Strength Doesn't Always Transfer

I remember the first time I thought I was in great shape.

At the time, I was “training powerlifting,” though looking back, it was more like showing up to the gym, loading up the leg press, and convincing myself I was building something serious. In reality, I was just the annoying kid who came around the gym and robbed all the 45s to bounce the leg press off the stopper. I didn’t squat at the time because that was actually hard training, and the leg press was easy. In my head, a heavy leg press meant strong legs. Strong legs meant I was fit. And fit meant I could handle anything physical.

So when my grandpa asked me to go ride bikes with him, I didn’t think twice.

In my mind, it was going to be easy. I figured I’d humor him for a bit, spin along, and eventually just leave him behind once I “opened up” my legs and really put some power down on those pedals. 

Long story short, that didn’t happen.

I got to his house, and he was pulling his bike out of his van. I asked if his bike was broken or something because I thought we were going for a ride that day. “No, it’s not broken; I just got back from riding around the lake,” he told me.

I knew I was in trouble; he had just gotten back from a 12-mile ride (the lake was about 6 miles around, but he would normally ride it twice), and now is ready to go on a ride with me?! I had dug my own grave, and it was time for me to lie in it. 

From the moment we started riding, I realized pretty quickly I had made a mistake. He wasn’t just casually biking; he was conditioned for it. He rode every day. It wasn’t a workout for him; it was just life. If you want to get science-y, his aerobic capacity was much higher than mine. He probably was barely breathing heavy, and I was dang near max heart rate at the time. 

Meanwhile, I was gasping, burning, trying to recover from efforts that never really recovered. My legs weren’t the limiting factor. My engine was. I tried to hide my panting like a dog from him. I didn’t want him to think I couldn’t handle a bike ride with him. Although I was destroyed physically, I truly was enjoying the time with him and didn’t want to cut it short because I was out of shape. 

And the harder I tried to “out-muscle” the ride, the worse it got. I just kept telling myself that I have tree trunks for legs; spinning over the bicycle crank shouldn’t be this difficult. 

That day humbled me. The ride was only a few miles, and actually was probably less than half an hour, but at the moment it felt like I was riding the longest stages of the Tour de France. We got back to his house, and he asked me if I wanted to grab some water and do it again. 

“Again?” I thought, “I feel like I am breathing underwater right now.” 

I realized strength isn’t a single currency that translates everywhere. Being strong in one domain doesn’t automatically make you capable in another. Squat strength doesn’t equal endurance. Muscle doesn’t automatically equal fitness. And the gym doesn’t replace real-world conditioning.

I mean, how many IFBB competitors can run a marathon and not need an ambulance afterwards? 

More importantly, I learned something I didn’t expect from a simple bike ride with my grandpa: consistency beats intensity.

He didn’t need a pre-workout, a training cycle, or a program. He just moved every day. He went for walks and rode his bike. He would use a weight set in the basement a couple of days a week, and that was normal to him. And that’s what I was trying, and failing, to outperform with brute force.

Now, when I train, I think differently. Strength is still the goal, but conditioning, work capacity, and real-world ability matter just as much. Because being “strong” doesn’t mean much if you can’t sustain it. 

And every time I get on a bike, I still remember that ride and the moment I learned I wasn’t as fit as I thought I was.