The Poetics of Machinery — Back to Analog

The wave of updates knows no end.

The world of cycling is no exception, caught in a massive tide toward electronic systems, electrification, and wireless connectivity. Derailleurs have been liberated from cables; now, they operate with precision at the press of a button, ensuring the gears shift reliably in any condition.

Yet, behind that perfection, I sometimes feel a certain lack of soul.

It feels as though the very act of "touching" is being taken away from us.

The slight resistance and sound when pushing a shift lever, the tactile response of a taut cable—these small sensations are slipping from our hands before we know it. The subtle friction and sounds born between machine and machine may well have been the poetry that the bicycle, as a tool, once possessed.

Digital Fatigue and the Return to Analog

In recent years, I've heard the term "return to analog" more and more often.

In music, vinyl records are back in the spotlight, and even cassette tapes are regaining popularity.

In photography, people are shifting from smartphones to film cameras, and even early digital cameras are being re-evaluated as "retro-digitals." There is a newfound value in grainy photos and the very act of developing film.

This feels less like mere nostalgia and more like a natural progression—a choice to stop trying to keep pace with the speed of technology and instead protect our own sensibilities.

The same phenomenon is beginning to appear in the cycling world.
Electronic shifting and wireless components boast incredible precision and reduce maintenance efforts. However, they are definitely eliminating the "margin for touch."

Meanwhile, as a bike shop owner, I am keenly aware of the growing number of people looking for older "barn-find" style bikes—vintage MTBs or steel road bikes. They aren't just looking for cheap used bikes; they are earnestly searching for something that suits them, something they can work on. Owning a machine you can repair, adjust, and truly understand might be a new form of richness in the digital age.

What Exists "Between" Machine and Human

Shifting gears by pulling a cable is not merely an old technology.
It is interesting to think of it as a physical "conversation" mediated by human force.

As I mentioned earlier, the force of your fingertip pushing the lever, the flex of the cable, the movement of the derailleur, and the sound of the chain engaging the gear—these all come together as a rhythm that connects to human sensation.

I believe that analog beauty resides in that very "gap" where human sense and mechanical action resonate within a slight margin of error.

Electronic shifting has erased that "gap."
There is no time lag, no error. Certainly, that holds great significance in racing.

However, what we seek in our daily rides may not always be zero error. When a machine becomes solely about competing in efficiency, we lose our "room for engagement."

The charm of analog lies in its imperfection.
Even if it’s slightly off, even if it makes a noise, you can fix it if you put your hands to it. Change the cable, apply grease, and head out again. There is a joy in restoring a machine with your own power. It is more than just repair; it is **reclaiming responsibility for your own tools.**

Economic Growth and the Compulsion to Update

Updates are the fuel of the modern economy.
New materials, new structures, and new standards emerge one after another, always accompanied by the word "evolution."

But this speed often outpaces the time of the "user." When being "latest" is equated with value and "old" is viewed as inferior, maturity and attachment lose their place.

I respect the development speed of emerging manufacturers. There are many attractive products. Still, **whether chasing change is happiness** is another question.

When updating feels like an "obligation" rather than "evolution," choosing where to stop is, in itself, a form of intelligence and moderation.

The strength of analog is that it is not bound by time.
Even a frame or parts from a decade ago will run if you tend to them. You can replace the cable, apply grease, and start again at your own speed.
There is, most certainly, a human flow of time there that is separate from the logic of economics.

Rediscovering the Act of Touching

No matter how much technology advances, humans understand the world through "touching."

Not through a screen, but the weight of a tool, the smell of grease, the subtle resistance transmitted to your fingertips. This is not nostalgia, but a **concrete act to reclaim your own senses.**

The weight of your finger pulling the cable.
The sound of friction against the rim when you squeeze the brake.
The slight resistance of the derailleur.
Each and every sign connects the body to the machine and brings us back to "reality."

Digital gives you results; analog gives you the process. Human memory always lives within the process.

Reclaiming the Circuit of the Spirit

The "Back to Analog" concept championed by RAL Exposure is not a stance against technological progress, but a proposal to "re-choose your own speed."
Analog is not about slowness, but a choice of depth.

Hopping onto your trusty bicycle, you push the lever with your finger.
With a small *click*, the chain shifts to the next gear.
In that moment, you are sensorially connected to the machine.

I think that is why so many "un-racers" still choose analog today—so they don't forget that tactile reality.

Within Small Errors

Perhaps the more we wish for a world that doesn't break, the more we lose our own role in it.

The uncertainty of analog likely creates a small space for us to inhabit in such an age.

To own something fragile is to promise yourself that you will take care of it, and I believe that within that promise, people can still find "the speed at which they live."

Within imperfect systems, there is a small "human margin" left over. How we use that margin changes the meaning of our tools and the nature of our lives.

We might just be creatures who can only truly feel free within that instability.

Until next week, take care.