Why Cyclists Like to Suffer

Life in the Bike Lane

Tom Frady

I sometimes wonder what non-cyclists must think of us. (Not that I really care, but you do like me, don’t you?  Don’t you?)   We’re seen bent over our handlebars with contorted faces, sweat dripping, crawling up Baxter Grade or Ridge Road, roads better suited for goats than retirees on bicycles. We look miserable. And yet, at the after-hammerfest debriefing at the coffee shop, we all agree it was a great ride.  In fact, my experience has been the tougher the ride the higher the exaltations.

So, the obvious question: why do cyclists seem to like suffering?

Well, my seven loyal readers, we don’t. Nobody hops on the bike thinking, I sure hope my legs feel dead today and I push my Lipitor to the max.  But we do like what suffering gives us: the reward that waits on the other side.

Take climbing, (please).  For me, the hills never play fair. They seem to start steep, stay steep, and then, just when you think you’ve survived, get steeper. (I’m talkin’ to you, Mt. Vernon) Halfway up, I start having conversations with myself about walking the rest of the way or taking up Bocce Ball.  But I never do, no offense to Bocce Ballers.  Once, a woman walking her dog actually moved faster than I was pedaling. She gave me a friendly smile. I couldn’t tell if it was admiration or pity. But I kept going, and when I finally got to the top, wearing beads of sweat like jewelry, the view looked like the Alps—even though I was just at the “summit” of Big Ben. That sense of accomplishment only comes after you’ve been wrung through the wringer wrong.

Suffering also has a way of keeping us humble. A while back, I signed up for a 137-mile charity ride (Paso Robles to Monterey) and was nervous, partly because I would be riding alone.  “We’ll be taking it easy,” one of the organizers said, “You can ride with us”.

I should’ve known better.  They dropped me before we got out of the parking lot.  The funny thing is, I was the only one amongst them who finished.  But I was nearly dead. There’s something oddly compelling about testing your limits, even when you know the limits are going to win.  I still regard that day as my favorite ride ever.

And then there’s the camaraderie. Shared misery builds friendships faster than any tea social.  “This is fun!” a riding buddy will gasp. It isn’t, of course—but somehow, we both laugh and keep pedaling. Later, we’ll turn the story into legend: “Remember that hill? I thought I was going to die.” Pain fades, but the stories have a half-life longer than plutonium. (Just ask Mrs. Bike Lane.)

The joy of cycling doesn’t exist without the suffering. The view from the top is grander when your legs are on fire. The downhill is sweeter when you’ve clawed your way uphill.  The warm GatorAde is the elixir of the gods.  Without the suffering, the pleasure just wouldn’t register as much, albeit the downhill is seldom as good as the uphill was bad.

So, no my six loyal readers —we cyclists don’t exactly like suffering. We like the gravitas it gives us. We like the friendships forged in fire. We like the satisfaction of pushing past the point where we thought we’d quit. When the Bocce Baller (sorry) shakes their head and says, “You cyclists must be crazy,” we just smile. They’re not entirely wrong. But I’ll tell you this: if being crazy means pedaling through pain, laughing with friends, and ending up with a story worth retelling—then maybe a little suffering is exactly what makes cycling so great.