My own pave

They call Paris-Roubaix "The Hell of The North," but watching the Tour of Flanders this weekend, the Belgian race seems pretty Hellish too. It's because of the pave, of course, those ancient cobblestone country roads that tear your backside and wrists apart when dry and is slick as ice when wet.

I've stated before that I enjoy riding our county's bike and hike trail system. There is a lot to like. You don't have to watch out for traffic, though a mother with a stroller can easily ruin your day. The trails follow streams so they are flat, wooded and cool on warm days. Like most cities west of the Mississippi, ours is laid out on a grid system, but the streamways don't follow this pattern, thus effectively shortening the distance between many points A and points B.

There are a few things I don't particularly enjoy. Indignant walkers is one of them. Hey, I give warning with my girly little bell and I tolerate you, so you can tolerate me. I also feel a bit silly on my road bike among the flat-bar comfort bikes that many people seem favor. If there are two things I don't understand about the bike and hike path they would be one - why do people think hybrid and comfort bikes are more comfortable - and two - why would anyone run more than enough miles to train for a sprint triathlon? Of course I used to wonder what would possess someone to run more than a mile, so I'm educating myself on this.

Another thing I'm coming to appreciate more is the pavement - the pave. Bike paths are not roads. Sure, you might find a stretch of concrete slab that's smooth as silk, but for the most part the bike path consists of ancient asphalt laid down many moons ago and promptly forgotten. It is riddled with potholes, just plain falling apart in places and can somehow be moist enough, long enough, to grow moss in a drought. In the fall it's covered with leaves that hide baseball-sized seed pods that fall off of God knows what kind of tree. Parts of the path are riddled with the leavings of Canada goose, which can be quite slick, let me tell you. Many of the paths are old enough that they were engineered in an era when they were an afterthought - namely when you come to an overpass you must climb a hill as steep as any staircase, then just as you are feeling good about yourself for selecting the right gear so as to not have to put a foot down on the climb, you must descend a similar staircase and then make a hairpin turn at the bottom. The newer ones are wider, flatter and every so often have pre-fab (albeit nice) bridges that never seem to exactly meet the pathway quite right at either end.

Into this environment you are introducing a road bike that has 23mm tires and, because it was designed to go, not stop, brakes that stop your bike about as well as you can stop your car by opening the door and dragging your foot on the pavement.

It is a recipe for disaster. It is also a recipe for fun. Today I figured that's exactly why I like the bike path so much: It makes me a better rider. I have learned to navigate those hairpin turns, find the right gear and climb those steep hills and avoid cell-phone-talking moms pushing twins in a stroller down the center of the path. I've also learned how to be comfortable after long periods in the saddle of an otherwise uncomfortable contraption. I've learned not to hold the bars in a deathgrip. I've learned to lift out of the saddle just enough to absorb the particularly bumpy bits. I've also learned how to place my hands in several different positions so as to not fatigue my wrists and forearms.

It's fun to go fast, but you have to remember that it can also be fun to go not so fast.