The air cooled as I ascended into the mountains. Autumn was creeping in. The aromas were changing from summer to fall: dying leaves and mushrooms growing in the woods. The cicadas no longer chirped. The previous week, when I had climbed the same road, the summer sun still seared and I rode with my jersey open, sweating, and thinking about the cafe at the top, where I would stop, buy a Coke, and fill my bottles with ice water. In two months, I would be bundled, with gloves and a hat, careful to avoid the patches of ice under the shade of the trees, where the low winter sun wouldn’t hit. Then, I would stop for a hot coffee in the bar and sit around a fire that warmed the patrons. Sometimes, I tapped out intervals on the climb, focused on the effort to tune my body for the races, and others I rode at a tempo where I could chat with friends and teammates. As I climbed between the plantations of cork and Holm oaks, few cars would pass and I could sink myself into the environment, absorbing the moment without distraction. I rode up the climb weekly, at least. The road had changed over the years, repaved, and adapted to accommodate a new bridge, under which I passed. Rural houses, of which there were few, had been torn down and rebuilt. Sections of forest had been cleared. At the top, near the entrance to the town of Sant Hilari, there is a bench at the roadside, just to the right of the roundabout, after the town sign, that sometimes, I would sprint to as if it were a finish line.
On the bench, regardless of the weather or time of year, a group of men sat, chatting. The age of retirement, they seemed to meet at the bench daily. Some had walking canes resting between their legs. Years of sun, labour and life had left marks on each of them. I would wave, say hello, and they would respond. I can’t remember a day I passed through the town when they weren’t convened. I usually rode through town at roughly the same time, before the lunch hour. After a while,I knew they would be there regardless of the day or weather, and I liked to think they might be expecting me to pass. On rainy days, they had umbrellas, on colder days, they were bundled, as I was. There was some odd comfort in seeing them, even though we never spoke.
While passing with a teammate, we discussed how their lives were perhaps the ideal. Loneliness which has become pervasive in many modern cultures is likely something they rarely felt, knowing they could meet their friends, neighbours, at the bench. Camaraderie seemed to trump the weather, and everything else. I imagined their conversations, how they could commiserate, listen, or advise one another, or just sit and say nothing. I’m sure there was some level of therapy in their friendship, even if they didn’t realize it.
In his book Outliers, Malcolm Gladwell wrote about the Roseto effect, which told the story of a small Pennsylvania town, where the average life expectancy was longer than any other in America. The residents, many who were first generation Italian immigrants, didn’t have healthier diets or better exercise routines than the average but shared spaces in their town, built community and found security in those relationships. As the residents began to chase the American Dream, built larger fenced in homes and adopted an American lifestyle their life expectancy dropped and normalized to the US average. Ultimately, to live a longer, more fulfilled life it’s better to invest in a cohesive community than to build a larger home or buy a fancier car. Many cities have built environments that are no longer conducive to community building, and of course isolation is only accentuated by our adoption of technologies that diminish human interaction.
I think back to the men on the bench often, especially as I age and understand how the value of friendship and shared experience is greater than everything else. Even as I look back on my time racing, where I was driven to achieve goals, it is the experiences and the relationships that have stuck with me. The adventures with friends and family are what left their mark. Sitting on the team bus after the race, driving to the next hotel, discussing the race, recounting events after having experienced something unique together is what remains memorable.
On occasion, I’ll join a local group ride in Toronto in the early morning. The riders meet daily at the same time in the same spot. The route loops through city neighbourhoods and up and down main arteries, which start to come alive as we ride. Cycling, beyond commuting, in the city is confined to the early hours before the city is paralyzed by automobiles, and even then it isn’t great. But, knowing the group is there, is what gets people out before the sun rises. Each rider can feel the familiarity of faces that welcome regardless of how bad their week is going. For many of them, the group ride is their park bench. Together on the road, they fall into their tribe, where they are a part of something uniquely theirs, even if only for a few hours.
Unfortunately, group rides, and cycling clubs are fewer now due to numerous factors: a general decrease in volunteerism within our culture, the increase in liability and the expense of insurance. As in many realms in modern society the dissolution of third places is pervasive and contributing to the sense of isolation.
Cycling can be an exclusive, intimidating and exclusionary sport, due to a multitude of factors which can be exacerbated or overcome by a group ride depending on leadership and etiquette. On a club ride, members shouldn’t feel alienated because they haven’t bought fashionable clothing or don’t have the latest bike. Women shouldn’t feel intimidated by the aggressive, and often demeaning nature of many men. Veterans should teach rookies. Together the ride is richer. The focus is the group, its fluidity and cohesion, not the strength of an individual within the group, which is often the case when rides are influenced by Strava segments and powermeters.
An old teammate of mine, who won dozens of professional races, said he gets more joy from helping young riders now, and seeing them progress and win due to his coaching, than he felt when he was winning at the highest level.
Returning to Catalonia, Spain each year, I still climb up to Sant Hilari, and stop for a drink in the town centre. It’s been over ten years since I raced; little has changed in the town while everything has changed in my life. No longer chasing fitness and performance targets, I have greater appreciation for the countryside, and simply being able to ride a bike into the mountains. Each ride now feels like a gift. The bench isn’t empty. The men still sit and chat, none poking at phones. They always seem to be present in each other’s company and the moment. I wonder if they realize what that bench has given them.
Written by Michael Barry
Photography by Camille MacMillan
Michael
You’re not ageing!!!!! I remember you cycling with my kid down the Don River valley when you were four years old!
cheers, Oliver