I haven’t been on any longish rides in almost a month. I had a heavy cold that lingered for three weeks and then the fat bike came along, so I was hitting up the shorter trails, mostly. So today I decided to have a little run up to Ellison Bay to a little store/deli that does a mean chicken sandwich.

I took a banana and a couple tangerines in my little fanny pack just in case the store was closed when I got there. Incidentally, ‘fanny’ is one of those words that you have to be careful with in some parts of the Empire. Over here it means ‘bottom’, or arse. In England it’s used as the label for a lass’s private areas, like the feminine version of todger. So be careful where you use your fanny.

I’m still figuring out how to use my new cleats and how to operate the new MTB shoes that happen to be about 8 sizes too big.

I got a coupon via email from Nashbar and they had a good discount on cycling shoes going on, so I thought to myself ‘fuck it, I’ll get some swanky shoes and look like a cyclist from the ankles down’.

‘Course when they’re dishing out coupons it’s always for the shit that doesn’t fit and all they had for this particular shoe was a size 34 and a size 50. I’d never researched biking shoes before but these looked like the top banana, the dog’s bollocks. I saw them on another website for $249 and my pair could be had, after various discounts had been applied, for a paltry $75. At which point it really doesn’t matter that they fit or don’t fit, one just has to have them ‘cos they’re a flippin’ bargain, innit.

So I wear them with three pairs of thick woolen socks and lash them up extra tight. They do look like skis but I figure I ride so fast ain’t nobody gonna see them only moi.

Of course ‘clipping-in’ is decidedly complicated when the shoe is the size of a floor board. Exactly where is that cleat in relation to the pedal? Do I try to engage at the top of the pedal stroke or at the bottom? And why the fuck are they called ‘clipless’ when ‘clip’ is exactly what they are? It’s another one of those secret handshake deals only known to and understood by ‘insiders’, and I ain’t no feckin’ insider when it comes to biking.

Anyhow, I practiced a little towards the end of last week but got frustrated with the whole bloody enterprise and went back to wearing my hobnail boots. Today I  decided to have another go.

I’m fortunate that my driveway is about a half mile long. I can fuck around like I’m on a clown-bike trying to get myself attached without fear of getting hit by a Mack truck. And on the rare occasions that I do manage to get clipped-in before exiting the driveway onto the highway then I always stop when I see the first pedestrian to give them a high-five.

The reality is that it’s another one of those solutions to a problem that never existed. And once the solution has been invented, we can’t figure out how we possibly managed without it for all those years. Inventions like this are praying on the frailty of the human condition and exploiting the fact that 90% of us are dumb fucks and shouldn’t be allowed to live.

So I finally got clipped-in headed down HWY 42 towards Hillside, and after 60 seconds of relishing in the added security that cleats offer me I’m already having to worry about disconnecting myself from the fucking things so I can stop the bike without making a complete and utter twit of myself in the middle of the street. Fortunately the traffic is light in the off-season and I was able to skit sheepishly across the HWY and complete a fairly benign maneuver onto Hillside Road without falling on my arse. Whoopee do.

I got lucky and I didn’t have to think about the bloody things again until approaching Bailey’s Harbor. I actually spent time thinking about the best way to approach town and get through it without having to stop. I came into town south of where I normally would because I knew the intersection had good visibility in both directions and I had a good chance of getting across the highway without having to un-clip or dis-cleat or whatever the fuck it is that I’m having to do. And it worked – no stoppage or discleating.

As I approached Old Stage Road, just south of Sister Bay, about 90 minutes or so into the ride, I realized that I had not yet needed to disconnect.

My feet were paying the price however, they were cold and sore and stiff and I couldn’t really feel my toes.

It got me thinking more about how this is all a bunch of nonsense. Everyone knows that it can be quite uncomfortable riding long distances with flat bars because there’s just the one hand position. One’s hands become sore and one’s fingers become flaccid and and one can’t press the fucking gear levers when one wants to which means one’s legs get sore too.

So the ‘clever man at the LBS ‘ invented drop bars and then bar ends to give us ways to move around the bars and encourage blood to continue to flow to the extremities. So riding high on his achievements (pun intended), what does the ‘clever man at the LBS’ invent next? a way to lock your fucking feet to the pedals so they too cannot move and they too suffer from the same affliction placed upon the hands when riding flats.

It’s a fucking conspiracy.

But it doesn’t end there. Anyone with an engineering bent understands the concept and principals of ‘Delta T’ as it relates to thermal conductivity. Without getting overly technical, the easiest way on the planet to freeze your fucking feet is to bolt your shoe to a large steel pedal with screws that come through the sole of the shoe and stop a couple microns short of the underside of your bloody foot. You’re basically providing a conduit (the screws) and a large heat exchanger (the pedals) and saying to God or Mother Nature or whomever the hell is listening: ‘Hey, Bro, freeze this’.

So after 90 minutes locked-in I was basically pedaling with two frozen TV dinners on the end of my ankles and relishing in the ‘improved pedaling efficiency’ afforded me by these wonderful cleats.

Now it’s hard to explain the next part of my thought process but I’ll give it a go.

Clearly I’m not happy with the cleats. Clearly my feet are cold and sore and I’m feeling very uncomfortable. So obviously the logical thing to do would be to pull over, take a break, grab a hot drink, massage my feet for a while, then call it a day and head back home. But that’s not the way I roll.

So I began to hatch a plan to see how long I might actually be able to ride without ever dis-cleating. The idea came along quite fleetingly: I wondered if there was anything in the Guinness Book of Records relating to some fucking nob who clipped in and rode 2000 miles or whatever without dis-en-clipping. It’s what your mind does when you’re riding in the cold and you’re sore and crabby. I’ll bet Scott and Hillary hatched-up all manner of whacky plots before the frost took them.

Obviously this would take some serious route planning and adjustment of the day’s riding itinerary, and on the fly to boot. But it seemed like a worthwhile endeavor. I know, I’m that bloke on the De Vinci Code who flogs himself with the bloody whip for breakfast.

Still, the more I thought about it the more it started to seem like a good idea, and it wasn’t at all difficult to draw from past experiences and memories to help justify the plot. For example, I remembered on my second organized Century ride that I actually rode through the first rest stop, positioned about 15 miles or so into the ride. It was an accident really, but I prefer to tell people that I didn’t actually need a break hence I rode through it. The truth is I was so far behind everyone else that there were no other bikes at the SAG station and I didn’t recognize it for what it was. I thought they were a bunch of folk from the Humane Society selling brats and hot dogs.

So I became obsessed with the idea of not having to stop. Not at all. Not even for a piss, a banana, a drink of water or a road sign. One single cessation of forward momentum and/or one single disinclipping and it would be game over.

There were some hairy moments. Coming past the Wyckman House in Ellison Bay some guy with a leaf blower stepped off the pavement with his back to me and I had to nudge him out of the way with my right knee. I couldn’t have kicked him out of the road ‘cos that would have involved discleating. Plus I’d never have gotten my foot disconnected from the pedal in time. So I just used a knee.

I had to forgo the chicken sandwich idea and make do with the fruit samplings that I’d brought along. It’s a good job the hygiene police weren’t around. I had to peel a banana on the fly without removing my gloves, and my gloves were caked in snot and other bodily secretions. I remember when I first started riding in the early Spring, I would take along a pack of Kleenex and stop to blow my nose (which streams endlessly when I’m riding, for some reason). Nowadays I don’t even carry a tissue, I just pedal a little faster then do the RVP maneuver and blow out the contents of an ice-cream cone one nostril at a time. Then like every other real cyclist, I mop up using the back of my glove. Obvious, innit.

Anyway, I got through the banana uneventfully and managed to peel two tangerines with my teeth. I ran out of water after 30 miles or so but it was a cold day and I wasn’t sweating much north of my cog and sprocket set.

I made it back to the front porch, proudly, without ever once having to unclippit. Fifty seven miles in four hours and eighteen minutes, clipped in to the fucking pedals every inch of the goddamn way.   MapIt

Yeah, it was a slow pace, but on a mountain bike, with a hellish wind and with two slabs of frozen meat for feet, I think I did alright Jack.