Tag Archives: metabolism

Why does cycling feel harder than running at the same heart rate?

Triathletes often make the observation that cycling at the Maximum Aerobic Function Heart Rate (MAF HR) feels a lot harder than running at the same heart rate. Due to a common perception that exercising at the MAF HR should feel “easy,” people often ask whether they should lower their cycling MAF HR by ten or twenty beats in order to bring down the perception of effort for cycling and match it to what they feel when running.

The assumption is that if exercising at the MAF HR corresponds with a certain perception of effort—or as it is formally called, perceived exertion (PE)—a higher PE must indicate the presence of anaerobic function even though the heart rate is the same. If it feels harder, it must be due to anaerobic function (or more generally, that the body as a whole is working harder).

However, this isn’t necessarily the case: As far as the body is concerned, “working harder” and “increased effort” are NOT the same thing.

PE measures the power of a particular muscle contraction relative to the muscle’s maximum contractile capacity (a.k.a. its full power). Every voluntary contraction starts as a signal that the brain sends down the nerves and into the muscle. In order to produce a more powerful contraction, the brain must send a more powerful signal. PE is the intensity of this signal relative to the signal intensity required to produce the most powerful muscle contraction. A contraction that takes up a greater percentage of a muscle’s total capacity produces a more intense PE.

In other words, PE is your brain telling you how close you’re getting to the muscle’s redline.

There’s two things that need to happen for a muscle to contract at a given percentage of its full power:

  1. The requisite signal power coming from the brain.
  2. The necessary oxygen and metabolic fuel availability.

If a particular movement involves a large portion of the musculature, the body will have to distribute its metabolic fuel out across a wide range of muscles. But if a certain movement involves fewer muscles, the same metabolic fuel can be focused to a much greater degree.

When a movement is focused, there is plenty available fuel for each muscle—allowing each muscle to contract at a greater percentage of its full power. But when a movement is distributed, there is less fuel available to power each muscle. Even if the brain sent out a very powerful signal, the muscle wouldn’t contract as hard as expected because the fuel simply isn’t there.

This means that if the body uses the same amount of fuel to contract more muscles, causing each brain signal (and the muscle contraction it provokes) to become less powerful, the PE will be lower. Why? Because PE fundamentally isn’t about how much energy the body (or the brain) is using. PE is the brain telling you what’s happening in the muscle.

A good illustration of this discrepancy is the effort needed to pry open a stuck jar lid. Only a few small muscles in the arm and upper body are involved in this effort. The big muscles in the legs and hips are essentially dormant. Because of this, the metabolic involvement (or total brain involvement) is very low—much lower than cycling or running. And yet the PE experienced in opening a stuck jar lid is extremely high. Why? Even though arm muscles are much weaker than leg muscles, they are contracting as hard as they can.

The reason this matters for the triathlete is because running and cycling are very different: Running is very distributed, while cycling is very focused. This is largely because running has much higher stability requirements than cycling. A cyclist almost always has 5 points of support: handlebars, seat, and pedals. A cyclist is able to keep the upper body relatively still (merely gesturing to maintain balance) while the lower body does almost all of the work. A runner, on the other hand, has at most 1 point of support: the foot they get to place on the ground each step. For a runner, the upper body has to rotate powerfully in order to achieve and maintain balance throughout every step they run.

A cyclist can focus much more fuel into a few leg muscles, while a runner has to make it available across the body. This means that a cyclist’s leg muscles can contract very powerfully in comparison to a runner’s leg muscles—even though as a whole, both bodies are using the same amount of fuel. Therefore, the runner’s PE will be much lower.

While a higher PE in a similar activity typically means more work (which takes the body toward anaerobic function), it is by itself not a surefire indicator of anaerobic activity. As long as the aerobic muscle fibers in a cyclist’s leg muscles are powerful enough that they can accommodate and utilize all the fuel and oxygen that the body can focus into them, that cyclist will be able to work at a much higher PE than a runner without ever going anaerobic.

In my next post, I’ll answer the question of why a person crosses the threshold from fully aerobic to anaerobic at very similar heart rates even when perceived effort, number of muscles involved, or even fuel utilization changes dramatically.

Meditation: could it be a running-specific recovery tool?

I meditate as a way to maintain overall mental health, keep my mind clean of obstructions, and to synchronize some of the body’s vital systems like the cardiovascular system and the lungs. In other words, I use meditation for “general maintenance,” if you will. But recently, I made the discovery that meditation has been (at least for me) an amazing postrun activity, especially to let the body wind down after a long run.

Thanks to this discovery, I’ve begun to use meditation (in addition to its generalized, catch-all nature) in a much more surgical fashion. When I meditate after a long run, I find that I have very little muscle soreness, and my recovery from the run begins soon after. I’ve been able to increase my training volume quite noticeably, since my resting heart rate remains consistently low, at 42-47 bpm.

Throughout my experience with meditation, I’ve used different forms of it towards different ends, although most of them come from the discipline and tradition of Zen. Without going into much detail, Zen centers on the ability to perceive the world in a “purer” fashion—in other words, free of the constructs that society creates, and the heuristics that our cognitive machinery uses to allow us to navigate our world.

The type of Zen meditation that I’ve used here is best referred to as “observing the breath.” Its purpose is to observe what the body does—to sit with the body (in its company, if you will)—and just let its processes run its course. Think of it in terms of “observing and allowing.”

By doing that, I realized that something really interesting began to happen.

Usually, I get back from a long run, and my breathing winds down within a minute. I’m tired, and my muscles are tired, and I sit down and rest for a while. For sure, I’ll drink some water. And a couple of hours later, I start feeling the onset of muscle soreness.

But when I started to meditate directly after the long run, regardless of how tired I was—or rather especially if I was extremely tired—I realized that, as soon as I achieved a meditative state, my breathing started to wind back up again. Of its own volition, my body starts taking deep breaths, in which the lungs completely fill and empty. This usually keeps up for like 6-10 minutes, and then my breath gradually starts winding down. Just to let the process run its course completely, I usually remain in a meditative state for about 20 minutes.

So, why did I start breathing harder if I was meditating?

Here’s my hypothesis:

When I get back from a long run and just “go chill,”  my mind isn’t in “observation mode,” it’s in “doing mode” or “thinking mode.” So, once the long run is over, my mind comes up with other ideas of what it should be doing. The processes that were going on during the long run, such as metabolizing a high volume of lactate thanks to accelerated breathing, get overriden by newer processes, and forgotten before they have a chance to fully conclude.

So, when my long run ends, I believe that my body still has a hell of a lot of lactate that needs to be metabolized—but the necessary oxygen flow just … stops.

On the other hand, when I went into meditation—into “observation” mode—after the long run, I removed my mind from the equation. This was about sitting with the body and watching the body intently, and letting it do whatever. And what it chose to do was to increase the respiratory rate and depth of respirations dramatically. Why did this happen? Again, what I have is only conjecture, but I think that what happened is that my body decided that the best thing it could be doing for its own sake was to continue metabolizing the by-products of exercise (such as its heavyweight: lactate). For this, it needs a lot of oxygen—much, much more than I usually give it, in the minutes directly after the conclusion of my long runs.

It seems like that’s why my body decided to increase my rate of breathing.

I’d like to hear your thoughts about this in the comments. I’m convinced that this works on myself. But I’m curious what you use meditation for (if you use it at all). I’m especially interested in your doubts, and in the plausibility of what I discuss in this post. Also, if you think you may have ideas on a possible experimental design to test the correlation between meditation and the opportunity for continued lactate metabolism, do tell.

I’d like to engage with the subject of meditation (and my experiences of it) in a much more academically and experimentally rigorous sense.