good cards and the UCI must be fearful that it will be lured away to a new professional league.

Identity

But, despite its precarious existence, and decades of doping disasters that have constantly threatened to implode the sport entirely, pro cycling remains totally captivating; the legions of fans that turn out to the races, and the passion they show, is testament to the powerful pull that it has. The latest book from VeloPress, Argyle Armada: Behind the Scenes of the Pro Cycling Life by Mark Johnson, is a reminder of how sublime cycling can be. The author (a PhD in English literature no less as well as a Cat 2 racer) followed the (then) Garmin-Cervélo team for its entire 2011 season, delivering “an unprecedented look at America’s most celebrated cycling team”.

But of course there’s plenty of suffering behind the scenes. For manager Jonathan Vaughters, part of the suffering is budgetary. The team has a budget of around 30% of some of the better financed pro teams, according to the book. Salaries take up 74 per cent of the budget. Vaughters needs results that will keep the sponsors interested, but can’t afford the big names that require the biggest money. He has to get maximum ‘bang for his buck’ with solid performances across the season that get World Tour points (to guarantee the team’s World Tour status); the team is built around a number of riders who can produce these performances, rather than one star who will guarantee the team’s position (the sort of scenario that backfired for Bjarne Riis when he hired Alberto Contador).

One of the money raising methods used by the team (and now adopted by most others) is relentless merchandising. This is apparently now worth around $1.5 million annually. A glance at the team shop shows the array of goods on offer, and even team bikes are put on sale at the end of the season. It raises, though, an interesting question for us amateurs riders who are supportive fans: is is cool to wear a pro team jersey?

According to the biologist E.O. Wilson, “everyone, no exception, must have a tribe”. Tribes give us identity and “social meaning in a chaotic world”. We are social creatures and like to be surrounded by others of a like mind. For many of us, cycling is one of our ‘tribes’. Belonging to the tribe has certain requirements and we like to fit in; we like to associate ourselves with one of the sub-tribes in cycling and our appearance is part of this process. This sense of belonging, or buying in, is a powerful branding tool used by the makers of cycling gear – we can by into a ready-made identity that has been carefully prepared for us (how else to explain Rapha?). Indeed, this kind of cultural vacuity has been criticized (stand up Mr. Matt Rendell), particularly as us Anglophones try to buy our way into a European, or other, cycling culture that is not our own.

Such criticism can be valid but also misplaced. Here in Vancouver, for example, there is a long history of road racing and many well-established clubs. It might be inspired by outside influences but is a work in progress in developing its own cycling culture (which makes, for example, the Rapha Continental tagline for North America of “rediscovering the lost spirit of cycling” – it used to be something about the ‘lost art’ – somewhat galling; what do they think was happening before they came along?). As such, local team jerseys are numerous on the local scene, whether from local race clubs or the increasing popularity of Gran Fondo or more social teams (often built around charity endeavours). Pro team kit can be scarce.

It used to be the case that wearing pro team kit was déclassé in most cases. Current kit was definitely out, unless you were an actual team member (with a number of pro riders from the Vancouver area, that would not be an impossibility). An obscure European team might be okay, providing that you had some connection to the team, as might retro kit from years (preferably decades) past, but the line was fuzzy. Plus, pro team kit was a risk if the team was hit by a doping scandal (think of all the Phonak jerseys that disappeared after Floyd Landis was busted), which has not left many teams unscathed in recent years. Finally, given the liberal use of sponsor logos in branding a team, wearing a jersey is essentially giving free advertising to companies that have given the wearer nothing in return (making them pay for the privilege, no less), other than the sense of being part of the team effort and supporting them financially.

An interesting dilemma. In the future, teams are going to be asking fans to put their hands in their wallets more and more. Perhaps GreenEDGE, lacking a title sponsor and mainly funded by Australian businessman Gerry Ryan, is the model with its various membership packages for fans. At the high end, $990 will get you the team kit, supporter pack, and a day spent with the team including breakfast, training ride and team dinner. Euskatel-Euskadi is also perhaps another model, with the team jointly funded by the local Basque supporters (it’s difficult to know what membership gets you, but the chance to wear an orange shirt and a beret as well as imbibe copious amounts of beer and dubious sausages atop a picturesque mountain watching Le Tour should not be underrated). At races, it seems like VIP access will become more prevalent and access will have its privileges.

The sport needs a better structure to manage the money it has already for the benefit of the riders, and it probably needs more funds overall to make improvements. How we as fans contribute is a difficult situation. Socks, caps and gloves for sure, but somehow pulling on the full team kit is, for many old traditionalists, uncomfortably close to being part of one of the misguided fan sects or anorak wearing brigades. That said, having one of the original Slipstream jerseys, resplendent in its argyle, would probably be okay and be past the statute of limitations.

“Nature has placed mankind under the governance of two sovereign masters, pain and pleasure,” said philosopher Jeremy Bentham in his Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation. This blog has already discussed suffering and glory, but what of passion? David Hume said that reason was the slave of the passions, which – along with tribalism – goes a long way to explaining why we follow sport so ardently. Passion will keep the fans on the roadside in the pouring rain, or hunched over their computers watching a grainy Flemish internet feed; passion will keep the racers churning out the miles, day after day, for their sport; passion will keep the money flowing in some form or another from the business community. But when passions are directed elsewhere, or become less ardent with time, what will be left? In Argyle Armada, which is a beautiful book well worth owning, Vaughters laments that European cycling is still driven by personalities; he contrasts the situation to American sport, which has regressed to the mean of simply making money. A mercenary observation, perhaps. But on balance, the model to date of pro cycling has not served the majority of riders particularly well. Perhaps a new model, the result of the current evolution or perhaps an actual revolution, will do better.

BC's own Ryder Hesjedal at the 2008 Giro in the original argyle kit (Slipstream pic)

Talking of books, VeloPress is publishing in North America the fantastic Slaying the Badger by Richard Moore, who argues, eloquently if not entirely convincingly, that 1986 was the “greatest Tour de France”. The obvious rival Tour to this claim is 1989. As we know, Greg LeMond beat Laurent Fignon at this edition because of aerodynamics. In an article in issue 10 of Peloton magazine, John Wilcockson goes into this in some detail. Interestingly, wind tunnel tests after LeMond’s win revealed that his aero bars were only worth an 8 second gain as LeMond’s position on the bike (which he had spent much time perfecting) was already highly aerodynamic. But the bars were not the reason for his narrow win, as his helmet was actually acting like a “sort of parachute” and cost him 12 seconds. Therefore, it was more LeMond himself, not his bike and gear, who beat the ailing Fignon. This is worth keeping in mind as this discussion progresses.

Retarding forces

Going faster on a bicycle involves overcoming resistance: wind resistance, rolling resistance from the tyres, bearing friction, and gravity. At speeds below 13 kph, the dominant forces are rolling resistance and bearing friction. But once these are overcome, they increase only slightly with speed – once you’ve gotten rolling there’s not much to hold you back. Gravity is a constant and only changes depending on the gradient of the climb; you can out sprint gravity. Wind resistance, however, increases as the square of speed over 13 kph – it gets harder to go faster (refer to Ed Burke, High-Tech Cycling, for much of the technical information here). The higher your speed, therefore, the greater importance of increasing aerodynamics but the less absolute benefit you will gain.

Weight, so important in climbing, is much less of a factor on flat roads (although it does have some role in acceleration). For example, reducing the drag of a bike by having its cables inside the handlebars and frame (reducing drag by about 10 grams) is equivalent to dropping over 2 lbs in weight over a 40 km time trial, but even then it is only a handful of seconds. For climbing, the key point is that aerodynamics can play a role, but it is going to be a minor one because of the relatively low speeds. On a 10 km climb, the best you might hope for is around 1 minute in time gain in theory: if you can reach speeds of 20-24 kph in some sections and you can maintain an aero position (and still get the same power output) for the duration. Aero equipment, such as wheels, will give you a time advantage somewhere south of this figure. If these are not the conditions then the gains from aerodynamics are going to be much less. But still, because air resistance is lower at lower speeds, there are decent absolute gains to be made relative to your speed. Any time a long climb levels off a little for a decent distance and you can kick it over 20 kph, ‘getting aero’ will be a handful of seconds of advantage (for more on this, see part 3 – coming soon).

Pantani getting aero in the drops while climbing.

One example of the important of aerodynamics in cycling in general is the hour record. In one study, the researchers charted the power outputs of the hour record holders, based in some cases on power meter readings where available but on calculation in others. They were equalized for comparison, which was a difficult process given the difficulty in calculating wind resistance for different shaped riders (the outsize Miguel Indurain, for example, was a problem). When Eddy Merckx posted 49.431 kms, his corrected power was 429 watts on average for the duration. Moser, Obree and Boardman all bested this record but they did so by producing less power – aerodynamics was their advantage. It was not until Indurain that power levels were higher than Merckx; Indurain recorded 436 watts in 1994. Tony Rominger (infamously coached by Michel Ferrari, whatever that might mean) produced 460 watts when he pushed the record over 55 kms, with a standard bike but aero wheels and an aero bar. Chris Boardman’s record of 56.375 km was achieved with less watts than Rominger (but more than Merckx) using an aero bike and the ‘superman’ position.

When Boardman beat Merckx’s traditional record (and only just: 49.441 km) in 2000, on a standard track bike following the UCI regulation change, he produced less power so must have had a slightly better position (not that it was easy – he couldn’t walk for four days afterwards). Overall, since the 1960s, the study estimated that the gains in the record were 40% attributable to riders producing more power and 60% due to aerodynamics. The takeaway message is that aerodynamics matters quite a bit, at least in the rarefied world of adding just a few more metres to the hour record, but so does wattage – and the latter is up to the rider to produce.

Position versus equipment

The drag of your bike is around 25-35% of the total. In other words, you the rider are 65-75% of the drag (some studies suggest that it might be slightly higher). The rider’s position on the bike is the key factor in reducing drag, and studies have concluded that gains can be up to 5-6 minutes over a 40 km flat course. The difference made by aero wheels, in contrast, is only around 1.5 minutes, according to one study; this is with all other factors being equal – if you cannot hold an aero position, for example, you might offset any benefit from the wheels. As well, because your body makes up the majority of the drag, even wearing a skinsuit and riding standard wheels can be as much of an advantage as regular kit and aero wheels.

So, the first step to reducing your drag and overcoming wind resistance is going immediately to your LBS and getting them to set you up correctly on your bike so you can get your back as flat as possible on the hoods and comfortably reach the drops to get even more streamlined. You should then watch Fabio Cancellara and spend time working on it until you can mimic his position on the hoods (refer to 2012′s Milano-Sanremo, for example). You may also wish to include his simulated aero bar position where he rests his forearms on the flat of the bar and emulates an aero bar position (it’s harder to do than it looks, while not weaving from side-to-side and thus negating the drag reducing effect; Cancellara is of course not the only pro to use this position – Tom Boonen did pretty well at Paris-Roubaix this year using it). It all stems from Roger de Vlaeminck, the king of the ‘on the hoods’ aero position. Let the following picture be your guide.

The current focus on aerodynamics means that there are lots of misconceptions about the scope of the gains to be made. For example, in the same issue of Peloton magazine, in a review of the $2,700 Bontrager Aeolus 5 D3 wheels, reviewer Ben Edwards writes: “It’s speed you will feel palpably, on your first ride.” (In the same review, Edwards notes that the 1,550 grams weight of the wheels excludes them from being “a dedicated climbing wheel”, another sort of myth that the next part of this ultimate climbing guide will address.) There are figures of 10 grams of reduced drag over other aero wheels used in the article, which, as Edwards notes, equates to less than 1 watt of energy at 40 kph (or, as is noted in High-Tech Cycling, the drag produced by holding a pencil up in a 30 mile-per-hour wind). Yet Edwards is apparently able to notice this difference, in particular whilst coming out of corners on a fast ride as “they corner as if on proverbial rails… and you will be rewarded with a gap… you will go farther, faster with less energy.” To be able to notice such a performance difference, just 1 watt, is indeed very impressive. But it is entirely fanciful. The limit of aerodynamic gain in a cornering situation, according to a rough calculation at Analytic Cycling, is at most half a wheel length or about 0.02 seconds. Are we really to believe that someone can discern this difference whilst on their bike and attribute it solely to the wheels?

Perception v reality

Let us then see where Kahneman fits into all of this. Our System One way of thinking is basically our instincts. This system, which is active all the time, is constantly making assessments and judgements about all manner of things in our environment. It is very good at its job, but it is also easily distracted. It is particularly bad at complex problems involving numbers, statistics and probabilities. It is also easily fooled by optical illusions (the famous ‘which line is longer’ test) and prone to biases, particularly when there is ‘anchoring’ or ‘framing’ involved. The vulnerabilities of System One is why we have System Two, our considered mode of analytic thinking where we carefully consider a problem before reaching a conclusion, to balance the impulsiveness of System One. This is why Kahneman’s book references fast and slowing thinking – System One and System Two, respectively.

The main conclusion we should be aware of is that our instincts, perceptions and snap judgements can be wrong. They are highly subjective and easily influenced by other factors. It would be very difficult, in an objective sense, to measure the speed difference between two wheel sets on the open road. In a cornering situation, for example, you as the test rider would have to mimic the exact wattage, riding position, and line through the corner on each set of wheels to control the major variables. Given that riding position is the most important aerodynamic factor, it would be nearly impossible to keep it uniform in a meaningful way. But this apparently does not stop reviewers’ instincts from taking over and proclaiming that one set of wheels is noticeably faster than another.

One of the particular biases that influences System One is the so-called anchoring effect, where we place an over reliance on a particular piece of information in making our judgement. In this context, if we are told that a very expensive wheelset is more aerodynamic than another, and that this has been proved by wind tunnel testing, we are – one would argue – more likely to conclude by riding said wheelset that it is faster than a more modest set of wheels. In fact, we might conclude that it is even faster than the tests showed and say that it is worth a bike length in a sprint when the actual objective laws of physics will show that this is not possible (all other factors being equal). This would be a good case of System One (our instincts) versus System Two (the objective application of the laws of nature). The anchoring effect will be stronger if the information comes from an authority source (like a respected bike magazine, for example) or if it confirms strongly-held beliefs or conventional wisdom (aerodynamic wheels make bikes go lots faster, for example).

In all manner of situations, people will often say, “Yes, but what about in the real world” as if there are different rules for how things work in different environments. In the real world, people often pride themselves on their instincts and how good they are at making snap judgements. This is particularly the case if those judgements confirm strongly-held beliefs. In many cases, psychologists in experiments have found that subjects will cling to their beliefs with even more tenacity when they are exposed to contrary evidence. They simply refuse to believe that their judgements are wrong.  Our System Two mode of thinking is a powerful analytical tool, but we are prone to ignoring it, under-utilizing it, or refusing to believe its conclusions.

It is extremely improbable, if not impossible, for anyone to be able to perceive the drag difference between different wheelsets coming out of a single corner. Sure, they may feel different or even faster, but that does not mean they are noticeably faster in an objective sense at a specific point in time. The speed gains will be cumulative over time, but not immediately discernible. But how do you refute someone who claims that they “feel palpably” faster or that they got a gap riding the wheels? (Although you could say, “Wow, you can feel the <0.02 seconds in time difference coming out of the corner – that’s incredible!”) Paying $2,700 is a lot of money to “feel palpably” faster. One could almost guarantee that buying a pair of handmade Rapha shoes and drinking two negronis would make you feel faster, too; still a bit pricey, but you’d have change left over.

What it means

Aerodynamics matters. Reducing the drag of the rider matters a lot more than reducing the drag caused by wheels. At least Bicycling magazine, in a test of aero wheels that included the Aeolus 5, says that “measurable differences are pretty small” and includes a quote from Steve Hed: “Early on, our comparison was to a box-section Mavic rim; we’re not saving anyone a minute over 40 km anymore. Now it’s more like seconds.”

So, according to Hed, the drag gain was 60 seconds over 40 km, or 1.5 seconds per kilometre (0r 0.0015 seconds per metre). That is pretty consistent with the figure cited in the study noted above. They are little gains that add up the longer you ride. If you are a pro cyclist, seconds matter. Just one second might be the difference between first and second in a long race, or small aerodynamic gains add up over time – like on Boonen’s Paris-Roubaix breakaway (although how much was down to aerodynamics, particularly as he is a big rider, and how much was his incredible form is a big question). When it is your livelihood, it matters; you will do anything to get a possible advantage. For amateurs, though, should we be obsessing as much over a handful of seconds? Furthermore, as has been argued previously on this blog, controlling all the variables so that a tiny reduction in wheel drag that is measured under controlled conditions does make a quantifiable difference on the open road is very difficult, if not impossible. Does that make $2,700 for a set of wheels worthwhile?

When reading bike and component reviews, we usually have our System Two modes of thinking in full function. We understand that reviewers have to write something about their riding experience and that a simple account of facts and figures would be extremely boring. We ignore highly subjective performance claims and we know that if Freddy Maertens circa 1976 on his bike of that day was transported forward in time to our local crit, he would easily out ride each and every other competitor on their 13.6-pound bikes with aero wheels. We know that it is the rider that matters most. We know that phrases like “cornering on rails” have no objective meaning because there is nothing that can be quantified and compared. We also know from our own experience that cornering has more to do with a rider’s line and ability than equipment – although upgrades can give us more confidence in our our abilities.

So why does it matter what gets written? Because our System Two is lazy, we might fall into the thrall of System One thinking and trust our instincts, particularly if it confirms our biases, especially if that bias is a mantra in the bike industry: that spending a lot more money will make you go a lot faster. We might start thinking that the gains from equipment are more than they actually are. And this is a sloppy way to approach a sport and a pastime. An alternative review, therefore, could read like this:

In controlled conditions these wheels will save you 1 minute in a 40 km time trial over a standard set of wheels. In most cases on the road, you would only save this amount of time if you kept all other drag factors constant, something that is difficult but not impossible to achieve. These wheels may not feel immediately faster when you ride them as their initial speed advantage is small and only accumulates over time. You might find they give you, all other factors being equal, a bike length or so of advantage at your mid-week crit, but the young gun on a borrowed cross bike will still beat you to the line. Conversely, however, you may feel quite a bit faster on these wheels – even if the speed difference is tiny – simply because they are superbly made and presented and appear to be really fast. The thrill of new wheels may prompt you to push yourself a bit harder. If a potential gain of 1 minute over 40 km is important enough to you to spend $2,700 (if you are not a pro rider already, in which case your sponsor has given you these wheels) and replace the $500 wheels you already have, then go for it. However, you may wish to first attend to a number of other factors – such as your ability to ride in the drops or an even more aerodynamic position for long periods of time. In fact, you should do this right now – and throw in some intervals – instead of reading this review and obsessing over carbon wheels. Your abilities as a rider will have more of an impact than your equipment.

The review in Peloton magazine, an otherwise fine and excellent publication well worth reading, has been singled out in this blog post but it is not the exception in the supposedly objective product reviews that we get in bicycling publications. We should be mindful as to how biases influence subjective judgements. We should understand that objective comparisons are not possible outside of controlled situations. And it matters because the cost of bicycles and components are – at the top end – skyrocketing, even while we enjoy the great benefits of trickle-down to the lower end. It matters because at some point we might start believing that $2,700 aero wheels are essential for going faster. And to go faster is what everyone wants, right?

There are a number of good reasons to buy high-end bikes and components. Performance is one of them, and the potential benefits are (mostly) very real. But they are not as much as you will be led to believe by reading magazine reviews.* It is not honesty that is needed but rigour (or rigor, for US readers) in review writing. The facts and figures are all there for anyone to access, and a little System Two thinking will go a long way to confirming or disproving what our System One instincts might be telling us. So, get into your drops more, or do some intervals, or buy a cross bike from your LBS for extra training and give the change to support junior cycling or donate a kids bike to a worthy cause. Do all these things. Think more. Think harder. Ride more. Ride harder.

Freddy Maertens won 13 stages at the Vuelta a Espana in 1977 (AFP photo).

* Rouleur is a very expensive magazine, relative to its competitors, but the interesting editorial choice is that don’t do reviews. The focus is mostly on rides and riders. Whatever you might think of Rouleur’s generally breathless and hagiographic approach, they should be given some credit for their stance on equipment. It’s refreshing.

All pro races contain suffering, much more than us mere mortals can appreciate or experience. But some are tougher than others, and we are entering the spring classics season in Belgium (and nearby) where the races involve a particular type of suffering. This is the realm of the hard men, the toughest of the tough who succeed against the odds, and the wind and the rain and the pain-soaked cobbles, all the while being tormented by rabid fans in heightened states of hysteria and frenzy (likely augmented by strong beer and calorifically-frightening local delicacies).

As fans, we appreciate and respect hardness. We want to see suffering and to see it overcome. Suffering and glory. But suffering is a dead end street. There is an end point to suffering, after which it simply becomes masochistic. Beyond this point, we as fans become party to – dare it be said- simple exploitation for our own amusement and edification.

At the Tour de France in 2011, we were witness to a particularly cruel incident of suffering – the crash by Johnny Hoogerland where he was knocked off his bike by a French TV car and catapulted into a barbed wire fence. His injuries were horrific, but Hoogerland got back on his bike and struggled through to the finish, a genuine hard man and a hero. But what does it say about cycling that this incident did not result in immediate medical attention for Hoogerland and special dispensation so that he did not need to finish the stage and could be allowed to start again the next day? These are the same rules that dictate that if riders do crash, if they cannot continue then the race proceeds without them. If they can make the finish, somehow, in pain and agony, then they can start again the next day in a stage race. As well, the riding conditions faced by the pro riders have in many cases been well over the border of responsibility as race organizers have pressed on despite the weather. There have been many cases similar to Hoogerland’s in pro cycling’s history but they are typically celebrated as ‘epic’ rides.

Pro sports are struggling with how to deal with the suffering of their participants. American football is probably facing a crisis with the peak of legitimized violence that it has reached. Hockey is also having to deal with the immediate implications to players from concussions as well as the long-term results of such injuries, particularly from the – frankly bizarre – practice of fighting that has yet to be banned, despite the weight of the arguments against it.

Many sports are resistant to change because of long histories of the ‘rules of the game’ and the traditions involved. Such sports betray their working-class roots. In cycling, for example, before the 1970s it was a chance for the working class to escape the routine of manual labour; for many the rigours of a professional athlete were less than the conditions they might face on a farm or in a factory. But this is no longer the case with the rise of the middle class as well as the improvement of working conditions for the betterment of all. Exploitation of the working class, in the classical sense, has diminished significantly in recent decades, but exploitation in sport (despite many changes for the betterment of players, not least in the increase in remuneration) has not always kept pace.

In cycling, it is not immediately clear what changes should take place to put some sort of limit on suffering, although focusing on the conditions out on the road, whether due to weather or route choice, would be a good place to start (in the latest brouhaha over tabs on forks and saddle positions, the UCI, unfortunately, seems more interested in its stated goal of “the preservation of the culture and image of the bicycle.”). But the broader point of this post is to suggest that there should be an end point that prompts changes to be made. ‘HTFU’ and other such slogans are all well and good for bragging (and blogging) about with your riding buddies, but we should recognize that there is a limit line – and that we may not be entirely aware when that limit line has been crossed. Other sports, like football and hockey, may indeed have crossed that line and are struggling to find their way back. If there are no limits, then we are guilty of not respecting the long-term well being of those athletes who provide our short-term gratification. We might think that being cyclists ourselves means that we are somehow tapping into a grand narrative of suffering and glory with our own meager efforts. We are not.

As we ponder the current state of cycling today, it is still worthwhile to look back at cases of epic suffering and the hard men who put themselves into the deepest and darkest of pain caves for our entertainment. One such hard man was the Italian racer Fiorenzo Magni and you can read all about his three consecutive victories at the Tour of Flanders by following this link to Pez.

If this post sounds a bit over-wrought, it is probably because its author is still disappointed to hear of Julian Dean crashing out of his entire season in extreme weather in Catalonia and perhaps having to end his career despite having just signed with GreenEdge (CN pic).

There have been numerous famous editions of the race. Perhaps the most well known from the history books is the 1946 edition, which came to symbolize not only Italy’s rebirth from war and fascism but also the founding of the Fausto Coppi myth. John Foot’s excellent book Pedalare! Pedalare!, a history of Italian cycling, covers much of the ground on Coppi already given extensive treatment by William Fotheringham in Fallen Angel. Foot is able to draw on a number of Italian sources, which add colour to his story.

For example, Coppi’s physical appearance was much remarked upon. Gino Bartali said that he looked like a ‘bald cat’. Others said he was like uno scorfano, the scorpionfish to which less comely people in Italy are apparently often compared to. “Off the bike, he seems a scorpionfish,” said one Italian cycling author. “On the bike, he is simply divine.”

In 1946, Coppi won Milano-Sanremo by 14 minutes, an impossible margin. He attacked early and rode most of the race alone. “We saw him go at Binasco,” Foot quotes one fellow rider as saying. “And then I next bumped into him at dinner.” You can read more about how Coppi did it on Pez Cycling News.

Peter Sagan has already practiced his victory salute (Liquigas-Cannondale pic)

The subject of gearing for climbing has already been recently discussed here. At the 1996 Tour de France, Fournel approached one of the racers to ascertain what gearing he was using for a particular mountains stage. One might keep the reply in mind when selecting one’s gears. “I just use race gearing. If the race is in a big gear, so am I. If it’s in a small one, I’m in one too. Ask the race what gear it’ll be in on the climbs, and I’ll be in it.” Quite.

You may have noticed, dear reader, the loss of the Gazzetta dello Sport pink hue to this blog [since restored...]. Your author’s endeavours to restore the functionality of the categories and tags remains fruitless. Perhaps all will be ‘fixed’ in due course, but this may prove not to be the case. Your patience is, as always, much appreciated.