Technology, comparison, and the risk of losing the human side of cycling
A few weeks ago we visited Campagnolo in Vicenza. A company that needs no introduction, yet continues to work quietly, with a level of discretion that feels almost timeless. We saw new products, talked with technicians and engineers, and absorbed an atmosphere made of real expertise, thoughtful decisions, and details that truly matter. It was an intense experience, even though it cannot be told through photos or videos — the company is rightly very private. But sometimes all it takes is a single sentence, spoken almost in passing, to spark a much broader reflection.
While discussing the new power meters, one of the technicians said:
“You know, today people don’t really ride bikes anymore. They measure.”
It wasn’t a joke.
It wasn’t a sterile critique.
It was a clear observation of our present.
Cycling in the age of numbers
In recent years, amateur cycling has undergone a profound transformation. We’ve moved from riding “when we can” to riding *“when the plan says so.” From sensation to measurement. From storytelling to statistics. Today we get on the bike surrounded by numbers: average watts, normalized power, heart rate, cadence, estimated VO₂ max, recovery scores, weekly training load. Everything useful. Everything interesting. And yet, everything increasingly overwhelming.
The power meter, in particular, has become a kind of absolute truth. It tells you who you are, what you’re worth, how hard you’re allowed to push. It’s an extraordinary tool, especially when used with awareness. But it’s also the tool that more than any other has shifted attention away from experience and toward performance.
And so we witness scenes that are, at the very least, questionable: from the professional rider who risks a crash just to stop the electronic device on the handlebar immediately after crossing the finish line, to the Sunday amateur who barely looks at the road because they’re too focused on reading the numbers in front of them.
The risk is not technology itself. The risk is when technology becomes the goal, rather than the means.
Strava, constant comparison, and the myth of the segment
Then there’s Strava. A brilliant idea, one that changed the way we share sport. It created communities, connections, motivation. But it also introduced something new and extremely powerful: constant comparison. Every ride becomes a judgment. Every climb a courtroom. Every segment a ranking. The paradox becomes obvious when riders chase KOMs on climbs raced by professionals, or compare their times with athletes like Tadej Pogačar. It’s fascinating, of course. But it’s also deeply unreal.
And it can even distort the meaning of cycling itself: hunting for the perfect day, the perfect conditions, the perfect moment to attack a record. But competition in cycling isn’t this. It’s not just tailwinds and ideal temperatures. Real racing means starting together, under the same conditions, and measuring yourself against others in the same instant. That is racing. Everything else is a game. Putting all of this on the same level creates a subtle but constant distortion. And over time, it takes its toll.
Virtual riding, indoor trainers, and competitions that aren’t races
The picture becomes even more complex when we enter the world of indoor trainers and virtual platforms such as Zwift. Indoor training is extremely useful — and genuinely enjoyable. Fun. Motivating. Virtual races, rankings, and categories have made training more engaging. But here too, there’s a thin line that is often crossed: the line between simulation and reality.
A real race has:
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a real course
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real opponents
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unpredictable conditions
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risk
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strategy
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race awareness
In the virtual world, many of these variables are simplified or missing altogether. That’s not a flaw — it’s simply a different thing. The problem arises when virtual competition is expected to replace the real one, or when virtual results become a measure of personal cycling value. These are different worlds, and they should remain distinct. Even the data itself can be misleading: according to several tests, these platforms tend to favor lighter riders with an excellent power-to-weight ratio, at the expense of heavier but more powerful athletes — riders who, in real road races, can still play a decisive role.
The semi-professional dream of the modern amateur
There is also a deeper, almost cultural aspect to all of this. The material world of amateur cycling increasingly tends to imitate the professional one. The same tools. The same language. The same dynamics. Only without the context.
What is being chased is a semi-professional dimension that, by definition, is not professional — and should not be. Training properly is right. Paying attention to details is beautiful. Wanting to improve is healthy. But when everything turns into a constant pursuit of performance, numbers, and comparison, something essential is lost: meaning.
A professional cyclist lives all of this with passion, but also with sacrifice. It is fatigue. It is pain. It is renunciation. An amateur, in theory, could take only the beautiful side of cycling, because they are not dependent on contracts or on people whose job it is to judge their performance. And yet, today we often see people giving up social life just to record a small number on an electronic device. A number that, for a professional, can translate into income or career opportunities — but for an amateur exists only for personal satisfaction.
Is it really worth it?
Creating distance between ourselves and measurement
Perhaps the point is not to give all of this up. Not to go backwards. Not to turn off devices and ride “like we used to.” The point is to create distance. To use technology as support, not as a judge. To use data to understand, not to label ourselves. To use comparison as motivation, not as condemnation.
To accept that:
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we are not professionals
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we have nothing to prove
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the value of a ride does not always lie in the numbers
Returning to a more human dimension
Cycling is still one of the simplest and most profound experiences there is. Moving through space. Making an effort. Thinking. Being silent. Sharing a road.
Perhaps the real resolution is not to measure less, but to feel more. Not to be against technology, but not to be dependent on it. Not to reject progress, but not to forget why we started.
The sound of the wind. The landscape. That particular road that always feels different. The sound of the freewheel on a descent. The sense of having good legs, without an electronic device constantly telling us so.
Because in the end, the bicycle was not created to measure.
It was created to ride.
