On The Road
by: Bill Oetinger 8/1/2005
The Sounds of Cycling
I bought a new bike a few months ago. One of the primary reasons I gave up on my previous bike was noise: after 15 years of hard use, the old girl was squeaking and squawking, rattling and clicking, and driving me crazy. So...new bike. Very fancy. State of the art. All the best bells and whistles. I like just about everything about the new bike, but there’s one thing about it that bugs me: a new kind of noise. In this case, it’s the pawls ratcheting around in the rear hub when I’m freewheeling.
Okay, okay...I know: all hubs make some sort of clicking, buzzing clatter when the pawls disengage. But my old Dura-Ace hub was not nearly this loud. Not even close. I had to put my ear right down by the hub to hear it. (Putting my ear next to the rear hub is not something I do while riding--only when the bike is on the workstand--so I never really heard it at all on the road.) But these Bontrager DT Swiss hubs make a real racket. And it isn’t even a steady burr of sound. It’s an oscilating ZZzzz-ZZzzz-ZZzzz sound, like a New Year’s Eve noise maker. Or a cicada. I know they’re great wheels. I’m not planning on swapping them out just because the noise annoys me. I am working hard at getting over it.
But it will always bug me a little because, to my way of thinking, the bike should be essentially silent. That is in fact one of the greatest, purest joys of cycling: moving through space with a minimum of fuss and bother, and that means with a minimum of noise. Paul Fournel said it well: “The sound of bikes is the sound of the wind. The machine itself should be almost silent.”
My old buddy Bob suggested a theme for one of my columns: the Sounds of Cycling. Normally, I’m not too keen on fielding suggestions from others for column topics. But Bob and I go way back, so he’s entitled to bend my ear, and besides, it’s a good suggestion...a good topic. In fact, I had the same notion simmering on a mental back burner for months, and his suggestion was all it took to shift it from the back burner to the front.
The sounds of cycling do begin with the mechanical, physical function of the bike: the wheels on the pavement; the chain running through the drive train; the wind passing over the bike and rider. That short list really ought to cover it all, but as we know, creaks and squeaks and clicking pawls add their little complicated, syncopated back beat. Anything on the bike that can rattle will, what with all the little bumps in the road. Springs inside tire pumps. Tools inside a seat bag. Cables slapping against frames. Unidentified widgets fidgeting about inside brake/shifter pods. In theory, a taut, well-maintained bike will have stilled and isolated and damped down almost all of those little irritants. My new bike comes close, as all good new bikes should. Tight and quiet...it’s a pleasure to ride (except for that hub-buzz).
In the context of the mechanics of the bike, the sounds of cycling are, or should be, all about the lack of sounds. Smooth, hard road tires are built the way they are for low rolling resistance, but a collateral benefit is low noise, especially if they’re properly inflated. The chain, if properly cleaned and lubed, should make almost no noise as it glides around the gears and jockey wheels, and index shifting has eliminated the irritating grinding of a chain hung up between cogs. Most of us rarely have a chain in such perfect working order though, so we expect and accept a little churr of sound from that quarter, but not much. As for the wind noise over the bike and rider...our form-fitting jerseys and shorts go a long way toward eliminating wind noise. (For contrast, a winter cycling sound: the flutter of a wind shell jacket on a descent.) Aerodynamic advances in bikes have also cut the wind noise. I have aero rims and 16 bladed spokes on my fancy new wheels, as opposed to squarish rims and 32 conventional spokes on my old wheels. Believe me, it makes a big difference (except for that damn hub).
Once we’ve reduced the mechanical muttering to sotto voce level, we’ve freed up our ears for listening to the world around us, and this is where the sounds of cycling become a symphony. We have, first of all, the sounds of nature that are so much more accessible from the surround-sound seat of a bike than from inside a car: the whoompf of crashing surf, the rustle of leaves in a wood, the screeee! of a hawk or the liquid trill of a red-winged blackbird.
Then there are the unexpected, unnatural sounds. Some are good and some are bad, and not everyone will agree on which is which. Take the noise of our constant companions on the road: the motorized hoards. By and large, I would rather do without all of the noise introduced by the internal combustion engine. Most modern cars sound dreadful...either an asthmatic wheeze (most cars) or a clatter like pebbles in a tin can (diesels). That said, there are a few motor tunes I can live with and even appreciate, and not surprisingly, they eminate from vehicles using the roads in pretty much the same way I am on my bike: high performance motos and sports cars. The desmodromic snarl of a Ducati; the growl of the big six in an old Jag; the hubble-bubble of a Harley. Good, honest machine sounds, one and all.
In the world of unexpected sounds, I have a favorite little corner of my memory banks set aside for one particular sound that might surprise you: electric guitar. I am not suggesting wearing headphones when riding. (In fact, I strongly suggest you never do so. Very bad idea!) No, these are electric guitars out in the real world. Amped up guitar carries a fair way on a fair wind, so you can pick it up and hold onto it for quite awhile if you happen to pass someone who’s playing. On a number of occasions, I have enjoyed sweet snatches of electric blues wafting down a canyon while I was toiling up it. (It helps to be climbing at the time: less wind noise to get in the way, and a slower speed to keep you near the music longer.) Once, grappling my way up the fearsome wall of Fort Ross Road--one of our more infamous pitches--I was treated to a long, soulful blues ramble: think of Stevie Rae doing Lenny. That turned the terrible climb into a sweet, if somewhat sweaty dharma. Also drifting down through the trees: a whiff of ganja on the wind...no doubt helping to fuel the fires of that mysterious slow hand, off in the woods. (This is the same spot on Fort Ross--at mile 166 of the Terrible Two--where Chuck Bramwell swears he saw Duane Allman standing by the side of the road. So who knows? Maybe the ghost of Duane is out there in the misty, mossy mountains overlooking the Pacific, and maybe sometimes we can still hear him, if we’re in the right frame of mind.)
Recently, I had a similar experience climbing the dreaded Slug Gulch on the Sac Wheelmen - Sierra Century. This is at least as tough a climb as Fort Ross, but on this day, the hard work was made a little less so because we were serenaded by a decent blues band just off the road, laying down some very tasty chops. I had them in ear-range for most of a mile, and I really don’t think I suffered at all over the whole section, so entertained was I by the hot licks from the band. I’m guessing this was not an incidental meeting: me and the music. I suspect the organizers laid on the band for just that purpose of distracting us from the purgatory of that brutal wall. If so, I tip my hat to the clever folks who came up with the idea. It worked like a charm.
But back--for a moment--to the bad sounds. Yes, there are some. Maybe many. I can think of a few. In addition to the baseline bother of passing cars and trucks in general, we get the occasional blockhead leaning on his horn or hollering out the window at us. Or we get a quick shot of adrenalin when a large dog with his head out the window barks right in our ear. I hate that! Makes me think all sorts of nasty thoughts about the dog and his owner, and life is too short to waste any of it on that sort of pointless negativity. Let it go...take a deep breath and pedal on.
Then there are the bad sounds that bikes can make all on their own. The little one: pssss pssss pssss...followed by the frustrated wail of “Flat!” And the big one: the scrunch and crumble of a crash...really, one of the ugliest sounds I know. I’m not sure whether the sound itself is unpleasant, like fingernails on a blackboard or Chinese opera, or whether it only seems that way because we know what it means...broken bikes and bruised bodies.
Fortunately, happily, most of our bike sounds are more pleasant. Riding in a group has a music all its own, and the bigger the group, the louder and more complex the soundtrack. Group rides these days start with a sound that is relatively new to the world of biking: the coupling of cleats to pedals. On a big mass start, the sound of dozens or hundreds of cleats clicking in at once reminds me of the pool of photographers clicking away at a press conference...an amplified Rice Crispies moment...“snap, crackle, pop!”
A big moving peloton seems like a living, breathing organism--both greater and more cohesive than its constituent parts of 100 or 200 riders and bikes--and it makes an unforgettable noise: a whooshing, whirring windigo sigh like a phantom freight train or a small tornado. Standing by the side of the road watching and hearing a big pack go by at race pace--in a fast, flat crit, for instance--is a powerful, visceral thrill. There is a kind of latent, barely supressed violence in the sound. If you knew it was all safe and sedate within the pack, like an amusement park ride, then the sound might not mean much. But you know it’s not safe. 100 riders at speed in a race pack represents over 15,000 pounds of kinetic energy at play...skittering over manhole covers and botts dots, bumping shoulders, crossing wheels, surging, darting... Disaster held at bay by the thinnest of margins. Chaos on a frayed leash. What a rush!
I’ve never been in a full-tilt race peloton, and can only imagine what it must be like and sound like, from within. The closest I’ve come to that is the mass start of the Terrible Two, with over 200 riders setting out together on their journey, pacing along at an easy 20 to 25-mph in the belly of the beast. It is one of the cooler bike experiences I’ve ever had. Lots of little sounds--tires on tar, chains on gears, shifter clicks--all adding up to a big, busy beehive buzz. (This year, one of our Terrible Two course workers noted an interesting component of the sound mix I had missed: as the big pack rolled through the 5:30 am quiet outside Santa Rosa, the progress of the field could be charted by a wave of dog barking, from one residence to the next, all the way into town.)
Compare that with the wave of sound that follows a major race. Now we’re talking noise on a grand scale! I noticed this at the San Francisco Grand Prix, where you could actually hear the lead pack approaching before you could see them, as they surfed a wave of frenzied cheering from the throngs lining the course. You’ve seen the riders clawing their way up some narrow Alpine col in the Tour de France, fighting through a tunnel of crazed fans that opens ahead of them (barely) and closes again behind them. What must that be like? You’re working at your absolute limit, eyes crossing with the effort, brain fried, body screaming, and for an hour or more, you’re subsumed in this endless, howling, shrieking tunnel of bedlam, a babel of many tongues, most of them unintelligible, a word or two leaping out and registering in your dazed mind. Crazy. Off-the-chart insane.
When things are a little less frantic, like on a sociable club ride, we experience a different sort of sound: conversation. Cycling can be a solitary pursuit, but it can be a social one too, and when good friends come together for a ride, the chatter and patter in the group can be as much fun as the riding itself. A lot of incisive, intelligent discussion goes on, and occasionally something really clever might even emerge...something new and revelatory. I may have said I’m not keen on fielding suggestions for new essay topics, but I would guess at least half my ideas for these columns spring from some passing observation made by another cyclist on a group ride. Not all cyclists are equally witty or bright, but overall, I find the level of discourse on club rides to be quite stimulating and refreshing, and it’s a big part of why I like riding with a club.
But there is one sound of cycling that is better than banter, more thrilling than the rush of the race pack, even sweeter than birdsong. And that is the quiet flight of the perfect tailwind. This is one of the rarest and purest of biking pleasures: that timeless moment when bike speed and wind speed mesh on a downwind reach to create a cocoon of quiet within which we flow along on the wings of the wind. Anything other than a perfect tailwind--right at your back--won’t cut it. You also need good pavement and a quiet bike. A tiny downhill grade helps too. Not a real descent...no more than 2%...just enough so you don’t have to work too hard. When all the pieces fall into place, it’s zephyr heaven. Something approaching bike satori: zen buzzardism, where our earthbound bikes and bodies and brains finally achieve lift-off, and we know the magic of flying...weightless, effortless, heedlessly happy...the whole world gone as still and quiet as an empty cathedral.
Bill can be reached at srccride@sonic.net