There’s a unique kind of magic in the hum of tires on asphalt, the wind in your face and the rhythmic push and pull of pedals. For me, the bicycle has been a lifelong companion, a constant source of joy and challenge since my parents gifted me my very first fat-wheeled, training-wheeled equipped steed at the tender age of three. It handled more like a Tonka truck than a precision machine, but that early fascination, upgraded to a dirt bike-esque machine by age seven or eight, give me some serious neighborhood range. Eventually, when I could make my own decisions, I upgraded to a proper road bike. Sleek, fast and unforgiving, a bike that hums when you’re in the zone and tattles on you when you’re not.
I’m an avid bicyclist, not in the leisurely “let’s cruise through the park” kind of way, but in the “let’s spend a weekend riding 100 miles and call that fun” kind of way. In a good year, I am easily pushing past the 5,000-mile mark. That’s enough to pedal from New York to Los Angeles and still have the legs to swing back through Vegas for a snack. This commitment isn’t just about numbers. It’s about the sheer love of cycling, the feeling of freedom, the physical exertion and the mental clarity that only comes from hours spent on two wheels. It’s a connection to the environment, a rolling meditation and a constant test of endurance.
This year, however, has been a tougher ride than most, even before factoring in the miles. Between the relentless demands of work, the unpredictable call of search and rescue duties and the beautiful chaos of family life, time has been a precious commodity. And when I have found a sliver of free time, the weather hasn’t always been cooperative. Wind, rain and cold temperatures have conspired to keep the bike indoors when I wanted to be out.
But then, yesterday happened. It was a gran fondo opportunity and the call of the road was simply too strong to ignore. “Gran fondo” is a French-Italian blend that loosely translates to “big ride” and these events live up to their name. They are not your average Sunday loops around the neighborhood. They are endurance tests for the bicycling community. The smallest ones push riders to complete a metric century, 100 kilometers or 62 miles. But many fondi stretch far beyond that, challenging cyclists with distances of up to 150 miles, or more, enough to question your sanity, hydration and life choices all at once. The beauty of a fondo is that it’s rarely a race. The primary goal isn’t to beat others, but simply to finish the ride, to conquer the distance and the elements and to prove your own resilience, mostly to yourself. My personal best season was a few years back when I completed a dozen fondi in a single year, each one a testament to personal grit and the camaraderie of the road with its own flavors of suffering, triumph and scenic glory. They’re the Tour de Personal Growth.
Yesterday’s fondo started out idyllic. The morning air was crisp, temperatures hovering comfortably in the 60s, with barely a whisper of wind. It was the kind of perfect start that makes you fall in love with cycling all over again. But as the day wore on, Mother Nature decided to turn up the dial. The winds picked up and with them, the temperatures soared. My trusty bicycle computer, a silent witness to the ordeal, logged an average temperature of 91 degrees, with a brutal peak of 109 degrees Fahrenheit. That’s not “warm”. That’s “bake a lasagna on your handlebars” hot. Riding in that kind of heat feels less like a hobby and more like a crazy dare.
Riding in conditions like that transforms the experience entirely. It’s no longer about gliding effortlessly. It becomes a raw battle against the elements. A hot wind, blasting like a furnace, makes every pedal stroke a monumental effort, sucking the joy out of the ride and replacing it with a relentless, dehydrating assault. It’s why you start to see riders pull over, seeking shade, or simply calling it a day when they stop at aid stations. And then there’s me, stubborn as ever, grinding away under a furnace blast like a Tour de France competitor on day 19 of a desert stage. Conditions like those are profoundly unfriendly, pushing the human body to its absolute limits.
Despite the escalating discomfort, I managed to finish the ride. I crossed that invisible line of completion, but not without paying a price. I probably checked off every symptom of heat exhaustion on WebMD along the way. The aftermath was telling: I guzzled three liters of ice-cold water, like a man who’d just survived the Sahara, a desperate attempt to rehydrate and cool my core. And in a rare, departure from my usual dietary discipline, I devoured a pint of ice cream. I’m not anti-ice cream by any means, but rarely do I consume that much in one sitting. Desperate times call for creamy reinforcements. This time, it was less about indulgence and more about survival, a delicious and essential intervention to bring my core temperature down.
A good fondo, even in normal conditions, can easily burn three days’ worth of calories, if not more, so the caloric intake wasn’t the issue. In fact, any potential caloric guilt was conveniently left behind at least a dozen miles short of the finish line. Even after all that fluid and ice cream, my weight was still down 6% from the day before. That’s not “I lost a little water weight”. That is dehydration with a vengeance, pure and simple, and a stark confirmation of the heat exhaustion theory.
My experience yesterday underscores a critical message for anyone exercising, especially in extreme conditions: get out there and exercise, but always, always manage your body’s response to the environment. Listen to its signals. Hydrate intelligently. And whatever you do, please, don’t use me as a benchmark for anything! Especially not when it’s 109 degrees out. I do search and rescue as a hobby. I’ve pulled plenty of exhausted, dehydrated, heat stressed individuals from all sorts of environments. I can see our medical lead looking me in the eyes, saying, “you know better than that, you idiot!”
Cycling has been with me longer than most friendships and it taught me more about persistence, patience and porta-potties than I care to admit. I love it. I live it. I hurt myself for it. And somehow, I come back smiling. My dedication to the saddle might sometimes override common sense, a testament to the deep love I have for this sport, but not necessarily a wise example to follow. The open road, whether bathed in golden sunlight or blistering under a scorching sun, continues to call and as long as it does, I’ll keep answering, learning and sharing the wild, wonderful and sometimes utterly insane journey of an avid bicyclist.