In many senses, bikefitting is a discipline of decreasing pain and increasing performance. These are noble goals, usually achievable in as few as two or three hours of effort. What an investment!
But pain, performance and suffering are all hairy topics, filled with nuance and emotion and expectation. To begin to define my understanding of each (this is not a complete list):
Pain in one sense is a signal.
Pain in another sense is information.
Pain can also be a repository or category for yet unfathomable experience.
Pain can be a result of excess attention to a sensation.
Performance is the degree of completion toward set aims or goals.
Performance can be a measurable variable of progress.
Performance can be an indicator of capacity.
Performance is dependent on conditions, both controllable and uncontrollable.
Suffering is the capacity to tolerate discomfort.
Suffering is the capability to filter pain signals into two categories: manageable or unmanageable.
Suffering can be a mental game.
Suffering can be willfully ignoring physical distress in both helpful and harmful ways.
For most of my life, I have been a person with physical hobbies, activities and pursuits based in recreation. I enjoy a challenge, I like finding my limits, I’ve learned to withstand well the humiliation of acquiring a new skill, but I’ve never particularly cared to set performance goals or tolerate much pain or suffering on the way to achieving them.
Last February, my friend Evan asked me a question that changed my orientation towards all of it. “Do you like suffering or do you like the people who like suffering?” My answer in that moment was obvious, of course I like the people who like suffering (or, I don’t like to suffer).
In the ensuing months, I found myself turning this question over and over in my head. Why don’t I like suffering? What is it I like so much about the people who like suffering? Why don’t I consider myself one, when plenty of people around me attribute that to me?
I spent months trying to puzzle it out the way I knew best - through books and writing about it and talking to every person I met who was willing to engage on that topic. In April, after learning about Aikido in a book, I decided to send myself to martial arts to see if I could better understand the discipline (and in the background, suffering) I couldn’t seem to find in myself in isolation.
I committed to three months and then promptly after the first class, found myself so sore from the impact of rolling over my shoulders that it felt as though they would fall off, as though I had permanently injured myself. But unwilling to renege on my commitment, I found myself going the required two times a week, subjecting myself to the inescapable humbling of learning the norms of the dojo and the complicated techniques and the feeling of connection or blending to a vast rotating cast of partners.
In May, I went to Ron’s Bikes Spring Fling and found myself on a too big bike, handling poorly, miserable while climbing and unable to stop thinking about suffering. I kept grilling the people - the very new friends - I was riding with about suffering, asking them Evan’s question, trying to muster the strength to finish the ride, trying to investigate again why I felt the way I did.
Sometime in the ensuing weeks I asked Sensei if I could sit zazen, having meditated off and on in short intervals and for usually small durations of time. He said yes and told me the story of a time it was the most excruciating thing he had done. I did it that day, experiencing intense physical, mental and emotional pain, feeling as though I could hardly tolerate it. I told myself, “as soon as it’s over, you won’t need to tolerate this anymore”. I told myself, “if it’s not over, you can keep doing this”.
A few weeks later, I did Farmer’s Daughter, the hilliest, most technical ride of my life, on that same bike, knowing already my seat post was too long to find my correct saddle height and my reach was overstretched. I was suffering that day, riding with pain at the back of my knee and in my low back and in my wrists and my neck. I felt self-conscious about my lack of confidence in keeping pace with the friends I was riding with. And I just kept thinking - if I could make it through zazen, surely I can do this. If I could finish the Spring Fling route, surely I can finish this one. If it’s not over, I can keep doing this. As soon as it’s over, I will be done.
It’s been nine months that I’ve been training at my dojo now and it’s been shocking to see how much it’s has changed my understanding of pain and suffering. I’ve gone from trying to avoid pain and suffering because of the fear I couldn’t handle it to assuming that there will be pain and suffering but knowing I am quite capable of handling it. I still enjoy a challenge, like finding my limits, and often have to withstand humiliation as I learn and develop. I still have fear, but I am much more open about it and it controls my actions far less.
It’s so much easier now to think about my performance, to fathom appropriate goals, to tolerate the difficulties on the way to meeting my goals. In my 6 years of teaching movement and being taught movement, I’ve had so many fascinating conversations with movement practitioners and teachers and bodyworkers about the way we acquire these skills or physically adapt over time. While many of us practice disparate disciplines, most everyone agrees on one thing - we can only do what we can do. Meaning, despite my knowledge of movement and anatomy and recovery, I cannot do what a trained bodyworker can do. Meaning, even though I am fully certified as a physical educator and Pilates teacher, I’m still going to have a more intense workout with better form when someone else is cueing and correcting me externally.
It is possible to train and improve your limits in isolation, but it’s probable that at a certain point you’ll find an obstacle or limitation you can’t overcome alone. It is probable that if you work with others, you will find places where someone else's knowledge or capacity or performance inspires, motivates or facilitates your growth. This can look like a lot of things: a personal trainer correcting form that allows you to safely lift heavier weight, a Pilates teacher who consistently cues breathing until it becomes an unconscious habit, a riding group that rides a little faster than you would alone and supports you learning to handle roadside mechanicals, a Sensei who sees your potential and pushes your limits, a bike fitter who helps you understand what is resolvable pain versus what is a physical or mechanical limitation.
If you are primarily a cyclist and find yourself often moving along the spectrum of suffering to pain, I strongly encourage you to visit a bikefitter. Cycling is a cyborgian sport, one where your riding performance, riding enjoyment, and physical function and longterm health are constantly affected by the relationship of your body to your bike. A good bikefitter will both make observations about and adjustments to the existing state of your bike, while also providing with information you can use to adjust your body to a more neutral, efficient riding position.
If my understanding of these topics resonates, schedule an appointment to see me or send me an email at info@revolutions-per.com.