For the past few years, I have been using a text called The Elements (and Pleasures) of Difficulty in my composition class. The approach advocated by the authors is one that embraces, rather than avoids, difficulty: in reading, in writing, in thinking, and in “human relationships.” The key to overcoming difficulty, they posit, is to reflect on why something is difficult; this reflection takes place in a one-page journal known as the “difficulty paper,” in which writers reflect on the challenges of a text, and begin to hypothesize why the text is challenging. It is in understanding the difficulty that we are able to move past it, and, ultimately, to achieve a deeper understanding.
Recently, I made the switch from pedal clips to clipless pedals on my mountain bike. As my husband Bryan will attest, I can be somewhat stubborn when it comes to adapting to new technology. Sure, I love the technical fabric of my workout clothes, a definite improvement over cotton, but when it comes to new ways of doing things—using blogs in my classroom, for example—I often hear the voice of my late father-in-law: “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Bryan has been trying to get me to switch to clipless pedals for years, but while I have found them intriguing, in an, "Oh, what an interesting concept" sort of way, I haven’t quite embraced the idea of adopting them for my own bike. I turned 40 in March; why try to learn a new trick? After all, I have ridden miles and miles of mountain trails in pedal clips, and each spring, after winter's biking hiatus, I have to re-earn my confidence. Why add another level of challenge?
My first couple of clipless rides served to reaffirm my rigid resistance. I was off the bike more than I was on, and spent most of each ride in my head. If a climb looked difficult, I was off the bike. Didn’t want to take the risk. What if I found myself needing to clip out halfway up the hill? Would I be able to? Better just to push the bike (not fun, by the way!). Slightly technical? Better to just walk through. And damn these pedals!
I decided I’d give the pedals until the first day of June. Bryan and I are both registered for the Vermont 50 mountain bike race, a 50-mile off-road race that takes place in September, and I was beginning to get worried about my inability, or unwillingness, to ride the more technical routes. How could I train if I was pushing my bike half the time? I did, however, want to give the pedals a fair chance. I read online forums, talked to friends, searched for the right approach. I wasn’t surprised by my findings: Half of the riders who wrote in could hardly remember life before clipless pedals. Half of them would never consider making the switch. And some tried and gave up.
In the midst of my pedal soul-searching, I was grading student portfolios. A number of students, in their end-of-the-year evaluations, commented on the empowering effect of the “difficulty” approach to writing. I thought about how often I tell my students to “write through it.” Reflect on the challenge, consider why the obstacle is tripping you up, and look for a strategy to move past it. The textbook includes a strategy known as the triple-entry notebook: when confronted with a difficult text, record your impressions (what stands out or gives you pause), your questions (why am I struggling? What might some of the factors include?) and resolutions (how did I overcome the difficulty?). I began to apply this method to my biking.
Impressions
I was experiencing something like pedal anxiety. Instead of seeing the trail, I was seeing myself going over my handlebars, or over a cliff (I don’t ride near any cliffs), or under my bike.
My ankles were hurting from the turning motion of clipping out. This also brought on a bit of tendonitis.
My quads were more tired than usual, which was affecting my ability to climb hills. This made me even more likely to push, rather than pedal, my bike.
My new bike felt less stable than my old one, and I found myself fish-tailing. This, too, had me off the bike.
Questions
Could some of the pedal-anxiety actually be early season lack of confidence? The first couple of rides of the season are always a little discouraging, and I generally dismount more than I would in, say, August.
Were there other types of pedals, ones that allow a rider to clip out in different directions? Or could the pedals be adjusted?
Could the burning quads have something to do with the position of the seat? Would adjusting the seat help the bike’s instability?
Resolutions
More riding = less anxiety.
Found cleats that are compatible with my pedals; these allow for an easier clip-out.
Had Bryan do an “ergonomic evaluation.” He moved the seat back about ½ an inch. Noticed the change in comfort level immediately. Noticed the more even distribution of weight on my next trail ride.
The Pleasures of Difficulty
In the end, it really doesn’t matter which pedals I choose, but I was jubilant after today’s successful ride, if only because I could feel myself overcoming the Pedal Obstacle. I had been somewhat skeptical as to how much a slight re-positioning of my seat could affect my ride, but as it turns out, Bryan knew what he was talking about when he made that suggestion. No fish-tailing, no sore quads (well, no unreasonably sore quads), no tendonitis. I didn’t make it up every hill, but I didn’t bail out at the bottom, either. I was in the saddle for most of the ride, and was beaming as I exited the trail.
During one of the more painful climbs, I thought about falling, but not in a panicked way. Instead, I questioned why I was so afraid of falling (because you’re 40 and might break a hip!). When I was in college, I used to show up to class with bruises and scrapes acquired from a mountain bike ride. At twenty-three, I was proud of my trail badges. At forty, my fear of falling inhibits my technical ability, which, in turn, dampens the fun factor. No, I don’t want to come home from every ride with bruised and bloodied shins, but I don’t want to tremble at each log, either.
The jury’s still out on the pedals, but if I opt out, it won’t be because I’m a mountain-bike Luddite.
