Death Trap Aero Bars

Clip on aero bars...speed demons or death machines? 

I've had a friend's pair of clip on aero bars for about a year now, and yesterday I finally got around to trying them out on my bike.  I've heard that they change your balance, so I figured I'd minimize my fall risks by starting on the trainer.  Totally loved it! I felt aerodynamic, fast, and comfortable.

Today I wanted to give the aero bars a real spin around the block before their official unveiling at a time trial race this weekend.  It was a bit windy,, about 15 mph, but I wasn't afraid. As long as I kept the wind at my back, I figured I would be fine.  

As I took off towards the country roads, I kept hearing a strange medium-pitch whistling sound, like a wind chime or a Native American flute. It followed me through each turn and straightaway, so after scoping the landscape for a bit and not seeing any likely causes, I had to attribute the noise to my new aero bars.  It was an eerie, haunting serenade.

I tried out the bars slowly. First I moved my left hand from the hood to the aero bar. I could feel the bike getting squirley under my poor balance and tried to relax a bit. I then moved my right hand from the hood to the aero bar.  Immediately, the bike started to careen left and right. I tried to stay focused and look ahead to regain a sense a of control, but I think it took all of 15 seconds for me to give up. I tried to keep my breathing steady, I moved each hand back to its respective hood as smoothly and panic free as I could. Then, I let myself curse the living hell out of the aero bars and my lack of balance. Holy hell Jesus was that scary!

I tried once more in a few miles. Again, same wild careening of the bike, same sense of intense fear, doubt, and doom.  I started imagining  that the whistling noise of the bars was a Native American spirit following me, warning of my soon-to-be demise if I kept going with these aero bars. The rest of the short ride was spent on the hoods or the drops.  Needless to say, I am not using the aero bars on Saturday's event.

Angry Birds

Red Wing Blackbirds...viscous little things. They look all friendly and innocent as they watch you peddle past, but don't be fooled. They're laying in wait, scoping out that perfect moment to come swooping out of the sky and peck you to pieces.

The thing about these Red Wing Blackbirds is that their favorite nesting areas are ditches..ditches perilously close to the side of country roads with narrow shoulders relegated to cyclists. 


During my first summer of riding in Wisconsin, I was pretty clueless about these birds. They were lined up on roadsides everywhere, hanging out and happily chirping, looking all innocent.

It was a gorgeous  spring day about two years ago.  I was riding along a lazy country road, a route I had taken a few times before. In my peripheral vision I began to notice a red wing blackbird circling angrily a short distance away.  As I approached, its velocity only increased.  Soon I was close enough that I could feel the wind from its wings as it swooped and squawked at the edge of the road. Slightly alarmed, I sprinted away. The swooping bird faded into the distance. I didn't give it a second thought.

A few days later I was out on that same route. The red wing blackbirds had been a constant spectator on my rides and I had grown quite accustomed to their presence on the sidelines. As I peddled along at a steady rate, I suddenly felt a bird swoop up behind me, heard it squawking angrily. My heart rate skyrocketed even before I began the sprint towards safety.  The chase was short and I won uncontested.

I avoided that route for a while, but the lure of that country road quickly overshadowed the memory of the chase. But this time, that bird was waiting. As I peddled by, it swooped up out of the ditch, squawking and flapping it's wings in a rage. As I sprinted away, the bird pursued, inching closer and closer with each new swoop. The image of a bloody, scratched up back put a pit of fear in my gut. I sprinted faster.  A felt a hard peck on my helmet and nearly screamed. I peddled and peddled as fast as I could, long after the bird had lost interest. The fear had solidified – I had been physically attacked by a red wing blackbird.

A few weeks ago, on a group ride, I rode past the old danger zone. I kept one eye on the road, one in the ditch, watching for a renegade red wing blackbird to pop up in attack mode. Perhaps it was too early in the spring, or my old nemesis had found a new nesting spot, but no attacks were waged. That day, anyway.  

I peddle prepared.

Riders Ready

Road bikes.  They're fast, sexy, calorie-burning machines that can't wait to set your thighs ablaze and hurdle you through the fresh country air or smog filled streets. And by fresh country air, I'm referring to the lush scent of actively composting Holstein excrement, at least here in Central WI.


I would have never anticipated myself becoming an avid cyclist, or at least moving towards a pattern of behavior that could possibly be described by that term.  Yet I have been bitten by the bike bug.   Two years ago I had decided to sign up for a triathlon.  I could swim, I could run, and I really liked spin class, so I could bike, right?  Such an assumption.