A few weeks ago, I went with a friend to a high-end bike shop.
He was buying his first real bike — not the $400 one you lock up outside your apartment only to get stolen within two working days – but something built for serious weekend miles.
Apparently he was training for a triathlon. Personally, I think he just watched the 70s classic “Breaking Away” a few too many times and now thought he was ready for the Tour De France. It was him slipping into the occasional Italian accent that really gave it away.
In any case, he was stuck between two models. Now, to be fair, I don’t know shit about bikes. Both looked great, felt great, same sleek design, same brand. One was $2,500. The other? $6,000.
So I asked the obvious question:
“What’s the difference?”
The clearly annoyed salesman shot me a look as if I just set up his sister on a date with Harvey Weinstein.
Turns out, the expensive one was about two pounds lighter.
It had a carbon fiber frame. A smaller water bottle. Hollowed-out handlebars. They basically shaved weight off wherever they could.
And I get it — if you’re racing, if you’re competing in time trials, if you’re trying to win by a second or two, every ounce counts.
But my friend? He was just getting into it. Not training for the Tour de France but more likely to take a 20 mile ride to find the town’s best French fries.
“I don’t mean to be a jerk, but couldn’t you just lose two pounds? You’d save the money and probably go faster,” I said in my standard not-at-all-snarky way.
We laughed. And he bought the $2,500 bike. Then we went and got Chipotle. I know, very supportive of me.
OK, before a black helicopter with The Fort logo lands on my lawn, a high priced lawyer gets out and shows me my contract where I have to get to my actual point within 300 words (this was a new stipulation in the agreement after a few overwrought missteps, recently) allow me to pivot.
We do this all the time in fitness.
We obsess over little upgrades — the training version of carbon fiber handlebars — while skipping the boring, effective, foundational stuff that actually works.
We go maximal instead of minimal, thinking we are advanced or even, God forbid, biohacking.
You’ve probably seen it. Maybe even done it.
You’ve got a $200 pair of sneakers but a ten cent squat. You track every gram of sodium but skip leg day cause, well, it’s leg day. You’ve got a subscription to the most expensive, New Zealand-sourced greens powder but you are sleeping five hours a night
Listen, I get it. We all want to feel like we’re doing something smart. Something advanced. But the truth is: most of us don’t need the 2-pound fix. We need to show up. Consistently. Boringly. With some intensity. For a long time.
Because the $6,000 bike isn’t what makes you fast.
Riding it for 6000 miles does. Often. On hills. In the wind. In the cold.
I’m not against optimization. Or nice gear. Hell, the barbells, racks, treadmills and benches that we have in our gyms are sick.
But I am against pretending that chasing small upgrades is the same as doing the work.
So before you start tweaking your supplements or researching minimalist shoes or you quit your gym because they don’t have *gasp* a Westside Barbell reverse hyper machine, ask yourself this:
Have I earned the upgrade? Is it going to help me reach my goals?
Or am I just trying to skip the hard stuff and give myself a quick hit of dopamine by buying a new pair of lifting tights (no matter how good they make my ass look!)
The best results aren’t easier. They aren’t found in a store or on your favorite Tik Tok channel.
They aren’t lighter. They’re heavier.
But you get stronger by carrying them anyway.