June 5, 2026
The feeling of having an edge
I went on a long ride. The first one in a long time.
I was excited about it the day before, and also a bit guilty about getting so much me time. Two canyons. Two and a half hours. My new bike is not light, nor is it made for this kind of stuff. It's a great bike, though. Great at nothing, but decent at everything. Getting to the backroads was a bit of a drag. Sunday morning traffic is odd: groceries, then church time. It gets packed from 9 to 10, and the roads empty from 10 to 11:30. The first 30 minutes were unpleasant. I regretted the idea a few times. The wind was in my face, traffic zipping by in long straight lines, saddle acclimation, guilt again...
The music went on as I entered the canyon. The orchard. Peacocks roaming around. Vines. A few roadies. Elevation and property values go up along the climb.
The random shuffle of my playlist decided to play Vivaldi's Winter from The Four Seasons. The violin brought me to tears on the saddle. A weird euphoria shook me for a few minutes. Like those outrageously epic car commercials, life felt bigger than itself. My trail bells went symphonic as I got off the saddle and through the gravel section. The bells consist of a few small green bells strung together with pipe-cleaner wire from my son's preschool crafts. They dangle from my fanny pack, handlebars, or bulge out of my pocket, attached to the rest of my improvised key holster.
I'm sweating profusely and thinking about all the dumb things rotting in my brain these days, notably: Australia, protein, being a shitty dad.
I stopped to take a glorious leak on the side of the road. My fanny pack squeezes my bladder. I can't believe they're so popular while being so uncomfortable, especially for cyclists. Maybe it's just me. It probably is. I should get some bike bags Then I instinctively felt some appreciation for the sun hoodie I was wearing under my helmet. Synthetic fabric is just fine. So light and drapey. I should get another one instead of letting multiple days of sweat cake into this one. I'm struck by how lost in self-centered, stuffy thoughts I've gotten. I was in cosmic-appreciation mode a few seconds ago.
The reason I'm on the climb today is new. After a few intense weeks at work, my wife offered me two hours of kid-free time on Sundays. I know that she knows that I don't know how to handle this opportunity. But we both know that, for me, experiencing it has some importance. Not merely as burnout management, but as a way to get back in touch with something inside. Nothing will come quickly or obviously, but that's okay. Theoretically.
That's what most parents have to do. We go on dates and learn to fall in love again. With yourself, your partner, your bike. At least that's the idea. Frankly, it's been weird. Everything feels foreign, precarious or worse: boring. I'm not sure I love cycling. When I do, I'm not sure why. I can sense how much I've changed, but at the same time I can't take enough of a step back to articulate it.
That brings me to Anne Lamott, whom I've been listening to a lot recently. I love her voice. She sounds like she's seen some shit. Her quirky endearing psychotic stories mixed with muscular strain feels like a good image for where I am in life right now. At least that's what I thought as I was eating my banana before heading down the canyon, thinking: I hate the downhill more than I hate the uphill.
I've scared myself on this segment many times on my fancy carbon road bike, which I now very rarely ride. So when I do, for the first five minutes I get the feeling of having an edge. It's so light and stiff. The climb is going to be easy. I'm going to love the downhill. Then I get on the climb and expectations reset. I freak out so badly on the downhill that I get forearm cramps.
It's been said that one of the major ways technology is doing serious damage to the general public is by giving the feeling of having an edge. Just as my carbon bike makes me feel like I have Grand Tour athlete legs, ChatGPT makes my mother-in-law believe she's a doctor and a financial advisor. Somehow writing makes me feel like I have some kind of edge too. Like I'm gaslighting my ego with words. My wife is a pro.
At the firmware level, my ego is my fancy carbon bike. That's why, after many weeks of agony, I bought this 40-pound fat bike. I want to override my stupid ego. Keep it on its toes. We initially wanted to get a two-seater or a used bike. Many heated conversations led me to reconsider the category altogether. Towing with a regular bike and allowing this new bike to be Papa's fun bike too seemed more convivial. I've heard a few discouraging stories about the long-term use of e-bikes. The big Class 3 bikes become unwieldy as the kids grow up. Maintenance is complicated. I stand behind the critics who say these throttle machines aren't really "bikes." However, my support is philosophical more than practical. I'd rather see Class 3 bike sales continue to rise rather than SUVs.
I used this story to convince myself that my new Jones SWB is a good investment, overbuilt as it is. It needs to be solid enough to tow the trailer and have the gears for the hills. Part of the decision was practical. Part of it wasn't. This is my dream bike. It’s a bit early for it. Brad laughed at me when I said it was my last bike. He knows. I know.
There's something about feeling the terrain, the weight, the limits, and the aesthetic of the thing itself. It's a statement, a preference for a certain kind of relationship.
The bike won't answer any questions. Neither will the writing. Good thing I'm not really looking for answers.