Tag Archives: cycling

How To Write

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Guest post of sorts. That will appeal primarily to the small subset of PressingPausers who fancy themselves cycling nerds. Ben Farver is the Founder of Argonaut Cycles, a custom/boutique/ultra bougie bicycle manufacturer based in Bend, OR.

As concise and clear a design philosophy as you’re ever going to read. Ben in Bend for the win.

The Wrong Problem

The industry has been racing toward aerodynamics and stiffness for a decade. Neither one is the most important thing about a bicycle.

Ben Farver, Founder of Argonaut Cycles

Every major bike brand is in a race right now to make the most aerodynamic frame on the market.

I think they’re optimizing for the wrong thing.

That’s not a contrarian position for its own sake. Aerodynamics matter. Weight matters. The gains are real. But the conversation the industry is having about what makes a bicycle better has narrowed to a point where it’s almost entirely about numbers that most riders will never meaningfully feel.

And in that narrowing, the thing that actually determines whether a ride is transcendent or just fast has gotten lost.

Aerodynamic gains only matter if you’re racing. Ride quality matters on every single ride.

Here’s how the industry argument goes. Make the frame slipperier, reduce rolling resistance, optimize the tire interface. Get the rider from point A to point B faster with less effort. That’s the whole conversation.

And I understand it. Going fast on a road bike is one of the closest feelings we get to flying. Thirty miles an hour, two and a half feet above the ground. Faster is better. I’m not arguing otherwise.

But those aerodynamic gains only pay real dividends at the elite level. They matter in a race, where the difference between first and fourth is measured in seconds. They matter when you’re in a peloton, and drafting dynamics actually change what a more slippery frame is worth.

For everyone else, the gains are marginal at best. And most riders aren’t racing. Most riders are out for three hours on a Saturday morning, trying to find what makes cycling worth doing.

That thing has a name. I call it dynamic response.

It’s the feeling of the frame working with you, rather than just under you. The load-and-release quality that makes pedaling feel effortless when it should and explosive when you want it to. The vertical compliance absorbs the road without throwing you off your line. The torsional integrity that holds the bike dead stable at fifty miles an hour on a descent.

These aren’t vague experiential claims. They’re engineering outcomes. Specific, measurable, designable. They just require a different set of questions than the industry currently asks.

The bikes that win the aerodynamic argument all ride the same. That’s not a coincidence. It’s the cost of optimizing for one variable.

The irony is that I’m not ignoring the aerodynamic conversation. The RM4 is in development and will be more aerodynamically efficient than the RM3. Slipperier. Faster. That matters.

But the design intention isn’t to make it faster at the cost of everything else. It’s to make riding faster and more satisfying. To push both ends of the spectrum at the same time.

That’s the argument we get to have that nobody else does. Because we’re not starting from the aerodynamic frame and trying to add ride quality back in. We’re starting from ride quality and building outward.

Most of the industry has it backwards.

The RM3 is like the classic Porsche 911. The RM4 will be the one sitting next to it in the garage that makes you realize how much further the idea could go. The difference is that both are built around how they feel to drive. Not just how quickly they get around a track.

There’s a reason people who get on our bikes for the first time tell me they’re stiffer than the bikes they came from. I know for a fact they’re usually not. The frame they got on isn’t as stiff as their previous bike by any objective measure.

But it has better power transfer. It has that load-and-release quality that people associate with stiffness because it’s the closest sensation they have a word for. What they’re actually feeling is the frame doing its job well.

That’s the problem worth solving.

Not how quickly the frame moves through the air. But how well it moves with the person on it.

The industry will keep improving aerodynamics. Tubes will get more optimized. Drag coefficients will keep dropping. And those bikes will keep winning races.

What they won’t do is give you the feeling that made you fall in love with riding in the first place.

That one is ours to build.

Maybe a better title for this post would’ve been, “How To Think”. And hell yes I want one.

How Am I?

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Three weeks after ejecting from my roadbike and skimming across Center Street, I feel somewhere between two-thirds to three-fourths of the way back depending upon how much I’m asking of my bod. I don’t cry when choking on pistachios anymore. And I’m walking a lot, cycling a little, and I ran all of two miles yesterday even though I couldn’t breath very deeply at all. And I’m hoping to get the gills wet Monday at Masters swimming. Thanks to everyone who has checked in. Your texts and calls have meant a lot. They have made me feel a lot less alone.

More importantly, how is my soul five months after Lynn’s passing?

The second hardest adjustment has been the near complete loss of the connectedness to everyone who showed up for Lynn so consistently until the very end. Everyone, of course, quickly returned to their normal lives. I understand that, but it has still been disorienting. The house is so dang quiet.

However, the single hardest adjustment has been the loss of Lynn’s constant love, which as it turns out, I grew more dependent upon than I realized. As an introvert who digs solitude, I always fancied myself as fairly independent and resilient. LOL. In the immediate aftermath of her dying, I felt like the guy in the opening of MadMen.

Despite MSA’s slow motion devastation, I was unprepared for what, at the very end, felt like the pulling of a trap door. Which compelled me, two months ago, to go on a couple of dates which really upset my daughters whose well-being is as important to me as my own. And so now, as a result, I am disconnected from them. So disconnectedness upon disconnectedness.

Within that larger context, there have been what we in the Pacific Northwest call “sunbreaks”. Moments in the week, when the clouds separate just enough for warm, healing light to briefly shine through. When Steve calls during one of his Camino training walks to see how I’m doing. When Kevin calls. When MARN calls. When Lou, from high school, reaches out. When Mark invites me to walk. When Kris reaches out and comes over and listens to me ramble like the wonderful counselor she is. When Lil’ Chris sends a heartfelt card and note and invitation to a community event. When the college roommates write to see how we’re doing. When Marybeth sends this card.

Damn, that’s what everyone said, “I’m so happy I met Lynn.” I miss the KChrises, the roommates, Marybeth. Lynn’s people.

More sunshine than a sunbreak, I am not dating anymore because I’ve met someone special. Someone incredibly sensitive to my grieving and the family’s. Someone who watched Lynn’s memorial service on YouTube and said, “I wish I had known her.” Someone who gives me confidence that I will be alright. Especially when my daughters can accept my free falling self and we reconnect.

Sunday, Mother’s Day will be especially hard for A and J. Here’s what I want them to know. I turned on Lynn’s phone recently and there were 99 text messages. One dated 12/16/25, the day after she died, was piercing. Lisa, her boxing coach texted, “I love you Lynn. No more pain. Rest in peace.” Followed by a purple heart and strong arm emoji.

I want them to find solace in their mom’s legacy. So many people loved her. So deeply. We were very fortunate to be among them for as long as we were.

With Apologies To My Sissy

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Who often reminds me, as only a loving big sissy can, “It’s not all about you, Ron.” But this post might be. 😜

A subset of humble blog readers, who also happen to be personal friends, have reached out to see how I’m doing post bike accident. Which I’ve greatly appreciated. Here’s more than they, and you, prob wanna know. If my sissy has read this far, she’s rolling her eyes.

Five of us were enjoying a truly beautiful spring day, sunny, 50’s, meaning built-in air conditioning. In a pace-line, we were two hours into a two hour and twenty minute ride, baring down on Tumwater High School at 20-22mph thanks to a slight tailwind.

I was fifth of five. The lead rider, who has been relegated to Witness Protection, did not point out a small, but deep divot in the road. Remember sports fans, whenever you’re on the front, your main responsibility is to the be the eyes for the whole train. Rider number four hit the devilish divit head on, and as a result, slowed quite a bit. I was sitting my customary three feet behind him and didn’t have enough time to avoid riding into his back wheel. At the last fraction of a second, I turned my wheel to avoid his, but all that did was create an angle that launched me dead left into and across the center of the road. Picture a rock skimming across a glassy pond.

My skimming across the pavement happened right in front of a kind and caring woman on the way to work. Had she left for work 20-30 seconds earlier she very well could’ve ran over me. She checked on me and called it in while my friends looped back to provide additional/wonderful support. Soon, a bevy of young male firefighters began asking me questions and poking and prodding me. If I was gay, I would’ve immediately started feeling better. They asked me who the President was, and I said, “Oh man, I feel badly enough already.”

My friends studied my helmet and saw that there were no scratches and so everyone knew my compromised cognition was just my normal state of being. While I was sliding across the road, I was sure I’d broken my collar bone or hip or both. When I came to a stop and was able to sit up and eventually get to the side of the road, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that apart from road rash on my right shoulder, elbow, and knee, all the damage was confined to my right rib cage. Which hurt like a motherfecker.

The fire boys recommended I go to the hospital for a more thorough eval, but they have to say that, right? One also stated with a wink what all my cycling friends and I already know from experience, there’s absolutely nothing they can do for broken ribs.

Meanwhile my friends were putting my chain back on and checking out CanRon, the name of my newish whip, which remarkably, was almost entirely unscathed, maybe because it first bounced off me instead of the road.

Then, I somehow rode it home chapperoned by the team until we got to Deschutes Falls Park and then BC rode with me all the way into the garage atop the Fifth Street Bridge. There’s only two explanations for how I made it home under my own power. Stupidity and adrenaline.

The first night was scary. I had help at dinner, but afterwards, when alone, I was unable to move. I could hear my ribs rattling when breathing, which was even painful. My doc cycling friend who fancies himself a comedian, advised, “Just don’t move or breath.” Eventually, I tried to get into bed, but ended up half on the edge of the mattress and half off. Then, I couldn’t get off the edge of the bed. There may have been a lot of moaning and even tears. Masculinity is overrated.

Eventually, I had a good idea, which like the aurora borealis, happens on occasion. The recliner for the win. Somehow, I slept as well in it as in bed. And that continues to be the case.

I read it takes twelve weeks to recover, but my doc cycling comedian friend texted this yesterday, “You can do activities as tolerated. It should start getting better about 2 weeks after the injury. It will be mostly gone by 6 to 8 weeks.”

The good news is I am way, way better already, six days in. Yesterday, I walked 1.25 miles to the gym, cycled for 30 minutes, and walked home. Just don’t ask me what kind of watts I was pushing. It’s amazing to be able to go from sitting to standing without feeling like someone is jamming a huge butcher knife right into my side. Now, it’s more of a butter knife.

So, my goal is to be back running, cycling, and lastly swimming, closer to six weeks than eight. I mean I need to be ready for the start of the Tour de France in early July. And time is wasting.

Unlike me, the white Oakley frames did not survive the crash. And for the unusually observant, energy gel in cheek, not chewing tabacco.

Little League Legend

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Sometime in the middle of my recent California cycling adventure, I wondered, what are we even doing, turning the pedals, for hours, every day?

The only thing I could come up with was extending our childhoods. We were men and women consciously choosing to be boys and girls of old.

Then, my peabrain shifted to my earliest memories of cycling in Louisville, KY in the late 1960s. When first learning to ride a bike, I remember someone, guessing an older sib, holding the seat and running alongside me until they weren’t. And then I remember swerving bigly, a few times right into metal mailboxes that dotted the edge of the road. Like Louisville’s own Cassius Clay, down goes Ron! Eventually, I swerved less and less.

My earliest, most vivid, fullblown cycling memory, was a year or two later, when I was dominating the kickball field at Zachary Taylor Elementary. It was this exact time of year, April, and Little League baseball tryouts were right around the corner.

Six or seven years old, my pals and I knew we needed a few hours of spring training before tryouts, so we laced our gloves onto some Louisville sluggers and laid them across our handlebars which we balanced precariously with balls bulging from our pockets. And then headed to a very nice, very large park, about a mile or two from our dented mailboxes.

Once we got to the park, we noticed the tennis courts sat under about 10 inches of water that had, until recently, been snow and ice covered. Maybe, we thought, as we took off our shoes and socks, we should splash around the courts a bit before officially starting spring training.

Within a few minutes, I sliced the bottom of my foot by stepping on a metal twist off beer top. The water turned red and I grew faint-headed. Someone hurriedly called my mom who lit into me. Since I’m the youngest of four, she was DONE with emergency rooms. On the way to get ten stiches, she got all up in my grill and said, “IF YOU EVER TAKE YOUR SHOES AND SOCKS OFF AND CUT YOUR FOOT AGAIN, DON’T CALL ME!” Which is pretty damn funny now, given how kind and caring she normally was. Everyone has a breaking point.

I think this was a Thursday and tryouts were all day Saturday. Even though Spring Training was cancelled on account of blood, I rallied, and showed up at tryouts on crutches. Shagging fly balls like a young Ken Griffey and even chucking the crutches and hobbling into the batters box to take some ferocious cuts like a young Andy Pages. A legend in both Louisville Little League history and my own mind.

Needless to say, the coaches were impressed with my pluck. I vaguely remember a bidding war breaking out. I told the coach that finally landed me that I didn’t want a bag, but if he could do something nice for my mom, like maybe comp her snow cones for the season, I’d greatly appreciate it.

The legend, with a scar on the bottom of his foot, fourth from the left.

Fallbrook To San Diego

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And that’s a wrap. What a week. Went even better than imagined. New roads and scenery, amazing weather, groovy new friends.

And everything, I mean everything, broke right for me. Water stops, food donations, local knowledge of the best routing, no flats or mechanicals, and on and on. Guardian angel(s)?

Exiting Fallbrook involved a lot of rollers, but I was feeling pretty good after the rest day, and we made quick work of them. As soon as things leveled out, a local legend was waiting for us with a suggested safer route. Which was cool. We weaved through backroads and neighborhoods until dropping onto a long nice bike path that took us all the way to Oceanside.

In Oceanside, we had to improvise because a thousand Oceanside 70.3 Half Ironperson athletes were smack dab in the middle of our planned route. So rude. Actually, as a lapsed triathlete who still follows the niche sport closely, it was really cool to catch glimpses of the leading men flying on their way to the finish.

In Oceanside, a former regular on this annual ride, a guy who sat out this year because of anticipated heat, prepared an amazing spread for us in a little park with the help of his wife. Ice cream, cookies, strawberry lemonade, and more. Amazing gesture.

After that, Skip and Chuck and I made like a 1988 Taco Bell commercial and made a run for the border skipping the Potato Shack where the bulk of the crew stopped to replenish and soak in the glorious coastline. Their pics prove they had even more fun than us.

There was an incident. I may have snapped at Skip. At one point, we were weaving through residential Del Mar one block from PCH (Pacific Coast Highway if you’re not quite as cool). I turned one intersection before Skip. Chuck was drifting a bit off the back and lost sight of me. Skip kinda barked at me that Chuck had lost me. I didn’t understand why he was so annoyed. I knew where Chuck was and rode through an alley to reconnect. We were separated for all of 60 seconds. Still, Skip was so damn tense. Riding bikes, in the sun, in one of the most beautiful spots in the world.

By the time we hit the base of Torrey Pines he was even more annoyed with the humble blogger because I was riding too far ahead. So I lost it, “Why are you so pissed at me and everything all the time?! I can wait at the top!” “Okay, go ahead and chase your KOM then.” Because I hit it I hard I had ample time at the top to plan an exquisite apology.

“Skip, I’m sorry,” I started. “Forget it,” he replied. Okay, avoid conflict much? What can you do except drag the world’s best apology into the trash can icon at the bottom right of the screen. You can’t force someone to listen and work through something if they refuse to.

Skip really knew the last 30 miles. Even owns a house in the middle of those miles that he rents out. So he pulled and pulled and pulled. Until Mission Bay. Then a gritty bike path. Then, nirvana, the Motel 6 where it all began. Whew, Skips rig was fully intact.

Thirty minutes later, we headed north. Nearly eleven hours later, we arrived at Chez Griffin in Sacramento. I showered and jumped in bed literally 5 minutes before I was going to turn into a pumpkin. The next morning started with banana pancakes and coffee. Bookending the trip at Chez Griffin is prob why the week broke like it did. They are amazing friends and the world’s best hosts.

Sunday was NorCal, Oregon, and home. Always amazed at how beautiful Northern California is. But don’t sleep on Oregon with the baby lambs, sheep, and llama farms.

To quote Casey Musgraves, “Oh, what a world.”

Postscript. Thanks to Dean for the zen picture. He went above and beyond to capture ZenRon.

Fallbrook Hotel. A no fun zone.
Namaste.
Don’t know the name. Lynn would be so disappointed.
Again with the elite refueling.
Wonder how I actually gained a few lbs?
Blummenfelt lucky I was not shipped to the race start. :)
My peeps in high school. Smallish waves.

The young hellions were running the signs. Go figure, even though we have far less time to live, we opted for a preponderance of caution.
Leaving SD we spotted Porsche getting my electric Cayenne dialed.

Arrows Here, There, and Everywhere

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I hit the road last week for the first time in 20 months. Drove a long, long ways. Overdosed on podcasts (Epstein Files, Artificial Intelligence, MF Doom–look him up). When the car came to a stop, I got on my bike and road it uphill in warm sunshine.

When my bike came to a stop, I titled a document, “What I’ve Lost”. It’s a shit inventory. If you’ve been reading me recently, you can correctly guess parts of my “What I’ve Lost” notes, but you would not guess this part, “Lost connection to PLU students—lost meaningful service, exercising unique skills, youthful exuberance.” I decided to stop teaching a year ago, but didn’t make it formal until a few months ago.

My timing on pulling the plug on work isn’t the best, but there would never be an easy time to let go of something that’s been so rewarding for so long. I hope the university will be okay.

Alison and Jeanette seem to be experiencing grief similarly to me. In waves. Or maybe, more accurately for me, waves of piercing arrows.

Something as simple as going out to dinner while on my inaugural road trip proved surprisingly fraught with unsuspecting arrows suddenly materializing out of thin air. Order a pizza. Then pass time in an eclectic shop next door. One that has very nice Valentine’s cards. Arrow One. Lynn called me the “Card King”. Like the flowers I’d get her, she always, always liked my cards. She kept most of them. “Now,” I think to myself as I start to get woozy from the loss of blood, “I’ll never get to buy her another.”

After pizza, gelato. I get a large cup with four different flavors. Arrow Two. “One more thing Lynn was right about,” I can’t help but think, “blackberry is the best”. I’ll never get to share a blackberry gelato with her again.

In the later parts of a recent bicycle ride, I got blindsided by Arrow Three. Never even saw the archer, but somehow stayed upright. Lynn and I had a silly ritual whenever I got home from a group ride. She’d excitedly ask, “Were you the Alpha Dog?” She’d be genuinely happy and proud whenever I said “yes” and incredulous when I’d say, “Some days you’re the hammer and some days you’re the nail.” Now, when I get home from a group ride, there’s no one to ask me how was the ride, who was there, what did you see? If no one asks about an activity, did it really happen?

Recently, Jeanette lamented, “I just don’t know where she is.” I offered that her mom was in our hearts, to the degree we emulate her. But, as these remarkably unremarkable stories illustrate, she’s almost always in my head too.

And In Sports

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  • The pre-season #1 and #2 ranked college football teams just fell out of the Top 25. So much for high falutin analytics.
  • I was 39 years young the last time the Mariners won a playoff game. I hope I won’t be 87 the next time.
  • Sometimes it takes awhile. SDarnold and BMayfield were putting on a quarterback clinic yesterday. DanDantheTranspoMan chalked it up to bad defense, but what does he know about football anything?
  • UCLA won a football game against a formerly great team. So much for going winless and getting the number one draft pick.
  • I finished fifth out of seven on Michigan Hill Saturday. A shell of my former self. TMAT was second.
  • Can we please make the Ryder Cup Great Again by kicking out every single loud and obnoxious American knucklehead on their first offense? Related. Who wants to go to Adare Manor with me?
  • Pogačar won. Again.
  • Keep an eye on Quenton Lanese of Olympia High School. He’s got the goods. Related. My 1k/year running streak is in serious jeopardy as a result of very stubborn left heel bursitis that has put a serious dent into my mileage. Try not to let that ruin your day.

Downdate

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A word I just made up. An “update” includes positive and negative developments. A “downdate” is a decidedly negative update. Here goes.

Lynn’s symptoms are growing in number and worsening. And she’s darn near non-communicative.

Since the MSA diagnosis, she’s been like a jack spinning so fast on a hard tabletop that you wonder when, oh when, will it stop.

I want to ride my trike. I want to go to the Y. I want to dodge the garbage cans and go from the back yard to the front in my wheelchair. I want to stand up on my own. I want to do it myself. I want to be normal. I want to live. And now that I’ve stopped caretaking, and can exhale, I wonder, who can blame her for her fighting spirit?

Now, though, the jack slows and wobbles. No more trike. No more trips to the Y. Alison said last night she held tight to a few garden tools, but no real gardening took place. It’s like this disease broke into our house, took every single thing in it, and then, not content, broke out a sledge hammer to destroy the walls. Now, I’m afraid, it’s going to torch the exposed wood framing. It’s relentless.

Since Lynn’s move to an adult family home five weeks ago, Alison and Jeanette have been amazing. Investing tons of time and energy. Ready to catch her as the wobbling worsens.

Lots of people continue to be amazing. Ebony, for example, is a hospice volunteer who comes twice a week to help Lynn shower. The last time she didn’t know I had slipped into the bedroom that is connected to the bathroom where she was helping Lynn. Ebony was so ebullient. She kept asking Lynn if the temperature was okay and continued talking to her like she was her own mother. She was having a genuinely good time aiding Lynn, and by extension, our family. Such humanity.

And Lynn’s friends. And their flowers. And cards. And visits. As a group, they are wonderfully unbothered by her decline. Like Alison, Jeanette, and me, they need her smile and probably wonder what they’re going to do without it.

A significant change is that Lynn is coming to grips with the fact that nature is running its course. And that her time is short. Her quality of life is such that she’s more okay with that now. One can only endure so much.

As for me, I’m living a double life. Monday, I had an amazing swim in a beautiful local lake. Tuesday, five friends and I were bearing down on Tenino when a herd of 50+ cows and calves, all the exact same white color, moved in unison towards the road to seemingly spur us on. That was surreal, and when combined with our idyllic weather, and the trees starting to show out, it’s tough not being able to enjoy my favorite time of the year with my favorite person.

When I get home from the lake and the group ride, the kitchen is empty. There’s no one to ask, “How was your swim? How was your ride?” So my autumnal joy is tempered by a void. My love of fall is no match for this loss of intimacy. Unlike Lynn though, I will be okay. In time.

Scheffler For The Win

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Not the fleeting kind that ends in hoisting a trophy. The real “meaningful life” kind.

Scottie Scheffler, the world’s #1 rated golfer, is winning more tournaments than anyone else and just asked at one of the most honest and provocative sports pressers in recent memory, “What’s the point?” You don’t have to be a golf junkie to watch/appreciate it.

Maybe his perspective is even more impressive than his game. He somehow knows fame is fleeting. And ultimately, unfulfilling. Especially compared to family.

I quit competing in triathlons after conducting a mental exercise. I thought to myself that if I truly committed to consistent training, age group wins at decent races were possible. And qualifying for the Kona World Championships. And these best case scenarios didn’t move the needle nearly enough for me to continue racing. I concluded, “What’s the point?”

There is one convincing reason for aging weekend warriors to keep entering races. Races provide many the needed motivation to train.

Back in my earliest triathlon racing days, I integrated swimming, cycling, and running into my life to the point that I regularly do some combo of all three each week*. Thus, that rationale doesn’t hold for me. I get “out the door” without signing up for anything. But, I suspect I’m an outlier in that respect.

*Haven’t swam in July yet. Father/Mother, forgive me, for I have sinned. My excuse is I’m allergic to something in the lake. And it seems like a crime to swim indoors in July.

How To Turn A Bike Ride Into A Bike Workout

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The title of an article in the morning’s New York Times. Anna Watts opines:

“You don’t need a flashy new bike or fancy gear to get a solid cycling workout. The most important thing is that your bike fits your body and you enjoy being on it.”

One wonders, does Watts regularly spout heretical things or is this a one-off?