Cycling and Headaches

Being prone to migraines and tension headaches, I make sure to carry pain meds as part of the standard dayride kit in my cycling bag. But I've never actually had to use them to treat a headache. In fact, I cannot remember ever having a headache on the bike. This realisation came to me a couple of nights ago, when a quiet evening of movie-watching at a friend's house ended in a brain-piercing, want-to-bang-head-against-wall type of headache the likes of which I haven't experienced in some time. It felt mild enough to ignore at first, and after a trip to the kitchen for a glass of water I settled back on the sofa amidst the other lounging bodies in the darkened living room. But when the film was over and the lights came on, the real pain began. Behind the left eye. Throbbing. Spreading with a slow horrible pressure toward the back of my head. I was getting a lift home in a friend's car, a 25 minute drive. In the course of those minutes things went from bad to worse, and I'm pretty sure that my face came to resemble Munch's The Scream in its grotesque contortions. Even after I got home and took a hefty dose of headache medication, it took an hour of lying perfectly still in a dark room for the storm in my head to calm. But it was while writhing in the passenger's seat with the window rolled down that it hit me: I have countless memories of being stuck in a car with debilitating headaches - but none of having a headache on a bike.

Certainly all the ingredients have been there. Long, windblown hours under direct sun. Physical exhaustion and dehydration. Hasty departures without morning coffee. Tightly adjusted helmets. Tail lights of cyclists in front of me shining directly into my eye on group rides. And yet it has never happened. I've had headaches after bike rides and before bike rides, just never during. And I've had headaches during other forms of exercise - namely running (well, attempting to run). Could there be something special about cycling that prevents them?

According to a neurologist friend, that is not impossible. The research on headaches and exercise is mixed. In some instances exercise can actually induce headaches ("exertional headaches"), and there appears to be a higher risk of this with high-impact exercise and weight lifting. In other instances, exercise can be used therapeutically to treat headaches, including migraines. These would be exercises that are low impact and promote relaxation and tension-reducing posture alignment. Yoga is probably the most typical. But it is plausible that cycling could play that role as well - depending on how it makes us feel and how our body is positioned on the bike. And I suppose all that fresh air couldn't hurt either.

Whatever the reason for it, I am thankful to be headache-free when I pedal. I will continue to carry pain meds on rides, just in case. And I hope to continue not needing them.

Watching the Day Grow

Two minutes per day. That is how much daylight we gain once past the winter solstice. The change is so gradual, so subtle, that tracking it seems as futile as trying to watch our hair or nails grow. We do not notice the incremental changes, until one day, all at once, the lengthening becomes apparent and the change impresses us as if a monumental shift has taken place overnight. All the sudden it no longer gets dark at 4 in the afternoon, as it did during those shortest, most oppressive weeks. And that extra fraction of an hour we gain - or, perhaps it's an entire hour by the time we take notice - seem to come out of nowhere, like a bright, crisply packaged gift. 

That is how it has been for me, for as long as I can remember. Except this year - now, that is. This time around, it is the strangest thing, because I have seen the days grow. For a week straight in the middle of January, I rode my bike at the same time every day - setting off in the early afternoon and trying to make it back before dark. This self-imposed deadline was based not on the fact of the fading light it itself, but on the temperature drop and heightened risk of icy roads that come with it this time of year. On the first day it was already dark by the time I rolled down the lane that leads through the fields to my house. The street lights were on in the farm yard next door. I looked at the time and saw it was 4:40 in the afternoon. On the second day, I had aimed for the same time and noticed that the dusk - while still having arrived, was more transparent. On the third day, this transparency intensified and now the outside lights next door were not yet turned on. The days were growing in front of my very eyes.

The following day, I aimed to be back by 5pm. And as I pedaled home, racing against the setting sun, I noticed another thing. It weren't only the days getting longer, but the sunsets. The sun was not dropping like a stone once its descent began, as it had taken to doing since mid-November. On this afternoon it proceeded more hesitantly, making its way toward the horizon as if wandering down a not too steep hill absentmindedly.

The setting sun's glow was a warm one, bathing the roads, the fields and the mountains in a golden light reminiscent of a long summer's evening. This sunset was not anywhere close to a true summer sunset, with its hours of luxuriant lingering. But it showed hints of eventually becoming one. It was a categorical change from the curt winter sunset, with its stingy flash of white-blue light just before fading to black. At what point, I wondered, had the one switched to the other? Even as I managed to observe the minutes of daylight lengthening, I had still missed the delicate changes in the quality of sunsets that must have taken place just as incrementally. And while at first I lamented my oversight, as I got closer to home I was comforted by the thought that perhaps nature does not want to be thus monitored, enjoying the "hey, when did that happen?" reaction instead. And so it sneaks in these suddenly lingering sunsets and longer days, and we are blown away by them once we notice - appreciating them all the more when lucky enough to greet them on the bike. 

Cycling in Wellies

Sure I harbored memories of their stiffness and lack of breathability from having donned them in the countryside years ago. But my resistance to Wellies went beyond that, most likely a result of their absurd, meteoritic rise to popularity in recent years. Step out into the urban streets of Cambridge, Massachusetts on a mildly drizzly day, and you'll encounter a rubber boot infestation out of all proportion to the amount of rain or the surface conditions at hand. Like flocks of exotically brightly-footed birds, crowds of young women in colourful Hunters and copies thereof stylishly stomp their way across shallow sidewalk puddles and the damp grasses of Harvard Yard. What's turned this awkward, uncomfortable form of footwear into a fashion accessory was beyond me. But for whatever reason Wellies seemed to have replaced UGGs and Crocks as the new Ugly It-Shoe, and I wasn't about to buy into the trend. Even when I found myself in circumstances where I actually needed the vile rubbery things for the original purpose they were designed for, I resisted - donning my normal, perfectly good waterproof boots instead.

But I did not resist for long. I live next to a farm now, and spend quite a bit of time there. The yard looks like this …on a dry-ish day.

Then there are the vast fields I cross to take photos along the water's edge. And while that green stuff may look like grass, the soil it grows on is soft and soggy. Seeing farm animals grazing with the fur on their legs wet and matted from sinking into the grass, it was clear that my normal, perfectly good waterproof boots would get destroyed after a couple of such forays. Not to speak of my interest in photographing abandoned peat bogs.

Anyway, Wellington boots. Nowadays you can buy all sorts of fancy versions, including those with a warm lining already built in. But considering the purposes I needed them for, I decided to go for the plain unlined type, meant to be worn with several pairs of socks. The rationale here is that should you step into deep water that goes over the edge of the boot, you just change your socks and can keep wearing the boots after wiping down the interior. With lined boots you would have to wait for the lining to dry if the interior gets wet.

Armed with the knowledge that I wanted plain rubber farmer's boots, I went to the local shops that sell such things. Sadly, it turned out my size 4UK feet are freakishly small by local farming standards. And so I walked out with a pair of teenage girls' boots in bright sky blue with green and lilac striped trim. So much for plain, but my other choices involved butterflies or pandas.

But of course looks aren't everything. So let's talk about what's important for us cyclists: power transfer. How are Wellies to cycle in? Well, kind of bad. The soles are quite flexible - somewhat more so than running shoes, but less so than foam flip-flops. Nothing about these boots said "I want to ride a bike in these!" the first time I wore them. But despite this, they are strangely addictive. The comfort of even the cheap ones I bought are a huge improvement upon the painfully uncomfortable, clammy Wellies I recall from childhood. The uppers are flexible and don't dig into my calves, the toes don't pinch even after an hour's hike through the peat bogs, and somehow my feet do not overheat despite their lack of breathability. In fact, worn over two or three pairs of wool socks, nothing keeps out the winter damp better. 

Little by little I started to wear the Wellies not just on the farm or when walking across soggy fields, but out and about - including around town and on the bike. The flexible soles felt strange when pedaling at first, but I got used to it and have cycled in them for up to 14 miles so far with no adverse effects. An additional advantage, is that the Wellies' wide adjustable uppers fit easily over even the baggiest of trousers, keeping them safely tucked away from the bicycle's drivetrain. Of course they can be easily worn with a skirt as well. And when I come home covered knee-deep in mud - which seems to be the norm these days - I simply rinse the boots off and in seconds they are ready to wear again - the ultimate in low maintenance. 

And so, my winter footwear wardrobe these days consists more or less of these. I've held myself back from going dancing in either of them so far, but I wouldn't rule it out. 

Easing Into It or Full Speed Ahead?

There comes a stretch in the winter - usually lasting a couple of months - when I take a break from roadcycling. And while I still cycle almost every day for transportation, my milage becomes a fraction of what it is during the roadcycling-intensive months, and the amount of physical effort I put into riding an upright bike in my street clothes is not nearly the same. Not surprisingly, when I do get back in the saddle (the narrower road saddle, that is) I feel distinctly out of shape. Some work is required to get myself back to a fitness level where I feel like "myself" on the bike again.

Taking a break in the colder months is fairly common among cyclists, and I have found it interesting to learn that different regions have different traditions of when this is done. In New England, cyclists tend to keep riding through most of December, then take a break in January and February before re-emerging in March. Here in Northern Ireland, cyclists tend to take November and December off instead, then get back on the bike in January for "winter training" (base miles) before switching to a more intense and focused cycling regimen when spring arrives.

Purely by chance, it so happened that I followed the local schedule this year. November and December were hectic for me, and thanks to that in combination with the weather taking some getting used to, I more or less wrote them off. Then January arrived and somehow everything fell into place enabling me to ride nearly every day since the start of the year.

When it comes to getting back on the bike, what I tend to do is start easy and frequent. Short, flat rides, with effortless spinning through pleasant scenery, just to get accustomed to being on the bike again and to get back into the habit of doing it regularly. I know that I have to be careful not to overdo it with a ride that is too long, too hilly or too fast - as that can result in several days off the bike in the aftermath, which - when the weather is crappy and my pride is hurt from being out of shape - has a way of leading to more days off the bike. In this early, delicate stage, frequency and enjoyment are more important than hills and miles. It's about feeling comfortable, getting back into the habit of it, settling in. Once I feel like that is done and begin to crave more, I start riding with other, stronger cyclists again. And then out come the miles, the hills, the speed, the exhaustion - and the rapid growth in strength. It is only then that I truly feel "back." But I couldn't do that cold; I have to work up to it.

By contrast, a local cycling friend was telling me the other day that he needs a hard push - a jolt even - to get going after significant time off the bike. He needs those hard, painful rides straight away in order for the winter lethargy to loosen its grip. He needs competition with riding buddies. And he needs to feel just how out of shape he is in order to motivate himself to get back to his previous level of fitness. And though I can't relate, I understand this. We are attracted to cycling in different ways, and different aspects of it motivate us.

So, what is your approach when you try to get back into a regular roadcycling routine? Do you ease into it gradually, or jump in full speed ahead?

Dead Road

When I first heard the phrase, I knew what they meant by it exactly. Still, it surprised me that this existed as a phenomenon acknowledged by other cyclists. I mean, it seemed like the sort of concept that would thrive within my own imagination, only to be met with skeptism by others. But now here they were, throwing the words around on a group ride.

A "dead road." What an evocative term. And while it never occurred to me to describe the sensation with those exact words, now that I heard them I recognised what they referred to instantly.

A dead road is not just a road that involves a long climb at a grade that never quite lets you get into a good rhythm. And it is not just a road where the surface resists the tire's progress with a dull tacky stubbornness. It is more than merely a road unfortunate enough to be on the wrong side of the mountain, where the sun hardly shines and where there is always a mild, but annoying headwind in the direction of the ascent. While all of these factors may well be present, a dead road is more than the sum of its parts. It is like a twilight zone, upon entering which the cyclist grows aware of a disconcerting sensation where their bicycle - normally so fast and responsive - feels utterly lifeless. Where their tires feel as if they stick to the road and they just aren't getting out of the bike what they put in.

You might say that a dead road is the geographic equivalent of a bicycle that does not "plane." After all, if a bike can be responsive or non-responsive, why not a road?

Possibly the concept of a dead road is local to the UK and Ireland, as I've never heard cyclists use it in the US. But perhaps I just hadn't ridden with those over there who use it.

I was reminded of all this as I cycled along a dead road on this morning's ride, counting the minutes until it would be over. Turning the corner onto a road that was distinctly alive, I continued to climb yet felt distinctly untethered. It was a wonderful sensation. And it would have been impossible without the sensation that preceded it. So maybe the dead roads are nice after all, as they heighten our enjoyment of live ones.

The Way We Do the Things We Do

A recent bout of flu has activated a marathon knitting session, with nearly everyone in my immediate radius now supplied with a hat or two as a result of my drowsy, sofa-ridden industriousness. I've also started a sweater, which, thankfully, is complicated enough to keep me occupied for days. When fellow knitters see the things I make, they usually ask about the pattern. And my reply is that I don't use a pattern. I know the basics of knitting and sort of improvise from there. I visualise designs in my head and implement them without even sketching anything out on paper. I gauge sizing by looking at a person and guesstimating. The whole process is so intuitive and unconscious for me, that it is almost automated: From conception to completion, I don't pay much attention to what my hands are doing, until - voila- the thing is magically finished, and with some luck, looks and fits as intended.

This approach to knitting has its benefits. However, it also means that I am terrible at explaining to another person how I made a particular garment. It seems so obvious to me, that I find myself saying things like, "well, just - you know - knit a beret shape!" (they: "but… ??!!")

In the midst of such conversations, I am fully aware how frustrating it must be - particularly for a novice knitter - to talk to someone like me. Because that's how I feel talking to anyone for whom cycling is so intuitive, such second nature, that any attempt to break down technique into a step-by-step process is beyond them. "What do you mean how do you climb standing?" such a person might say, "you stand up on the pedals and do it!" Right. Just like you'd pick up the needles and knit a beret.

It may seem that cycling and knitting have little in common. But in fact every productive and performative activity involves, on some level, mastering a sequence of distinct steps. The earlier in life we learn this activity, the more naturally we take to it, and the more frequently we practice it, the less aware we are of those steps - the more seamless and unconscious the sequence becomes. We go through it automatically, unthinkingly, and in so doing we might even genuinely believe that the act is, or "should be," that way for everyone. But the thing is, it might not be. It really might not.

If I consider the way I do the things I do, I realise that cycling is one of the very few activities I do on a regular basis and enjoy doing, where I give any explicit thought to process. Everything else - be it cooking, photography, painting, knitting or dancing - I do on a more unconscious, automated level. Technique is involved, but I've internalised it to the point where it has become invisible unless I really, really force myself to acknowledge it. Maybe over time, it will be the same with cycling. Or maybe it never will. In the meanwhile, I try to be more mindful of the way I explain my process to others, if they ask me questions about activities that to me seem self-evident.

How Could They?

A little while ago I got the chance to ride a vintage roadster again. It's been a while, and let me tell you - that magical, floaty feeling was just as wonderful as I remembered.

The owner's great uncle rode the bike as a young man. After that, the machine languished in a shed for decades until the nephew discovered it and gave it a new life. "I gave it lower gears," he said, "to make it easier on the knees." And he pointed to his strong-looking, athletic 40-year-old knees. Having done the same to nearly every vintage bike I've owned, I nodded understandingly. Then I took him up on his offer to try the bike out on a longer loop.

About a mile down the flat main road, I turned, unthinkingly, left, onto a lane that winds around the side of the mountain at a steepening grade before coming back down. I've grown used to making this turn, as it's a loop I often do to get to several of my favourite photo locations. Despite the climbing involved, it is easy enough to manage on my own transportation bike with its low, low gears.

Now I'm riding the roadster up this lane. Almost immediately, I get into 1st gear. And almost immediately after that, the 1st gear is not nearly low enough. I pedal harder. I grind. Then I stand up on the pedals and push with all my might. After it feels as if I've been at this forever, I look back over my shoulder and see that I've made little progress. It is safe to say, the magical floaty feeling of the roadster is gone.

Miserable minutes, that feel like years, go by. I am in decent shape and not averse to hard work on the bike. In fact I've recently been introduced to the concept of "strength training," and will now often climb a hill in a harder gear than comfortable deliberately. But the difficulty of pushing this thing up the hill stuns me - in a way that is perversely motivating to keep pushing past the discomfort, to keep going just to confirm that it is humanly possibly to ride this bike up a hill without breaking my legs! After all, I say to myself… Back in the day people used to do this all the time. And they didn't even lower the gears! Imagining riding the bike up the same hill in its original gearing nearly makes me throw up, and as I finally arrive at the top of the slope, drenched in sweat and wild-eyed with effort, the question rings shrill and loud in my mind: How could they?!

Seriously. If we are to believe that ladies on loop frames carrying their shopping in front baskets, and men on roadsters going to and from work, were once a ubiquitous feature of the Irish rural landscape, then we must also believe they could tackle with ease the very hills that today make their grandchildren weep - or at least demand a 1:1 gear. Were the older generations inherently more fit than us? More stubborn? More willing to put up with physical difficulties?

In Boston, I remember trying one loop frame roadster where the 1st gear was so high I had trouble starting the bike on flat ground. I asked the owner, who happened to be a vintage bike collector, how ordinary women could ride these things 40 years ago. And his reply was, that in fact these bikes were not ridden much, and the high gearing must have been one of the reasons for that. And it's true that most of the vintage 3-speeds found in New England are in remarkably good condition, many of them blatantly unridden and suffering only from damage due to age and neglect.

By contrast, vintage roadsters found in Ireland and the UK tend to show signs of heavy use. In fact my theory as to why it is comparatively difficult to find vintage 3-speeds here is that most of them have been ridden into the ground by the original owners. Considering that the terrain here is hiller than what the Boston area has to offer, the argument that the high gears made the bikes as difficult to ride then and they seem now does not fit.

When I returned the borrowed roadster to its owner, by the colour of my face he could tell I had tried to ride it up a mountain lane. "You know," he said, "my great uncle used to live up a hill just like that and I've often wondered to myself how in the world he rode this bike every day!" He shook his head, and I did too, as if we both shuddered at the thought of it. Then he gave me a wave and pedaled the old roadster down the flat main road, as I got on my easy bike and rode in the opposite direction, feeling like an utter weakling with legs like boiled spaghetti.