. . . my somewhat unorthodox middle name — a hat tip to my father, whose parents were sufficiently enamored of the letter to use it twice (Earle). But that’s another story. Firmly into my eighth decade, less mobile than in years past, and (equally firmly) in denial, I’ve grudgingly acknowledged a downturn in, well, just about everything. Hills are steeper and winds are stronger. What other possible explanations could account for the average speed of bike rides inching steadily south, the blow by’s by other cyclists on a disturbingly consistent basis, and the relentless (and remorseless) truth that attaches to the slide down the ‘leaderboard’ of Strava, the esoteric — another ‘E’ — app that tracks (and compares) the efforts of cyclists the world over.

‘E’ is also for ‘Electric’ — as in E-bike, the mostly dismissed and just plain dissed, two-wheeled vehicle of choice of those unfortunate enough to have had their driver’s license suspended and still needing to show up for work: the ‘pseudo motor bike’ with pedals (that were never used!) that evolved from the Solex (at left) and mopeds so popular in Europe. I recall penning a disdainful letter to a G & M columnist after she chronicled the ‘E-bike experience’ on a ‘cycling trip’ to Italy — pointing up, none too subtly, that you could celebrate the trip, but please spare the real bikers amongst us the indignity of calling what you did on said trip, ‘cycling’. Same country, a few years later, I experienced first confusion, then annoyance when the portly ‘tourist’ steadily gained, then passed me as I puffed up a long climb, he astride something that certainly looked like a bicycle (more or less, minus the edemic down-tube). Suffice it that my history with ‘E’ and bike was oxymoronic at best — the two did not belong in the same sentence.

Fast forward a half-dozen years. Karma being what it is (also relentless), one’s words are frequently fed for breakfast. The choice of ‘falling off the back’ — that delightful term applied to cyclists ‘going backwards’ as the rest of the pack pulls away and/or waiting for the windless day with perfect temperatures before venturing out on a flat route was, shall we say, hardly a choice.

But something quite wonderful was, in fact, happening during this same time of dereliction and discouragement: E-bikes became ‘legitimate’. Gone were the foot rests and kiddy pedals. Slimmed were the fat, battery-heavy down-tubes. Weight watchers had come to the E-bike as the bulky, awkward, heavy, and frankly ugly frames dropped pounds. Design and aesthetics found their way into functionality. The E road bike was born. My arrogant, cynical, holier-than-thou stance that had held sway for lo these five decades of road biking was won over, trumped by necessity and style. I could continue my sport of choice and do it with dignity.

Evidently I was not alone in this, my Damascene moment. The cycling population had aged right along with me. The (heretical) possibility that the shame attaching to ‘cheating’ with a pedal assist was just maybe not so — shameful, illegitimate. You Tube videos appeared, pitting ‘real’ bikes against their turbo-charged E counterparts, comparing fitness benefits, and championing the pro’s of joining a growing number of E-converts. One could look, feel, and perform ‘like they used to’, keeping pace and pushing the envelope out another few years. St. Paul meets Ponce de Leon.

But therein lies the moral quandary and yet another ‘E-word’ — Ethics. Who knew that this rejuvenative movement would, could cross swords with the Strava Police. A (very) brief history of said app. This free bit of GPS-driven software maps rides and sends real time ‘beacons’ to the home base — so no more ‘I thought you’d be home hours ago’. It generates enough stats to choke a very, very large horse. And — here’s the rub — it automatically records every single rider’s times over portions of road (‘segments’) from Aukland to Amulree, in Tuscany and Taiwan — and uploads same to ‘leaderboards’. With the addition of ‘age-group boards’ a few years back, I could bask in the radiant top 10 glory of all the 70 plus-er’s that had made that same journey!

So what’s the problem. Just ask Lance! A little human growth hormone as a chaser to my T-bone steak — get over it! The playing field, as it were, is no longer level. While I’m celebrating riding into a 30 KPH headwind, climbing a 9%-er without breaking (too much of) a sweat, I’m kicking all those diligent, purist thirty-somethings to the leaderboard curb. The howls (well, mostly UPPERCASE cries of foul) were very nearly audible. Enter ethics — never a particularly strong suit amongst cyclists (especially the pro’s). Painful though it might be, I’m now able to hit a button and impose my ‘better self’, switching from ‘ride’ to ‘E-bike ride’. Order is restored. And I can sleep at night. But it was so nice to be #1 and wear the yellow — if only for a moment!