Today, I set out for what I had confidently labeled my “long ride.” New saddle. Full kit. Clipless shoes. Downloaded route. Bike computer prepped. I looked like someone who knew what they were doing.
And then I met my riding partner — ten years my senior, casually rolling up on a 2003 hybrid bike with a nearly flat tire, semi-loaded panniers, and all the urgency of someone out for a mellow spin to the farmer’s market.
I should’ve known what kind of ride this was going to be.
The Great GPS Debacle
Let’s start with the route. I had downloaded a lovely loop from Ride with GPS into my Wahoo computer, which, in theory, would guide us around a 13–14 mile trail-meets-road circuit.
In practice, the GPS route was loaded in the opposite direction of what I wanted to ride. Not a huge deal, I told myself. I’m a reasonably capable human with a decent sense of direction. I could figure it out.
Spoiler: I could not.
I met my friend about a half mile from the route’s plotted start (which was… somewhere else entirely), and we began to ride. Or attempt to ride. I kept glancing down at my computer and saw what I thought was the magical “blue line,” which meant we were on course. Turns out we were not. Not even close.
The Wahoo, rather than showing us the actual route, decided it would heroically direct me back to the designated start, even as we tried to ride the loop from the middle. Imagine a GPS screaming “Recalculating!” for 40 minutes but in passive-aggressive silence. That’s what we had.
Eventually, after multiple starts, stops, and what I’m pretty sure was a three-mile tribute to aimless wandering, I realized the computer was hopeless. It even rebooted mid-ride, as if to say, “You figure it out, genius.”
Nature, Bugs, and Bench-Based Therapy
We eventually gave up on precision and made our way to the Bay Trail — familiar turf, and finally something resembling momentum. The computer gave up, went to sleep, and honestly, I respected that.
Not long after, my riding buddy decided it was time for a break. We pulled over so she could sip some water, and I tried not to inhale any of the region’s high-protein flying insects. Bay Trail bugs have no chill. They hit like tiny airborne bricks. I’ve taken direct shots to the face from bees so big they probably have their own zip codes. This is why I now ride with sunglasses large enough to double as riot shields.
We started riding again just in time for the wind to show up like an uninvited guest who doesn’t know when to leave. My friend was struggling a bit. To be fair, riding into a headwind with underinflated tires is like dragging a soggy mattress uphill — every push forward feels like a betrayal of physics.
We stopped again. There was a bench. There were snacks. I shared some dates and walnuts because I’m the kind of ride host who brings treats even when I’m also questioning every life choice I’ve made that day. We talked, snacked, and quietly hoped the wind would sort itself out.
Kit vs. Casual: An Identity Crisis in Spandex
Eventually, we got back on the dusty dirt road and made our way toward a paved trail, where the wind finally shifted in our favor. But the vibe had changed. My ride partner was grinding. I was chilled. And it hit me: this was not, in fact, my long ride. This was a slow-motion joyride in disguise.
Wearing full kit and cleated shoes for this outing felt a bit like showing up to a neighborhood potluck in a tuxedo. I couldn’t even ride my bike without the clipless shoes. Meanwhile, she was breezing along in running shoes and cargo bags, like an REI catalog photo come to life. The contrast was sharp — and a little humbling.
The Protest and the Perspective Shift
After we wrapped the ride and paused for a quick drink (Diet Pepsi for her, decaf iced coffee for me), I peeled off for the last 1.5 miles to my car. Along El Camino Real, I rolled past a long stretch of protesters with signs that read NO KINGSand others opposing ICE raids and — presumably — the return of Trump. People were lined up from Mountain View to Sunnyvale, waving signs and flags, holding their ground against whatever they felt needed resisting.
I crossed the street, green light blinking, the wind still pushing, legs soft, thoughts louder than my gears.
Cycling’s Sliding Scale of Competence
Here’s the thing. Compared to my ride buddy — under-geared, overburdened, tire sagging like a sad souffle — I looked strong. Capable, even. The kind of person who might, theoretically, ride across a country.
But compared to the people doing back-to-back 80-, 90-, 110-mile days with no rest days and questionable accommodations, I look like I’m playing dress-up. Like I’m the opening act at a cycling convention where everyone else is doing double centuries and I’m over here celebrating 13 miles and a handful of trail mix.
There’s a wide spectrum in this sport. From casual loop with snack stops to gritty endurance days with no room for whining. From recreational saddle time to consecutive state crossings. From flat-tire-coasting to climbing in the Rockies with your worldly belongings strapped to your rear rack.
And right now? I’m somewhere in the messy middle — pedaling toward something I’m not yet sure I can do, but can’t quite stop imagining.
PS: If you see me on the trail looking overprepared, just know the GPS is probably asleep, the route is probably wrong, and I’m just hoping the bugs hit my sunglasses and not my teeth. But hey — at least I’m pedaling.