Road Biking While Female

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In late January, Emily Sportsman, a longtime cyclist who lives and works as a geochemist in Oakland, was on her morning bike commute. She’d already dropped off her young daughter at daycare and was stopped at a red light just a few blocks from her office when she saw a driver make an illegal U-turn across several lanes of traffic into a nearby lane.

Sportsman shook her head at the infraction, and the driver noticed. He then rolled down his window and “threatened several times to beat up my bitch ass,” Sportsman says. The driver started to get out of his car, but the light changed and Sportsman quickly rode away.

This followed a similarly scary incident from spring 2017, also while Sportsman was riding with her daughter to daycare. A man in a truck followed her for blocks, yelling that “I was going to get my kid killed because I was a selfish bitch,” she says. Another time, Sportsman flipped off a driver because he was blocking the bike lane during rush hour. Two weeks later, he recognized her (she has a distinctive cargo e-bike) and got in her face on the sidewalk—right in front of her daughter’s daycare center, no less—calling her a “miserable bitch,” she says, and threatening to run her off the road.

Sportsman estimates these encounters make up about 10 percent of her biking experience. I believe her. I’m no stranger to run-ins like these. Although I don’t ride nearly as much since my son was born in 2016, over the years I’ve been the target of occasional catcalls, whistles, and, sometimes far nastier interactions (like the dude I confronted, nicely, at a stoplight in downtown San Francisco after he buzzed me, prompting him to scream, “F— you, bitch!”).

Of course, anyone who rides on a regular basis is well aware of the potential for conflict every time you get in the saddle, whether it’s an impatient honk from a stressed-out commuter or the all-out fury of a pickup truck driver with aChristine-like intent on trying to kill you.

But for women, these encounters come with the added element of sexual harassment. Not only are we targeted as cyclists, we’re further penalized because of our gender. From mild but misplaced flirtation to outright assault, the message from perpetrators seems to be this: You’re a woman who dares to ride a bike, so we can say or do anything we want to you.

What drove this home for me more than anything was an email that circulated among my husband’s racing team in San Francisco, where Sportsman and other female riders detailed some of their experiences. After reading the team email, I reached out to other women cyclists, including friends and others via online channels, and heard an array of shocking incidents. A sample of the lowlights (from Portland, Oregon, all the way to Australia):

“Mostly I get comments about my ass. I once had someone say, ‘Look at those titties bounce, you little slut.’”

“‘I’d love to be your bike seat,’ said one sweet man out of a car window. Many others have revved their engine menacingly behind me.”

“One time in broad daylight a guy lunged at me while I was stopped at a traffic light, laughed and said something inaudible, and proceeded to grab my handlebars. I threw my front wheel into him while screaming, ‘Don't touch me!’ which surprised me and him, and he let go and slithered away.”

As Sportsman so aptly put it: “It’s a double whammy of vulnerability—I’m so low on the totem pole of power as a woman on a bike. Men aren’t going to mess with another dude who might hurt them. But me, a mom with a kid? I seem to be fair game.”

Elizabeth Bagioni, coordinator for Women & Bicycles, a women’s advocacy program that’s part of the Washington Area Bicyclist Association, notes that “harassment is still a real barrier to biking for many people.” According to a recent WABA member survey, about 42 percent of the bike commuters in the Washington, D.C., metro area identify as women, a number Bagioni is convinced would be higher if women felt less vulnerable while riding.

The problem isn’t limited to motorist versus cyclist, either. It also stems from the elitist “Lycra-bro” subculture, as Bagioni describes it, of the cycling community and the currents of sexism that run through it. The topic is the basis of an excellent WABA blog post, “Guys, What the Hell?”, which ran last May in response to a Facebook post by a Women & Bikes member expressing frustrations at the rude, dismissive behavior she experienced from male riders—on National Bike to Work Day, no less.

Kirsten Spinelli, women’s captain for my husband’s team, can relate. Her assorted bag of grievances includes images of “mudflap women” that a racing team in the Bay Area used to have on their kits. “That really gut-punched me,” Spinelli says. “Men who choose not to be in a car, to ride their bikes in Marin County, go and put a naked woman on their kits? You can’t make the connection that it’s a bad idea? Here you are, in my biking circle, and you can’t get that?”

Eventually, Spinelli says, the team changed its kits (“Though I’m sure there are a few old ones floating around out there,” she noted), similar to the way in which bike manufacturer Pinarello pulled several overtly sexist advertisements promoting the launch of its new e-bike after public outcry in fall 2017.

It’s all part of the larger conversation unfolding as the outdoor industry reckons with the ripple effects of sexual harassment and gender discrimination. Most recently, the climbing community is dealing with the aftermath of pro climber Joe Kinder’s admitted bullying of fellow pro Sasha DiGiulian on Instagram. Kinder was subsequently dropped from his endorsements.

Advocacy groups are also shining a spotlight on the issue. At gatherings of Women Bike SF, a program of the San Francisco Bicycle Coalition with the objective to get more women on bikes, harassment is a regular topic of conversation, says Kelsey Roeder, membership manager for the SFBC. “Sunlight is the best disinfectant,” she says. “The more we have these conversations, the more it comes to light, and that’s one of the best ways we can combat it as a group, to come together and say it’s not okay.”

On an individual level, Sportsman and Spinelli and countless other badass women out there continue to do their part every time they get in the saddle. Most of the women I spoke to say they handle harassment and sexism on a case-by-case basis. If they feel safe—or pissed off enough—they generally speak up. (Roeder says she always makes sure she has an escape route first.) But whatever their tactic, one thing is clear: Real progress hinges on men doing their part, like calling out sexist comments and behavior from other men and sticking up for women whenever possible.

And definitely don’t tell us to just let it go. “If I had to give men advice on how to make it better for women, I’d ask guys not to minimize a woman’s emotional response to a bad event,” says Sportsman. She says she loves her Slap Bag for easy access to her phone and Cycliq bike-mounted camera as a way to document potential harassment. “Don’t tell us we should change our behavior, like not yell at drivers.”

But therein also lies perhaps the brightest spot in this whole issue. None of the women I spoke with have considered letting being harassed keep them from riding. “I see biking as an incredibly joyful, independent, freeing mode of transportation, and nobody can take that away from me,” Roeder says. “Each time I experience this, I’m more motivated to combat this behavior, to call it out, and to let other women know there is a community of women who have their backs.”

Our Favorite Waxed-Canvas Products Right Now

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When you buy something using the retail links in our stories, we earn an affiliate commission that helps pay for our work. Read more about Outside’s affiliate policy.

Waxed canvas is having a moment. The cotton-based fabric that’s been waxed for waterproofing played an integral role in early expeditions as the British empire explored the far corners of the earth, and it’s experiencing a recent revival thanks to outdoor-focused brands like Fjällräven, Filson, and Orvis.

“Waxed canvas has that classic look with a great retro vibe,” says Chip Addington, founder of Addington Co., a small St. Paul, Minnesota–based company that makes backpacks and duffels out of canvas, leather, and denim. Instead of traditional cotton fabric, Addington uses nylon as his primary material, which he waxes himself. The end product has the same look and feel of waxed canvas but is lighter and has a higher waterproof rating.

“The bags I grew up using while paddling the Boundary Waters were all waxed canvas, so the material has a real sense of time and place for me, but I want my bags to be able to perform just as well in a canoe as in the city.”

While there are far more technologically advanced waterproofing materials than waxed canvas, Addington still appreciates the heritage that the material represents.

“Waxed canvas was basically the first waterproof fabric,” he says. “It was invented by the Royal Navy to keep their sailors happy. Basically, it’s 300-year-old Gore-Tex. You have to respect that heritage.”

Here are five of our favorite waxed products.

Addington describes his bags as an intersection of traditional methods and modern design. His favorite bag in the lineup, the Crosstown Chevron, can be worn as a lumbar pack on the trail or a messenger bag on the bike. We love this simple duffel that looks good enough to use on a business trip but is reinforced with ballistic nylon so it can handle the abuse of a real adventure.

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Waxed cotton gets some smart modern updates in this heavy-duty Cruiser jacket, like polyester in the sleeves for a bit of stretch and a flannel lining for ultimate comfort.

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Duluth has been making canoe-ready waxed-canvas bags for almost 150 years. The Rolltop Scout is based on the same design as its original Scout bag but features a slimmer design that fits snugly against your back, making it better for bike commuters or those who navigate busy subway cars.

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Take your hoodie and give it the waxed-canvas treatment and you’ve got the Winslow—a weatherproof winter jacket that manages to be casual without being frumpy.

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A step away from the traditional stiff waxed canvas, the Royston is a shoulder-season jacket that features a superlight four-ounce waxed-cotton outer, a soft cotton lining, and a sporty Harrington jacket design.

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How Navajo Activists Defeated the Grand Canyon Escalade

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At Mile 61, on the canyon’s east side, the turquoise Little Colorado River feeds into the dark-green Colorado River, a confluence that’s sacred to the many Native American tribes that come from this area. In October 2017, the Navajo Nation Council voted against a developer’s plan to build the so-called Escalade Tramway, a 1.4-mile tram that would shuttle up to 10,000 visitors a day to the bottom of Grand Canyon. Navajo Nation member Renae Yellowhorse works with a group called Save the Confluence, which helped shut down the tramway.

I read in the newspaper they’re going to build a tram, like a ski lift, down into the Grand Canyon. I thought, “That’s not right.” My relatives came to me and said, “Can you help us save the confluence?” So that’s what I did.

For the Navajo, my relatives, the confluence is our origin and basis of our cultural identity. Not just our origin, but also the animals, insects, birds. We’re matrilineal people; our mothers share information. My aunt Sarah said the confluence in Diné language is unmentionable, as it represents the beginning of life. The waters gushing. The canyon itself. It’s like the birth canal. The water is fresh and beautiful, like the first gush of life. The two rivers come together and swirl. You see this imagery in our rugs and pottery. From that area comes life. Each oral history is different for all of the people who come from this area: the Hopi, the Havasupai, the Apache, and other tribes.

I asked my mother, “What would my great grandmother say?” She said, “There was an admonition: Do not go to the confluence unless you have a purpose. It is a place to do your prayers or for medicinal reasons.” My father said, “That place is sacred. Protect it.” To my people, this is where we speak to the gods that walk the canyon. To try to make money off this place is a desecration of everything we’ve ever learned and been told.

Bulgarian Mountaineer Missing at 24,000 Feet in Tibet

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On April 29, Bulgarian mountaineer Boyan Petrov left his teammates on the flanks of 26,289-foot Shishapangma to make a solo attempt on the summit. The 45-year-old was last seen on May 3 by climbers using a telescope from base camp. He was near Camp 3, at 24,278-feet, according to Facebook posts from the sponsor of the climb, the Bulgarian outfit Khalifa Himalayan Expedition. Petrov was climbing without supplemental oxygen and had no radio.

Petrov’s wife, Radoslava Nenova, posted on Facebook that he has been missing for days. She said the other members climbing with him left Camp 3 and returned to base camp as conditions were deteriorating, but he decided to remain at the camp and attempt the summit alone, as he did on many other climbs. On May 5, a search team consisting of an unknown Ukrainian climber and three Sherpas went to Camp 3. They found Petrov’s tent with the flaps open and his sleeping bag filled with snow, suggesting he had not been there for days. Much of the information is being released by Hungarian mountaineer Dávid Klein, who is one of about ten climbers on Shishapangma this spring. 

I met Petrov on K2 in 2014. I was descending from the summit as he was ascending only days after summiting Broad Peak, a unique performance due to the altitude and difficulty of K2. We spoke briefly when he asked about conditions higher on the mountain. He had an affable demeanor and appeared strong and confident. He was not using supplemental oxygen, as was his style, and he was alone. His longterm goal was to summit all 14 of the 8,000-meter peaks without using supplemental oxygen, a feat only 19 other climbers have ever achieved.

He is considered the most successful Bulgarian high-altitude alpinist climbing today. His mountaineering history is impressive, with summits of ten of the fourteen 8,000-meter mountains, all without supplemental oxygen. He had planned on going to Everest immediately after Shishapangma and then to Cho Oyu in the autumn. He is a two-time cancer survivor and a diabetic. Petrov works as a zoologist at the National Museum of Natural History in Sofia, the capital of Bulgaria. 

Based on his previous experience in the mountains, Nenova believes Petrov reached another camp where there was food and oxygen. “He has everything he needs to survive,” she told Bulgarian National Television. The Chinese Mountaineering Association, which oversees Shishapangma, the only 8,000-meter peak located fully within Tibet, has officially declared Petrov missing. Another search party was dispatched on Monday, May 7. 

 

 

Our 5 Favorite Travel Mugs

The best ways to get your tea and coffee fix on the road

Taking our favorite drinks on the road can be a sticky, scalding, stain-infused experience. Invest in one of these mugs and banish the mess for good.

Yeti Rambler 20-Ounce Tumbler ($30)

(Courtesy Yeti)

Yeti knows a thing or two about insulation, and the company makes no exception with its line of travel mugs. Perfect for a dawn-patrol cup of joe, the Rambler 20-ounce tumbler is as comfortable on the road as it is in your pack, with double-vacuum walls that keep your beverages hot or cold for hours on end. The Magslider lid features magnets to secure the Rambler’s opening when the road gets bumpy, and the stainless-steel construction is designed to take a beating.

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Contigo Autoseal West Loop ($15)

(Courtesy Contigo)

For fifteen bucks, the Contigo Autoseal West Loop is the ultimate bargain mug, but don’t let the price tag fool you. Featuring the company’s Autoseal lid, this mug keeps your gear, car, and pants dry when road conditions deteriorate. The West Loop is dishwasher-safe and easily converts into a tea mug by adding a compatible infuser. Our only gripe: You have to hold down the top button while drinking, but that’s a small price for dry jeans.

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The Mighty Mug Biggie SS ($25)

(Courtesy The Mighty Mug)

If you’ve ever left a cup of coffee on top of the car, this baby is for you. The Mighty Mug’s Smartgrip technology creates an airlock to secure the drink carrier to any flat surface, making it all but untippable. Additionally, the mug’s double-walled, vacuum-insulated construction keeps your coffee piping hot and ready to go, no matter where you leave it.

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Chantal Single-Serve Easy Travel Mug ($21)

(Courtesy Chantal)

Designed to fit perfectly under most single-serve coffee makers, the Chantal Single-Serve Easy Travel Mug is about as close to grab-and-go as you can get. Twin stainless-steel walls sandwich a copper coating to ensure cold and heat retention. A simple push button allows you to drink from any side of the mug, so you can keep your eyes on the road instead of searching for your next sip.

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SIGG Hot and Cold Glass WMB ($25)

(Courtesy Sigg)

For those of us that aren’t black gold enthusiasts, the SIGG Hot and Cold Glass WMB is sure to kickstart any early morning mission. Enjoy loose leaf on the go with large and stainless steel baskets that set right into your hot water for easy steeping. Heat resistant borosilicate glass keeps your hands from burning up, and the bottle’s double lining will maintain tea temperature for at least an hour.

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Grading 2018's Boston Marathon Shoes

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It has become somewhat of a tradition for running shoe companies to release special editions of their most popular models ahead of big-city marathons. With the 2018 Boston Marathon happening next week, a profusion of flashy, over-the-top road-running shoes are hitting the market. Some are complex masterpieces full of historical symbolism, while others are cultural odes. Who knew you could expect so much from a pair of shoes? We couldn’t resist grading our favorites—using rigorous scientific criteria, of course.

4/5

3/5

Potential to Educate About a Rare Marine Species: 5/5

For its take on the Boston Marathon shoe, Brooks found inspiration in one of New England’s most majestic sea creatures: the blue lobster. The brand decked out its popular midcushion Launch 5 road shoe with a graphic of rope coils, nautical chart contour lines, anchors, and the aforementioned lobstahs.

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0/5

5/5

4/5

To celebrate road marathon season, Altra is releasing a special-editon version of its acclaimed Escalante road shoe: the Escalante Racer. The Escalante Racer will be available in custom graphics for some of the country’s biggest marathons. The Boston edition features a blue-and-yellow colorway with the number 18 (short for 2018) printed on the side.

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3/5

5/5

5/5

This Saucony x Dunkin’ Donuts collab wins for uniqueness. No blue-and-yellow colorways here. The Kinvara 9 gets spiced up in all white with a doughnut-and-sprinkles decal on the heel. The partnering of running shoe and coffee brands does seem fitting—after all, what more does a runner need besides a good pair of shoes and a cup of pre-race coffee to, ahem, get things moving.

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3/5

3/5

4/5

Adidas, head sponsor of the 2018 Boston Marathon, took a classic approach to its special-edition kicks: dark blue, with the iconic Boston Marathon unicorn in yellow on the heel and the classic Adidas stripes on the side.

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5/5

1/5

2/5

Perhaps the most subdued of this year’s crop, the New Balance 890v6 comes in dark blue with a subtle light-blue pattern meant to invoke the Charles River. Bonus: The insoles are printed with a Strava heat map of the most popular running routes around the Charles. If you get lost, just take off your shoe and pull out the insole.

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0/5

5/5

4/5

In case anyone missed the part of the conversation where you said you were about to run Boston, these shoes will do the job for you, courtesy of the bright-blue fabric and huge “BOSTON” lettering on the side. Did you mention you were running Boston?

Buy now

5/5

2/5

5/5

The British are coming! Heartbreak Hill is looming! Newton’s special-edition Boston Fate 3 is perhaps one of the most inventive of the bunch. It features a graphic of Paul Revere’s famous ride in muted blues.

Buy now

Op-Ed: Did Armstrong Just Crush the U.S. Government?

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Once again, Lance Armstrong has worn out everyone else. This time, instead of his Tour de France rivals—who he and his jacked-up teammates ground down relentlessly—or his many real and perceived foes, it was the federal government’s brigade of lawyers, who agreed to settle their $97 million fraud case for $5 million plus another chunk in fees. That's chump change for a guy who, according to an Outside profile by S.C. Gwynne, reportedly told his friend his net worth was around “100 milski.” And of course, the settlement outraged many who believe that much of Armstrong’s fortune was utterly ill-gotten.

In a just world, a cheat on Armstrong’s scale should have to give back most or all of his gains. The question has always been: Give back to who? The competitors he beat? Not exactly angels—though of course there are varying degrees of evil. The teammates who had to put up with his shit? Maybe, though many of them were cheating, too. The enemies he tried to destroy, even when he knew they were telling the truth? It would have been nice to see the Andreus and the LeMonds get something for what he put them through. At least Floyd Landis gets $1.1 million. But it’s still half a milski less than the $1.65 million that Landis’s own lawyer gets.

It was only a year ago that the federal judge in the case swatted down Armstrong’s motion for summary judgment, allowing the dispute to head toward trial. One can reasonably assume that Armstrong badly wanted it all to go away and had made settlement offers well north of what he ultimately paid. Why would the Department of Justice, which was heading pell-mell for trial, suddenly decide to cash out five years’ worth of holy war for five cents on the dollar? No one knows, although the statement released by the Armstrong camp on April 19 mentioned “several significant court rulings rejecting and limiting the plaintiffs’ damages theories.”

Whatever the case, it has always been difficult to see how the U.S. Postal Service was actually harmed by Armstrong’s doping. Perhaps in the form of his performance bonuses, which Armstrong consigliere Bill Stapleton liked to work into many of his contracts? Regardless, the USPS has much bigger problems now, such as whether it will exist in five years. But imagine how those contract negotiations might have gone if Armstrong had performed as poorly as he had in his first Tour outing, where he won a single stage and then dropped out before Paris. Andy Hampsten finished eighth that year. America yawned.

Also, there was the matter of the government’s whistleblower and lead plaintiff, Landis, who could charitably be described as a flawed witness. He literally told a book’s worth of lies, and sought donations from the fans who still believed him, before he came clean. (Why he ruined his life basically to protect Armstrong, and didn’t tell all when he was caught, has always puzzled me.) He paid the price with his dark days of substance abuse before he decided to spill the beans. A million bucks seems about right. (Although he agreed to refund the money to donors to the Floyd Fairness Fund, which was set up to help pay for his legal defense, to avoid criminal prosecution.)

It’s worth remembering that Armstrong has lost a lot more than the $6 million or so in this settlement: all his sponsorships, private settlements with other parties, and much of his future earning power, along with his ability to compete in most public events, are gone. Imagine where he’d be if he hadn’t made the mistake of coming back to cycling in 2009 and stirring up a hornet’s nest in a sport that believed it was free of him and his toxic shtick. Governor of Texas? The U.S. Senate? Now he’s got a podcast.

Some people dislike Armstrong because he cheated; others argue that his real crime was being a jerk. When the history of sport in this century is written, though, I think he’ll be remembered for something else: helping transform athletics into something that more closely resembles organized crime. He’ll take his place between BALCO and the Russian state-sponsored doping machine for his part in driving the institutionalized corruption of sports.

Only he was smarter. Marion Jones played small ball and she went to jail. The Russians are pariahs forever. Team Lance, meanwhile, was pulling off the perfect long con. Armstrong came in at the precise moment when the sport was already reeling from doping scandals and somehow convinced the world that he was clean because he was American and a cancer survivor. He used science, via the brilliant Dr. Michele Ferrari, to transform himself from a one-day rider—about whom nobody but hardcore U.S. roadies would give a crap—to a guy who could win the Tour, then leveraged his incredible survival story to make himself a wealthy global celebrity.

His thuggish associates kept the truth contained, at least for a while. Yet somehow, with regard to Landis and also Tyler Hamilton, he failed to learn the key lesson of The Sopranos: if you’ve got a guy on the outside who’s disgruntled and knows too much, you either buy him off or take him fishing. Instead he let them hang. That obviously didn’t work out. On the other hand, Armstrong got out this mess for a relative pittance.

Meanwhile, the Tour de France is coming up, clouded by the fact that another recent champion, Team Sky’s Chris Froome, is in the crosshairs of suspicion. The similarities are uncanny. The sketchy aura of secrecy around the star, the lame denials and suspicious minor positive test (Froome for an inhaler drug, Lance for a corticosteroid in 1999), even the tactics, which are out of Postal’s playbook: amassing a really strong team, doping them to the gills (allegedly, in Sky’s case), and then grinding down the opposition. (During one particularly blatant year, 2003, U.S. Postal riders swept four of the top ten spots in the race’s final time trial.) It never ends.

Meanwhile, Lance is going gray and shaggy, working on being a dad, sending his son off to play football in the fall, and in all likelihood spending more time at his home in Aspen. Floyd is a chubby weed magnate in Colorado. They seem relatively happy, all things considered. It’s probably a good thing that they, and we, can finally move on.

The Everyone Guide to Anti-Materialistic Gifting

For this Tough Love, by popular request, we’re doing something a little different: a semi-noncapitalist gift guide

’Tis the season for spending money on your beloved—but sometimes we don’t have money, and sometimes our houses are too full of stuff anyway, and sometimes we just want to give something a little more specific. As an obsessive crafter, I tend to make things all year (leatherwork, printmaking, and so on) and set them aside with special people in mind; my husband, a beekeeper, gives jars of raw and creamed honey. But what about the people closest to you, for whom a jar of honey seems too impersonal, even when you consider all the care and love that went into tending the hives? What if you’re not particularly creative but still want to give your partner something meaningful?

While the Tough Love Gifting Technique™ was developed with romantic partners in mind, it works for anyone, as long as you know them well enough. Sit down with paper and a pencil, make sure your beloved of choice is otherwise distracted, and let’s do a little brainstorming.

Let’s answer the following questions:

  1. What is your beloved struggling with right now?
  2. What does your beloved want more of in his/her/their life?

There will always be multiple answers, because we’re all struggling. Every single one of us has burdens that range from loneliness to relationship problems, from work stress to the destabilization of our entire support systems. And there are no guidelines for pain: If a bad haircut seems to hurt more than a chronic illness, that’s because it’s closer to the surface of our hearts. Sometimes we grieve the small things because we can’t face the big things—or because the small things drill into a deeper fear (say, loss of identity). Is your beloved annoyed by his new work schedule? Is she suddenly an empty nester? Were they diagnosed with cancer this year? Write it all down.

If this feels a little dark, that’s okay. Winter holidays evolved, in large part, to counteract darkness. This is their true job. This is your true job, as someone who loves another person.

Which brings us to the next question.

As a general rule, the answer to question two will be directly related to question one. Sure, sometimes your rock-climbing habit is just a rock-climbing habit. But it might also be a tool for redeveloping your sense of power and calm when the leaders of your country consistently demonstrate that your access to life-sustaining health care, and thus your life, is of no significance to them. Maybe your daughter has been experimenting with makeup lately—which happens to be a triumphant act of self-definition in the face of stifling beauty ideals. Maybe your husband craves a cleaner house as a way of manifesting order in his life, and loss of order is symbolized by his allergies to dog hair and the fact that you live with 22 huskies in the middle of the Northwoods. Maybe your wife likes writing an advice column because extending love and empathy to strangers helps her forgive her own perceived failures.

Now look for the connections, the places where a gift that facilitates your beloved’s aspirations will also be a balm for their griefs. This, my friend, is your wish list: climbing lessons, glitter eyeshadow, a robot vacuum, a personalized Tough Love mug (What? No. I mean. Who said that?). And hey, if all else fails? Get something of your beloved’s repaired: a broken ski binding, a torn coat. We all have things we’ve used to pieces and can’t bear to part with but haven’t actually gotten fixed. Bring their saddle to the saddle maker, or get their skates sharpened, or tailor their new coat to fit them perfectly. It’s personal, it’s thoughtful, and you already know they love it.

At this point, it doesn’t matter how much money you spend (or don’t spend). The gift—the work of loving someone—is already there.

The Perks of Trail Running in a Virtual World 

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There’s a hazard to learning to run in Los Angeles, a place where the sport does not ask that you muster a great deal of anything. Over the span of my first hundred miles in L.A., the weather was beautiful every single day. Anywhere I parked my car was just three or four miles from some runnable vista—a view of the city, or the desert, or the beach. I ran around the Rose Bowl, up the trails in Griffith Park, and down through the woods of Chavez Ravine. The density of nature easily subsumed the pain of any learning curve. By the time I found the trailhead, caught an easy pace, chose between the forks in the road, avoided the dog poop, looked at the trees, and waved to the better-looking oncoming runners, my workout was over. This was an easy kind of running for someone who did not really like running.

Now, after 14 months out west, I’m back at my normal home in New York City, where the pleasure of running is no longer tied to a casually transcendent experience in nature. Some people here run outside in winter, but I’m not yet constitutionally equipped. My local YMCA is well-heated and offers 11 premium Life Fitness treadmills furnished with personal LCD screens. There, on these hyperreal hamster wheels, I’m learning to run for a second time—without the help of the great outdoors.

Treadmill running is identical to trail running in the way that shaking a carton of orange juice is identical to giving your lover a hand job—the gesture is the same, but the outcome is different. The treadmill twists a sport into a riddle: How can you run forever without moving or uphill for miles without ever going down? If an old-fashioned treadmill simulates running, then the Life Fitness model goes above and beyond to simulate all the facets of human life. The rotating urethane belt works my legs while the built-in Netflix hones my film connoisseurship. Six different stations of TV news cultivate a mind for civic engagement. The experience is all-encompassing—more than just physical, but somehow still exceedingly boring. Plugging my headphones into the port, I sometimes imagine I’m an alien from space, training myself for first contact with Earth.

Games like these make treadmill running better. While trail running passively quiets my brain, treadmill running tests the extent to which I can quiet my brain by force. On the easiest days, I can shove my conscious mind though a very tiny hole and forget all about the resultant wisp of thought. Days like those are the exception to the rule. On harder days, I look around at the people in the gym and imagine them all as my enemies from high school. Could today be the day that I prove them all wrong? I undertake a study of the numbers on the clock, dividing the hour into minutes and seconds until my run is finally over.

The simulation artists at Life Fitness seem to understand my hunger for distraction. The most novel of the treadmill people’s inventions is a feature they call the Interactive Course. Shot at chest height with a Steadicam rig, these video loops allow a user to “run” through scenic destinations all over the world, from the mountains of Tibet to Sequoia National Forest. (The production process seems like a workout in itself.) The simulated runs include realistic touches, like swerving past crowds of disorderly tourists or cutting a more direct route across the grass. The feature approximates outdoor running well enough, but I find its failures most compelling. For my first 20 indoor runs in New York, I could only figure out how to run the premade demo: a mashup route of several cities across New Zealand. Hyphenated Wellington-Auckland is the type of concrete business district I would never choose to run in my nonvirtual life, likely for reasons of crowdedness and boredom. In treadmill life, its streets are always empty. The only human face is on a bus shelter ad: a photo of actress Zooey Deschanel, promoting a bygone season of New Girl.

Other interactive courses offer better human contact. Germany Run condenses the entire nation into a breezy hour-long trot. As I run through Altstadt and Englischer Garten, the crowds of busy German commuters never seemed to notice I was only passing through. If the treadmill alone feels like a bleak future dystopia, then interactive courses feel like something from The Jetsons—high-tech for reasons of humor more than function. There was something interesting, if not actually fun, about sweating in this partial reality. RunSocial, the firm that produces these courses for Life Fitness, knows this psychic break is part of their potential. “The wonderful thing about video is that you can cherry-pick the best parts and blend them into a single continuous run,” RunSocial co-founder Marc Hardy tells me over email. “Whereas in the real world, sometimes you have to run through dull bits to get to the nice bits.”

Sometimes when I run on these Interactive Courses, I wonder why RunSocial and Life Fitness don’t give up on reality altogether. The complaint about treadmills has always been how they fail to sufficiently mimic reality. Maybe this bug is their only real feature. Inside the gym at my YMCA, running the rim of the virtual Grand Canyon, I thought of all the places I’d rather be: the tombs of ancient Egypt, the airspace above Manhattan, the halls of an abandoned 1980s shopping mall. The real Grand Canyon is indeed possible to run. For now, these fantasy places are not.

My Search for L.A.'s Toughest Fitness Class

From grippy socks to callused palms, a quest for an exercise silver bullet

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The last thought I have before I throw up in the bathroom of the CrossFit box is, Oh, what a cliché. I’m about to throw up at CrossFit. Then I throw up. I had rushed to the toilet after Coach Kevin remarked that I looked a little green, which he said just moments after yelling at me to “Give it all you’ve got!” That directive came during the intervals on the assault bike, which followed the quarter-mile sprint with the medicine ball, which followed the sets of squats, burpees, lunges, crunches, and elastic band–assisted pull-ups.

The exercise class I’m barfing through is at CrossFit City of Angels, just one stop of many on my quest to find the most intense workout class in Los Angeles. I set out on this journey after a monthlong sojourn at a vertical-climbing machine studio called Rise Nation. I reluctantly signed up for the classes after a running injury. However, I ended up enjoying the classes so much that I went from a curmudgeonly distance runner—skeptical of any form of exercise that required a fee greater than the shoes on my feet—to a full-on boutique gym convert. I started to wonder: Was there some silver-bullet fitness class where, if I followed the instructor’s impassioned plea to give it all I’ve got, I would push myself to the edge of my physical limits and determine how tough I really was? I wanted to find out.

I really didn’t want the answer to be CrossFit, though. I mean, how cliché can you get?

Stationary Bikes in a Dark, Crowded Room

I begin my quest with the trailblazer of the boutique gym movement: SoulCycle.

“OK, now tap it back!” the instructor intones.

In unison, my classmates “tap it back.” The movement involves reaching your butt behind the back of your seat and bobbing downward while continuing to spin the pedals. For some reason, it reminds me of a bird attempting to quickly lay an egg without anybody noticing.

I attempt a tap-back or two, and then stop. I don’t like it. The candles in the studio smell nice, but the New Agey dance vibes are not for me. My quest continues. I try other spin studios: FlyWheel, Peloton, and YAS (Yoga and Spin).

FlyWheel emerged as my spin class of choice. Slate called FlyWheel “SoulCycle for uber-competitive sadists,” on account of the TorqBoard, a ranked display of each rider’s power output. In effect, you can “win” at exercise, which, as an aspiring uber-competitive sadist, I found to be highly motivating.

I left FlyWheel feeling comfortable with the idea of adding the classes to my weekly running regimen. However, I was suspicious of my comfort. How intense could it be if I enjoyed it? I felt the urge to try something outside my comfort zone: weightlifting.

“These Shoes Feel Like Ski Boots!”

In my daily life, I’m as awkward as a baby giraffe in a bouncy castle, so to avoid decapitating myself while doing a bench press, I looked into my options for lifting with a personal trainer.

A friend recommended a trainer who, to keep prices lower, worked out of his garage rather than a corporate gym. This seemed sketchy as hell, which sounded like it would be potentially great for my mission. Enter LIFT, a private gym on L.A.’s east side.

My trainer was Dirk (the Platonic ideal of a personal trainer name), who owns LIFT along with his wife, Chenell. Dirk’s website bio: “Dirk is 50. 6 feet, 215 lbs. He’s been strength-training for 20 years. He hasn’t done cardio in 10 years.”

When I arrive for my session, Dirk and I talk about the cardio I’ve been doing in spin classes. He scoffs. Dirk condemns cardio with the same intensity that precocious kindergartners announce to their classmates that they don’t believe in Santa Claus.

“We don’t do cardio here. Can you do a pull-up?” he asks.

“Nope!” I say, a little too enthusiastically.

“OK. You got weightlifting shoes?”

“What are…I mean, I’m wearing running shoes. So, no? I’ll say no.”

“You can borrow a pair of mine,” Dirk says, tossing me a pair from around the corner.

I put them on. “These feel like ski boots!” I say, again improperly modulating my enthusiasm.

Squats. Lunges. Deadlifts. Biceps curls. Jump press. Bench press. Negative pull-ups. Ab-wheel rollouts. Dirk is attentive throughout, correcting my form and giving me encouragement. The shoes are incredible. I feel bolted to the ground and like I’m doing squats properly for the first time.

Ultimately, though, since the weightlifting road seemed to lead to a body that was, while super-jacked, not exactly ideal for distance running, I wasn’t sure it was a road I wanted to keep going down. Plus, I like cardio. It was time to move on.

Learning How to Hurt People

“Easy!” my Muay Thai instructor shouts. “We’re not trying to knock anybody’s head off. Yet.” My classmates chuckle.

It’s my first class class at the Echo Park Boxing and Muay Thai Gym. My partner has more tattoos and more experience than I have, and he is not bothering to hide his annoyance at the piss-poor job I’m doing holding pads for him.

“No, not like that,” he says for the fifth time. “Meet my punch with the glove, otherwise I’ll knock your hand back like a flipper.”

To illustrate his point, he hits the pad I have strapped to my forearm, and, as he prophesied, it knocks my hand back into my face. In effect, I’ve punched myself.

The studio offers a variety of martial arts instruction. The jiujitsu class is the most outside my comfort zone. The instructor, Gavin, looks and sounds uncannily like Sting, if Sting spent a few decades of his life fighting for a living. We dive right into practicing armbars and choke holds.

“Let’s review the guillotine!” Gavin croons.

The guillotine, otherwise known as the Mae Hadaka Jime, is a choke hold performed from the front in which you encircle your opponent’s neck with both arms, thereby compressing the trachea and blocking airflow.

We practice the move. I am timid. Gavin notices and tries to get me to be more authoritative. I demure. Gavin leans in and whispers in my ear, in what must be the only time when this is an appropriate thing for a teacher to tell a student: “Choke him like a motherfucker.”

Those words do the trick. I choke him. My partner taps out. I release. He coughs and gives me a nod of approval. “That’s it!” Gavin says enthusiastically. “OK, now do it again.”

Adventures in Sticky Socks

“First time doing barre?” the cheery woman at the counter asks me.

“How could you tell?” I reply with a grin. I am the only man in this Pure Barre studio, and judging by their Instagram feed, I am also the only man who has ever taken a Pure Barre class in the history of the world.

“Do you have sticky socks?” she asks.

“What are…I mean, I’m wearing running socks. So, no? I’ll say no.”

I buy a pair of $12 sticky socks.

The micromovements of barre were taken from ballet and adapted into a general fitness program, popularized nationally by studios like Pure Barre, FlyBarre, Pop Physique, and others.

I was skeptical that barre could be intense. In its own words, “Pure Barre fitness studios offer the safest, most effective way to transform your body.” Safest? That sounded easy.

Turns out, safe can be hard. Excruciatingly hard.

Barre uses isometric movements. Planks, static lunges, or hovering a leg just above the ground, then pulsing that leg up and down an inch. It’s easy to do once. It’s difficult to do for a minute. By the end of the hour-long class, you wonder how you got a full-body workout while apparently doing so little.

Around 40 minutes in, my legs began to shake during a wall squat.

“I’m shaking,” I say apologetically to the instructor as she walks by.

“The shake! Yes. That means this muscle group is reaching fatigue. That’s good! It leads to long, lean muscles! It will make your butt look like the peach emoji!”

Impressed by the surprise intensity of barre, I took my sticky socks and decided to see where else they could grip me.

When I arrived for my free intro class at Club Pilates, I was surprised by what I saw: a whole bunch of gear. I think that I pictured Pilates to be like yoga, except maybe standing, and with waving your arms around. OK, I guess I was picturing tai chi. I was not picturing the feng shui torture chamber of devices that I saw, the centerpiece of which was a series of coffin-sized machines built from wood, pulleys and cushions: the reformer. The reformer looks nearly identical to the rack, a medieval torture device consisting of a rectangular wooden frame and straps used to pull a person’s limbs off. Interesting coincidence.

If barre is excruciating, Pilates is agonizing.

“Stretch your legs out straight, to a 45-degree angle. You want to make a V with your body,” the instructor tells me. I attempt to make my body into the V. I briefly attain Pilates perfection. Then my abs start to shake. I look over to see if my instructor is watching to get her approval, but she has already moved on. The shake becomes too much, and I let my body collapse from a perfect Pilates V to a dour, dilapidated O.

I was intrigued by the “safe yet hard” concept, and I was curious how much more intense it could get it. I tried the Supraformer at Lagree Fitness. The Supraformer is on a hydraulic suspension system that adjusts the pitch, tilt, and yaw of the platform to intensify the sought-after shake. Next, I tried the PowerPlate at Plate Fit, where Pilates-style exercises are performed on a small platform that vibrates 25 to 50 times per second to utilize “the body’s natural reflexive response to vibration.” In other words, it’s like doing crunches on top of a dryer with a boot inside.

These classes all exceeded my expectations for how challenging “safe” could be, but any class that didn’t end with me in a puddle of my own sweat and a chance to experience at least a mild case of DOMS was not going to fill my Exercise Holy Grail. Would I ever find what I was looking for?

A HIIT to the Gut

What has the cardio intensity of spin, the targeted resistance training of Pilates, the musculoskeletal benefits of weightlifting, and the intensity of choking strangers? High-intensity interval training.

I took a variety of HIIT classes, and each left me sweaty enough that I felt like a public health nuisance taking the city bus afterward. Now I was getting somewhere. Mile High Run Club, Sweat Garage, Basecamp Fitness, LIT Method, Barry’s Bootcamp, and Orangetheory Fitness—they all involved some combination of alternating between intense cardio for a short burst (treadmill, spin bike, or rowing machine) and strength training.

They were all fantastic, but Orangetheory Fitness struck me as the chosen one. In addition to top-notch equipment, skilled instructors, and well-designed workouts, the feature that sets Orangetheory apart from other boutique HIIT gyms is its incorporation of customized heart rate monitoring. With more than 700 locations and nearly half a billion dollars in annual revenue, I’m not the first person to deem it the fitness class of choice.

At Orangetheory, they have effort level down to a science: Individual heart rate monitors project data in real time onto a monitor. An algorithm converts the data into “splat points,” or minutes spent in an anaerobic zone. A typical class goal is 12 splat points. Students can adjust their pace to achieve their splat goal by following personalized, laminated pace cards that are distributed at the start of each class. An improvement in precision over a spin instructor shouting, “Give me all you got!”

As it turns out, I was on a fool’s quest all along. Orangetheory was great, but it wasn’t the hardest exercise class I took in Los Angeles. CrossFit was. Sorry, the cliché is true. Don’t tell Coach Kevin, but I think I might just stick to running.