Much Ado About Chafing

A 200 km meditation on riding through discomfort

Prologue

Stratford, Ontario feels like it was designed by someone who once read a very good novel about England and thought, Yes, let’s do that. The Avon River curves through the center of town like it was sketched in by a set designer. Swans drift past benches where retirees feed ducks with theatrical flair. The Stratford Festival offers world-class theatre in a town that smells faintly of espresso, artisanal soap, and civic self-satisfaction. Once voted the best place in Canada to retire, it's the perfect place to begin Much Ado About Nothing, a 200-kilometer cycling event. Naturally.

At eight a.m., Stratford was just beginning to stir. We gathered in the arena parking lot, hockey parents shuffling kids inside for early-morning practice. Yes, it was July. No, hockey never stops. A few dog walkers nodded as we clipped in. It wasn’t dramatic, but it felt right — you don’t need a stage when you’re about to spend the day chasing discomfort and deciding when to listen and when to push through.

We were twenty at the start, about as diverse as a group in bike shorts gets. Some were back on the bike after Devil’s Week, others tackling their first 200-kilometer ride, the baseline credential for randonneuring. Some looked eager, others nervous. You never really know what kind of ride it will be until you’re in it.

Every rider has a reason for showing up, but most of us are too polite to ask. You learn to read the rituals instead. Cue sheets taped with surgical precision. Chamois cream blessed like holy water. The low hum of cleats, zippers, and GPS units acquiring satellites. We distribute brevet cards, joke about the weather, promise to take it easy. Which we won’t.

Mike, one of the new riders, had spent the night playing roadie for his 15-year-old son’s classic rock band, the Can’t Drive Yet. They have the standard garage-band origin story: learn an instrument, stay in tune, maybe play in public. The parents — possibly out of love, possibly out of self-preservation — double as booking agents. Mike was a little bleary-eyed but cheerful. He’d stayed up late coiling cables and risen early to do something hard for himself.

First Act

We rolled out of Stratford in a tight, humming line, river to the right, sun just warm enough to promise something good. For a while, everything held: cadence, conversation, cohesion. Twenty riders pedaling in time. It never lasts, but it’s lovely while it does.

After Thorndale, the paceline stretched. I found myself riding with Brenda, Tim, Fred, and Carla. Brenda sets the group pace not with ego or power, but with feel. She nudges things forward gently, always aware of what the group can hold. No one gets dropped, but no one gets to coast either. You find the best version of yourself just trying to stay on her wheel.

I was feeling great. Not just "good legs" great, but “nothing’s rubbing, nothing’s numb, and I remembered to eat breakfast” great. It’s taken me years to get here. For a decade I treated discomfort like part of the job — noble, unavoidable. Turns out some of it was neither.

Interlude

In endurance riding, comfort is speed. It’s hard to ride well when your back seizes, your hands go numb, or your shorts betray you. The longer the ride, the more comfort becomes performance.

Not everyone reads discomfort the same way. I used to be an Absorber.

Absorber (noun)
/əbˈzɔːrbər/
A rider treats pain as a normal operating condition. Someone who never notices changes in gear, position, or comfort level. Could ride a fixie through a thunderstorm on a borrowed saddle and still call it “a bit breezy.”

I rode my first five seasons basically bonked, convinced that's just what long-distance cycling felt like. On my first 1000 km ride, I gripped the bars so hard my hands were numb until Christmas. Any idiot can be uncomfortable. And I was.

My friend Marc, a.k.a. The Lavender Blur, is an Adjuster.

Adjuster (noun)
/əˈdʒʌstər/
A rider attuned to every creak, click, and micro-angle of their setup, able to sense a two-degree saddle tilt by intuition alone. Owns more torque wrenches than shoes. Knows the weight of their handlebar tape.

Adjusters feel everything. They adjust tire pressure to account for humidity, swap chains for fresh ones often. They optimize. Marc’s setup is so dialed in he’ll pass you uphill on a heavier bike, offer a cheerful wave, and vanish before your shame sets in.

Adjusters can go too far, chasing perfection until they spend more time tinkering than riding. At some point, marginal gains become expensive distractions.

Aristotle never rode a bicycle, but he’d have aimed for the middle — neither bruising nor boring. Virtue isn’t halfway between cowardice and recklessness; it’s the right response for the right person at the right time. There’s no bright line between pushing through and ignoring something important. Just judgment. And humility.

Absorbers endure too much. Adjusters tune too often. The rest of us try to ride the middle path with grace, or at least without chafing.

Lately, I’ve started paying attention, and upgraded some gear. I am learning from my adjuster friends. My setup isn’t perfect — carbon wheels are expensive, and let’s be honest, losing five pounds is still cheaper than buying them — but I’m more comfortable now. And faster. I won’t be joining the Tour, but I don’t finish every ride in a full-body grimace.

Second Act

By St. Mary's, the day had bloomed. The group was smaller now, a loose handful of riders trading pulls, and quietly sharing the road. Mark appeared briefly at the control like a friendly ghost, then vanished again with a nod and a smile. From St. Mary's to Millbank, the road pitched and swayed, never steep but never still, the kind of riding that tests your patience more than your legs.

Cornfields flanked both sides of the road, low and green, with tractors parked just out of sight like sleeping animals. Now and then, a monarch butterfly would flutter into our small peloton. Every now and then, a barn would tilt slightly against the horizon, a quiet reminder that nothing holds its shape forever. We passed small one-pump towns with general stores and shuttered churches.

We stopped briefly at Anna May’s for butter tarts, of course, which is the real reason the route exists. All rides require a gravitational anchor, some irrational reward that justifies the absurdity of the effort. These butter tarts are reason enough: fist-sized, sugar-bombed, and briefly redemptive.

The final stretch from Anna May’s always lies. The hills aren't that steep, they’re just relentless, like a toddler with follow-up questions. And this time, we had the kind of headwind that doesn’t howl or roar but leans in gently and persistently, like a life coach with poor timing: How badly do you want this?

We rode mostly in silence. Every now and then, someone would call out a turn or a pothole, but otherwise, it was all about staying steady. . No one had much to prove, but everyone had something to finish.

Epilogue

By the time we rolled in, the Lavender Blur had been waiting long enough to consider a second lunch. He'd set a personal record and done it on a heavier bike, just to make me question my life choices.

One by one, the rest of the riders arrived: sun-flushed, salt-streaked, and balanced between relief and regret. Mike finished his first 200-kilometer brevet with quiet competence and zero complaints.

We lingered in town to down burgers and compare battle wounds. A little sunburn, a little salt, the same gear choices we'll make again. That’s comfort for you. Chase it, maybe catch it, but it’s the discomfort you remember. The saddle that didn’t quite bruise. The wind that asked questions. The ride that left just enough chafe to remind you: you were here, and it mattered.