The Suffering Quotient

Long rides give me ample time to think. During those hours of pedaling, among other things, I ponder suffering. Personal suffering, others' suffering, perceived slights, real pain, the plight of our species in general. This is not to say that I have been suffering unduly, but it is an integral part of cycling—as it is with almost any serious athletic endeavor. Backpacking for instance has many virtues, but, basically, it hurts. Your pack pulls your shoulders a way they're not supposed to be pulled for extended periods of time, your boots chafe, and long climbs at altitude make your head feel on the verge of an explosion. Biking downhill is for many the best part of a ride, but hiking downhill is actually worse than going uphill. Much of what I remember about skiing when I was a kid was how much my boots squeezed my feet and how those feet would feel thawing out on the drive back to Seattle. Marathon running takes the agony to another level. Ballet's pointe shoes are notoriously torturous. For a near-death experience, try getting caught in the rip tide for 45 minutes at San Francisco's Ocean Beach on the way out to ride a wave.

Some people's bodies don't seem to harbor as much pain as others, and some people can tolerate more discomfort than others. Stress is a real form of suffering and has been proven by medical science to be detrimental to childhood development and adult health and well-being. Type 1 diabetes, though not painful until long term complications set in, is incredibly stressful. While everyday life always entails many important decisions, one study showed that insulin dependent people make many hundreds of decisions a day directly related to blood sugar management, with highly weighted consequences. In our minds many specters forever lurk: retinopathy, peripheral neuropathy, gastroparesis, cardiovascular disease, sexual dysfunction, dysphagia, amputated limbs—all long term complications of hyperglycemia.

Aside from diabetes, I have a number of chronic conditions. Pain rebounds around my body like a misshapen ball of silly puddy. When a migraine goes away, my right lower back starts to ache, then it ricochets on down to my calf. Later it sneaks up to knot my stomach. These days I live for long rides, but the longer the ride, the more the potential suffering. A short and easy hill early on becomes a serious slog 50 miles in. At the start of nearly every climb my whole being tingles in discomfort.

I am pondering how to rate suffering, how to quantify it, how to foresee it and head it off whenever possible. My conclusion is that it can only be represented by a quotient, an equation of two figures: the Suffering Index (SI)--the level of suffering inherent in the activity or terrain, along with the relevant environmental conditions such as wind or heat, as well as that moment's personal affliction--migraine, trick knee, etc—this over the Suffer-Ability Index (SAI)--which would be a person's ability on that particular day to tolerate suffering. Thus SI/SAI=SQ. If the SQ is greater than 1, misery will predominate.

Some examples from my recent rides were Fish Rock and Levi's. The route of the Fish Rock Challenge, ridden solo, 74 miles and 9,000', temperatures in the upper 80s with below 10% humidity—It's not climbing Everest but neither is it a walk in the park. Give it 75 out of 100. My SAI that day was low—45 at best. I had had very high blood sugars the night before, thus not a lot of energy, an indecent migraine, plus riding alone without the excitement of the peloton. My resilience was nearly non-existent. 75/45= a Suffering Quotient of 1.67: A Beastly Day.

On the other hand, Levi's Gran Fondo with Willow Creek: 99 miles, 8,000 vertical, 75 degrees, moderate humidity, tail winds, clear blue skies, probably an SI of 70; meanwhile my body felt as good as possible, with the companionship of 5,500 enthusiastic riders, thus an SAI of 99. 70/99=.70: a seriously sweet kind of day.

I realize that a privileged First World citizen with a nice bed, ample food, health insurance, flea drops for the cats, a supportive family, and a roof that doesn't leak in a storm isn't exactly the most qualified to discuss suffering, but we all live in our own bubble. Just as it is actually impossible to quantify discomfort, it is also impossible to compare mine to anybody else's. We only truly know what we know firsthand. My migraine might be your empty belly, my John Muir Trail your Sunday stroll. One thing I do know, though, is that nothing in my life is your son's Fallujah or Guantanamo, nothing in my world is Stalin's Siberia.