Which Ages Faster

Life in the Bike Lane

Tom Frady

I used to believe my bike and I were aging together, like old riding buddies who talk about the same epic ride over and over and complain about the same aches. Lately, though, I’m not so sure. Some mornings it feels like we’re locked in a quiet competition: which of us is going to creak first?

My bike announces its complaints early and often, especially as it racks up the miles. A faint “click” from the chain.  A mystery sound you can’t quite locate. These are polite sounds, really—gentle taps on the shoulder. “Hey,” my bike seems to say, “something’s wearing out here.” Bikes are wonderfully honest that way. They don’t exaggerate. When something hurts, it’s because it’s actually broken or on its way  to broken.

(Am I anthropomorphizing my bike too often?)

My body, on the other hand, is a master of misdirection.

Take my knees. Please. Some days they feel fine—smooth as freshly greased bearings. Other days they sound like popcorn in a microwave. There is rarely any warning. No polite click. Just a sudden reminder halfway up Baxter Grade that cartilage, like a bike chain, does not last forever. Unlike my bike, my knees offer no easy fix. You can’t just replace them with a newer model and torque them to spec.  Well. I guess you can, but that’s a real commitment with a long recovery time.

When my bike ages, I take action. I clean it. I lubricate it. I replace worn parts (actually I pay someone to do it) with shiny new ones that promise another few thousand miles of trouble-free service. It is orderly. Cause and effect are clearly labeled. A new chain restores the quiet. Fresh brake pads bring back confidence.  Some repairs may be expensive, but at least they come with improved performance.

When my body ages, the repair manual is vague at best. Instructions usually involve words like “manage your pain,” “modify your rides,” and my least favorite, “accept that you’re getting older.” There are long explanations that end with “It is what it is”.

And yet, for all that, my body still has one clear advantage over my bike: it adapts.

A worn bottom bracket never decides to take it easier on the climbs. My knees do. My lungs do. My ego—eventually—does, too. Spin more. Grind less. I choose routes with fewer heroic ambitions and a longer donut stop. My bike doesn’t care where we go, as long as we go. (Once again, I am anthropomorphizing my bike.) My body is learning to negotiate.

There’s also a shared dignity in the aging process. Scuffed handle bar tape tells stories. So does the scar on my knee. A recalcitrant derailleur is no different than a stiff back—it doesn’t mean the ride is over, just that it starts slower and requires more attention. Both my bike and I now appreciate a good warm-up.

So which ages faster, my bike or my body? The answer changes depending on the week, the weather, and how recently I ignored a small noise in my bike or body that should not have been ignored. But here’s the truth I’ve come to trust: as long as one of us is still willing to move forward, the other usually follows.

And if someday my bike finally outlasts my body, I hope it remembers me kindly—as the guy who rode it a little past its prime, listened a little too late, and loved every mile anyway.

And if someday my body finally outlasts my bike, I hope I remember it fondly—as the bike ridden a little past its prime, listened to a little too late, and loved every mile anyway.