Bike Riding: Art or Science?

Life in the Bike Lane

Tom Frady

Every time I get on my bike, I wonder if what I’m doing is closer to science or closer to art.

Well, not EVERY time.  But often.  Sometimes.  Occasionally.  Maybe rarely.  Just for this column.

On the surface, it seems pretty straightforward—push one foot, then the other, and off you go. But once you’ve spent thousands of miles in the saddle, you realize cycling is a strange blend of formulas and feelings, physics and poetry—and a fair amount of sweating.

Let’s start with the science. When I’m climbing Baxter Grade (operative word: “Grade”) and scootching forward so the front wheel doesn’t lift, that’s not me being clever—that’s gravity reminding me who’s in charge. When I tuck in behind a stronger (if that’s possible) rider and feel the relief from being in the draft, that’s aerodynamics (though I like to think of it as cooperation). Even the act of balancing is my old body making ahobuncha calculations really fast.

I may not ride with a lab coat and glass beakers, but every ride is a scientific experiment. I try to find the magic gear that will make me look like I know what I’m doing.  I move my hands around the handlebars to keep the pressure off my shoulders. Sometimes I glance at the heart rate monitor—though honestly, it mostly exists to tell me I’m not 60 65 anymore.  I really don’t know what to do with information it gives me.

But then there’s the art. The best rides aren’t just about numbers; they are about flow. There’s magic in carving through a downhill curve, leaning just enough, letting the bike find its line. For those 20 seconds, I feel like a ballet dancer—albeit one wearing Lycra shorts instead of a tutu . . . usually.   Do ballet dancers wear helmets?

On group rides, the art shows up in the rhythm we create together. A smooth paceline, hand signals passed along like brush strokes, the quiet whirr of wheels on smooth pavement all moving in sync—it’s beautiful.  It all gets redone on the next ride.

And then there’s style. Some of my friends climb like they’re floating, all smooth and graceful. Me? I tend to look more like a guy moving a sofa up a flight of stairs—lots of straining and questionable technique. But that’s art too. Every cyclist paints the road in their own way: some with elegant brush strokes of finesse, others with big globs of stubbornness.

In the end, I don’t think you can separate the art from the science. Science keeps me upright, moving forward, breathing and pedaling. Art makes me want to get back on the bike tomorrow. Without science, I’d be on the pavement. Without art, I’d be bored.

So, when I ride, I like to think I’m part Enrico Fermi, part Rembrandt—though I’m probably more like Dr. Frankenstein putting disparate parts together to get something resembling a cyclist. Still, every mile, whether uphill, downhill, or just rolling easy with friends, feels like a little masterpiece in motion.