Discover how specialized cycling gloves can help prevent hand numbness and support nerve health for cyclists seeking comfort and performance on longer rides.
After three decades as a physical therapist and twenty-five years immersed in the art and science of bike fitting, I thought I had seen it all. I’d meticulously measured knee angles, optimized cleat positions, and adjusted countless saddle heights. My approach was, by all conventional standards, thorough. Yet, there were moments, unsettlingly frequent at times, when I'd finish a fit, proud of the numbers and positions achieved, only to have a cyclist look at me with a polite, but undeniably deflating, "It’s interesting. My hands actually feel heavier."
This seemingly innocuous comment, uttered after I’d made what I believed to be all the "right" changes, became a pivotal moment in my career. It was a jolt, a sudden realization that despite all the objective data I was collecting, I was missing the most critical piece of evidence: the cyclist's actual experience. I was so focused on my tools, my processes, and my numbers that I had become deaf to the signal through the noise—their chief complaint, their reason for seeking my help in the first place.
This led me to an "evidence-informed" fit process, one that starts not with the bike, but with the human being on it. The first step is simply, profoundly, to listen. What are their primary goals? To go faster? To alleviate pain? To ride comfortably for 100 miles? These become our "objective asterisks," or as I like to call them, "signposts"—measurable, observable, or quantifiable metrics directly related to their desired outcome. For hand numbness, the signpost isn't just a torso angle; it's the subjective feeling of "heaviness in the hands."
Once we’ve established these crucial signposts, the process unfolds with a scientific rigor that is also deeply human. We form a hypothesis: "I believe their hand numbness is caused by X (e.g., stem too long, tight thoracic spine)." Then, we intervene, making one targeted change. And here’s the magic, the true test of our hypothesis: we immediately recheck the signposts. Did their hands go from "heavy" to "light"? Did their locked elbows suddenly bend?
It’s in this moment of rechecking, by asking open-ended, non-leading questions and quantifying subjective experiences (e.g., "On a scale of 1 to 10, how heavy do your hands feel now?"), that we move beyond being mere technicians. We become cycling analysts, learning in real-time what truly impacts our client. Sometimes, the unexpected happens—a cleat adjustment, seemingly unrelated to hand numbness, dramatically reduces the pressure. These "surprises" aren't failures; they are profound learning opportunities, revealing the intricate, interconnected system of body and bike. This iterative loop of listening, hypothesizing, intervening, and rechecking is not just about solving problems; it's about building trust, fostering self-management, and ultimately, making a tangible, felt difference in our cyclists' lives.