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ninevirtuesHow about a little 400-year-old pop culture from across the pond today?
It’s spring, which always brings on my faire instincts. There’s no faire here, but I’m prepared: I have the music with me. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to leave “Mad Tom o’Bedlam” set on repeat while I got ready to ride…you tell me.
Mad Tom o’Bedlam is a very old song, and I know it as one sung by soldiers, but it’s about madness…. Bedlam refers to Bethlehem, the first insane asylum in London in 1403. Maudlin refers to Mary Magdalen, the analogous women’s asylum. As for the song itself, which has many more verses than you see here.... well, think of it as a pre-technological version of "99 Bottles of Beer..." sung by a song-literate culture that had the time and patience to remember many, many verses.
As for me…. As I bolted out the door for the turtle ride this morning, I was afraid, and frustrated. Yesterday I repeatedly tried to hang with the group, spiked my heart rate, blew up (that is, went so hard I had to go slowly for about five minutes)….and watched everyone else vanish into the far distance. Repeatedly. And yesterday’s ride was populated by fast guys: Jerry, who was apparently inhumanly fast on a bike before he could walk, and Jack….who’s new to riding, but has an athletic background, and who sneaks off during the week to ride with Elliott, another of the fast guys. There is no reason he should be able to go that fast, but go he does.
I’ve been a triathlete for years, and a fast one. I can go hard. Why am I gasping for air, falling off the back, routinely miserable on these rides? (Maybe it’s time to quit. I hear philately--yeah, you heard me, stamp collecting--can be very fulfilling. There is no reason for me to struggle this much, damn it.)
Yet here I am…riding with guys who seem to regard a Sunday morning ride as war with handlebars.
(For to see Mad Tom of Bedlam
Ten thousand miles I traveled
Mad Maudlin goes on dirty toes
To save her shoes from gravel.)
Saturday’s ride was painful and hard. But a late night spent studying neuroscience, and not partying, is about to pay off for our heroine. Specifically, knowing about arousal is about to help me out. Let me explain:
(No, not THAT kind of arousal. Get your mind out of the gutter. This is neuroscience we’re discussing, here.) When I say arousal, I mean “readiness for action”. For example, if I sit you down and tap your patellar tendon with a reflex hammer, your leg jerks. Right?
Okay, now if I raise your level of arousal by telling you that you are about to face an IRS audit, you become anxious. Your level of arousal rises, and your muscles either tense, or become more willing to fire at the slightest opportunity. So I tap your knee with a reflex hammer and….even though quadricep strength won’t help you in an audit, you still get a bigger leg jerk… because more of your muscle is firing.
Conversely, if I calm you down by telling you it was all a joke, feed you a Quaalude to make absolutely sure you’re relaxed, and then tap your knee with a reflex hammer… I see a small jerk. Your level of arousal is lower. Your muscles are less willing to fire. (mmm, quaaludes.)
You can tell that anxiety is affecting someone if, when you try to move them, you feel initial resistance, as though they are stiff.
Okay. Armed with that information, I’m off to the turtle ride… lately, it’s been the ass-kicking, name-taking, who’s-the-alpha-male-today, sprint-ya-for-the-county-line turtle ride. On the way there, I am late again. Cresting the last hill, I look down at my speedometer. I’m going uphill at 20 MPH. Hey, I remember when that was my race pace. (Oh.)
(I went down to Satan's kitchen
To break my fast one morning
And there I got souls piping hot
All on the spit a-turning.)
Fine. Okay, legs, now that we have the clue about arousal, how about we do it this way? Only the muscle fibers that actually need to be working, to stay with the group, should be working. Everybody else relax.
”We can do that,” said my legs. ”Sure.”
We chose route one (flat, or as flat as it ever gets here). There were hills. I hung with the group. And then it happened: A part of that route is permanently etched in my memory as The Place I Always Get Dropped and watch, helplessly, as the pack rides off into the distance.
Today, though, I was not dropped.
For the first time in living memory, I did not arrive, last, after time-trialing in towing my own personal cloud of despair and slowness.
Legs, what the hell was that? I mean, that was mighty. What gives?
”That way is much easier than firing all your muscles at once, including back and trunk for good measure. Trust us on that.”
Well, okay.
(No gypsy, slut or doxy
Shall win my mad Tom from me
I'll weep all night, with stars I'll fight
The fray shall well become me.)
We set off again. Twenty miles down, twenty to go. We form a paceline. The speedometer rises gradually: 23…. 25….27….30 MPH. Damn. Then it’s Glenn’s turn to pull. 34 MPH. I’m stunned; amazing how educational a working speedometer can be. More importantly, I’m hanging with the group at speed. That’s my entire mission for the day, so when the rider in front of me ends his pull and moves aside, I move aside behind him. I will not pull today. At 30 MPH, though, I feel like we’re flying through a flowing countryside, like my father’s stories about flying in formation.
(By a knight of ghosts and shadows
I summoned am to tourney
Ten leagues beyond the wide world's end-
Methinks it is no journey.)
We pause by the fire station. We don’t have to wait for anyone today. For the first time, I believe the guys when they said they occasionally stop for no particular reason, and they are not actually waiting specifically for me. I can see it, because when the group stops, I’m right there, and we all wait anyway. Well, well.
(With a host of furious fancies,
Whereof I am commander,
With a burning spear and a horse of air
To the wilderness I wander.)
Then there are more hills. I stick. When the fast guys sprint for the top of the hill, I go too, leaving the slower members of the group behind… and it’s easy. (“Only the muscle fibers that need to fire should fire,” I chant to myself. “Relax and kick.”)
None of the fast guys have been causing my anaerobic, discouraged misery. I’ve been doing it to myself. Clearly, I need to learn to get out of my own way.
(Of thirty years have I
Twice twenty been enraged
And of forty been three times fifteen
In durance soundly caged)
At the final regroup, the guys decide that I should pull home. I do. It’s harder, because I’m anxious about pulling them all at the speeds to which they have become accustomed. (I have a little trouble being relaxed and anxious at the same time, apparently.)
At the final turn, though, I overshoot. “RIGHT TURN! RIGHT TURN!” someone yells. “Naah, don’t TELL her!” someone replies… the tone of voice making clear that I’m strong and fast, and they are jealous. (The one who said that is normally strong, but has been off the bike for two months, and he suffered today. I can see why he’d feel that way.)
(Still I sing bonny boys, bonny mad boys
Bedlam boys are bonny
For they all go bare and they live by the air
And they want no drink nor money)
And then it’s over: We reach the spot, three or four miles out, where the peleton slows to cool down. I grin and look at Victor. “Did you know that studies show that after a psychotherapy session, the part of your brain that deals with memory and emotions shows increased bloodflow?”
He looks at me and grins. “Cool!”
Let today henceforth be remembered as The First Time I Hung With The Turtle Ride.
(So drink to Tom of Bedlam
Go fill the seas in barrels
I'll drink it all, well brewed with gall
And maudlin drunk I'll quarrel)
It’s spring, which always brings on my faire instincts. There’s no faire here, but I’m prepared: I have the music with me. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to leave “Mad Tom o’Bedlam” set on repeat while I got ready to ride…you tell me.
Mad Tom o’Bedlam is a very old song, and I know it as one sung by soldiers, but it’s about madness…. Bedlam refers to Bethlehem, the first insane asylum in London in 1403. Maudlin refers to Mary Magdalen, the analogous women’s asylum. As for the song itself, which has many more verses than you see here.... well, think of it as a pre-technological version of "99 Bottles of Beer..." sung by a song-literate culture that had the time and patience to remember many, many verses.
As for me…. As I bolted out the door for the turtle ride this morning, I was afraid, and frustrated. Yesterday I repeatedly tried to hang with the group, spiked my heart rate, blew up (that is, went so hard I had to go slowly for about five minutes)….and watched everyone else vanish into the far distance. Repeatedly. And yesterday’s ride was populated by fast guys: Jerry, who was apparently inhumanly fast on a bike before he could walk, and Jack….who’s new to riding, but has an athletic background, and who sneaks off during the week to ride with Elliott, another of the fast guys. There is no reason he should be able to go that fast, but go he does.
I’ve been a triathlete for years, and a fast one. I can go hard. Why am I gasping for air, falling off the back, routinely miserable on these rides? (Maybe it’s time to quit. I hear philately--yeah, you heard me, stamp collecting--can be very fulfilling. There is no reason for me to struggle this much, damn it.)
Yet here I am…riding with guys who seem to regard a Sunday morning ride as war with handlebars.
(For to see Mad Tom of Bedlam
Ten thousand miles I traveled
Mad Maudlin goes on dirty toes
To save her shoes from gravel.)
Saturday’s ride was painful and hard. But a late night spent studying neuroscience, and not partying, is about to pay off for our heroine. Specifically, knowing about arousal is about to help me out. Let me explain:
(No, not THAT kind of arousal. Get your mind out of the gutter. This is neuroscience we’re discussing, here.) When I say arousal, I mean “readiness for action”. For example, if I sit you down and tap your patellar tendon with a reflex hammer, your leg jerks. Right?
Okay, now if I raise your level of arousal by telling you that you are about to face an IRS audit, you become anxious. Your level of arousal rises, and your muscles either tense, or become more willing to fire at the slightest opportunity. So I tap your knee with a reflex hammer and….even though quadricep strength won’t help you in an audit, you still get a bigger leg jerk… because more of your muscle is firing.
Conversely, if I calm you down by telling you it was all a joke, feed you a Quaalude to make absolutely sure you’re relaxed, and then tap your knee with a reflex hammer… I see a small jerk. Your level of arousal is lower. Your muscles are less willing to fire. (mmm, quaaludes.)
You can tell that anxiety is affecting someone if, when you try to move them, you feel initial resistance, as though they are stiff.
Okay. Armed with that information, I’m off to the turtle ride… lately, it’s been the ass-kicking, name-taking, who’s-the-alpha-male-today, sprint-ya-for-the-county-line turtle ride. On the way there, I am late again. Cresting the last hill, I look down at my speedometer. I’m going uphill at 20 MPH. Hey, I remember when that was my race pace. (Oh.)
(I went down to Satan's kitchen
To break my fast one morning
And there I got souls piping hot
All on the spit a-turning.)
Fine. Okay, legs, now that we have the clue about arousal, how about we do it this way? Only the muscle fibers that actually need to be working, to stay with the group, should be working. Everybody else relax.
”We can do that,” said my legs. ”Sure.”
We chose route one (flat, or as flat as it ever gets here). There were hills. I hung with the group. And then it happened: A part of that route is permanently etched in my memory as The Place I Always Get Dropped and watch, helplessly, as the pack rides off into the distance.
Today, though, I was not dropped.
For the first time in living memory, I did not arrive, last, after time-trialing in towing my own personal cloud of despair and slowness.
Legs, what the hell was that? I mean, that was mighty. What gives?
”That way is much easier than firing all your muscles at once, including back and trunk for good measure. Trust us on that.”
Well, okay.
(No gypsy, slut or doxy
Shall win my mad Tom from me
I'll weep all night, with stars I'll fight
The fray shall well become me.)
We set off again. Twenty miles down, twenty to go. We form a paceline. The speedometer rises gradually: 23…. 25….27….30 MPH. Damn. Then it’s Glenn’s turn to pull. 34 MPH. I’m stunned; amazing how educational a working speedometer can be. More importantly, I’m hanging with the group at speed. That’s my entire mission for the day, so when the rider in front of me ends his pull and moves aside, I move aside behind him. I will not pull today. At 30 MPH, though, I feel like we’re flying through a flowing countryside, like my father’s stories about flying in formation.
(By a knight of ghosts and shadows
I summoned am to tourney
Ten leagues beyond the wide world's end-
Methinks it is no journey.)
We pause by the fire station. We don’t have to wait for anyone today. For the first time, I believe the guys when they said they occasionally stop for no particular reason, and they are not actually waiting specifically for me. I can see it, because when the group stops, I’m right there, and we all wait anyway. Well, well.
(With a host of furious fancies,
Whereof I am commander,
With a burning spear and a horse of air
To the wilderness I wander.)
Then there are more hills. I stick. When the fast guys sprint for the top of the hill, I go too, leaving the slower members of the group behind… and it’s easy. (“Only the muscle fibers that need to fire should fire,” I chant to myself. “Relax and kick.”)
None of the fast guys have been causing my anaerobic, discouraged misery. I’ve been doing it to myself. Clearly, I need to learn to get out of my own way.
(Of thirty years have I
Twice twenty been enraged
And of forty been three times fifteen
In durance soundly caged)
At the final regroup, the guys decide that I should pull home. I do. It’s harder, because I’m anxious about pulling them all at the speeds to which they have become accustomed. (I have a little trouble being relaxed and anxious at the same time, apparently.)
At the final turn, though, I overshoot. “RIGHT TURN! RIGHT TURN!” someone yells. “Naah, don’t TELL her!” someone replies… the tone of voice making clear that I’m strong and fast, and they are jealous. (The one who said that is normally strong, but has been off the bike for two months, and he suffered today. I can see why he’d feel that way.)
(Still I sing bonny boys, bonny mad boys
Bedlam boys are bonny
For they all go bare and they live by the air
And they want no drink nor money)
And then it’s over: We reach the spot, three or four miles out, where the peleton slows to cool down. I grin and look at Victor. “Did you know that studies show that after a psychotherapy session, the part of your brain that deals with memory and emotions shows increased bloodflow?”
He looks at me and grins. “Cool!”
Let today henceforth be remembered as The First Time I Hung With The Turtle Ride.
(So drink to Tom of Bedlam
Go fill the seas in barrels
I'll drink it all, well brewed with gall
And maudlin drunk I'll quarrel)
