Feeling

I was reading a book about sailing the other night, and the writer was talking about how, over time, you develop an instinctive feel for how a boat handles. When you are at the wheel, you can sense the surge and pull of the current or the shifting wind through the wheel and your fingertips, and learn to make instinctive tiny adjustments to counter all the external forces acting on the boat.

The odd alchemy of frame, tyres, forks and brakes creates the feel of a bike, the way it will skip or slide on loose rocks, the solid surge of acceleration or the springy flex of steel when you stamp down on the pedals. But there’s also the intuitive feel for the bike you get when you’ve spent plenty of hours on it. The way you can tune into the texture and drag of the ground below your tyres, and the way you learn how to pick faster rolling lines. There’s a clenching in the pit of your stomach as you sense the suspension fork beginning to get out of its depth and you ease onto a better line just by thinking it. A singlespeed rider will know the spring of his steel frame as he thrutches his way up a steppy climb, and the rasp of a rear tyre on the very edge of traction as he finds the balance between leg wrenching force and finesse. All these calculations of balance, force, speed and momentum are done without thinking. A good rider has forged the links between nerves, muscle and brain with hours on the bike, until the neural pathways flow clear and fast, uninterrupted by thoughts of falling or failing.

For me though, some days I'm back to square one. I fight my way through a ride, the understanding gone, replaced by only awkwardness and embarrassment. Like last night, a wet night ride from Fox House, round Redmires, down Stanage Causeway, and finished off by diving over the handlebars on the Green Track below Burbage.

I guess that’s the difference between me and a good rider.