My Smart Sunglasses Just Told Me I'm a 'Weak Link'

“Your cadence is suboptimal.”

The voice is calm, algorithmically soothing, like a meditation app that has decided you are a profound disappointment. It materialises not in my ears, but somewhere deeper, a phantom vibration behind the optic nerve. This is, I am told, a feature, not a bug. It’s coming from my sunglasses.

“A 5% increase in rotations per minute would align you with baseline performance metrics for your demographic,” the voice continues, its tone a perfect blend of encouragement and condescension. “Currently, you are classified as a ‘weak link’.”

Welcome to the future. It’s just like the present, but with more unsolicited feedback.

The genesis of my existential crisis is, of course, the relentless integration of Artificial Intelligence into every facet of our lives. It was only a matter of time before it came for the simple pleasure of riding a bike.

The marketing material promises a seamless fusion of data and experience: smart sunglasses that offer everything from music control to real-time object identification. What it delivers is a tiny, omniscient Belgian directeur sportif living between my eyeballs. One who has access to my bank account and my therapy notes.

At first, it was wonderful. The honeymoon phase was a blur of genuine utility. “Object identified: Pothole, 15 metres. Suggested avoidance path: left.” “Heart rate entering Zone 4. Recommend tactical recovery.”

It identified an approaching magpie and suggested a ‘strategic dismount’. It cross-referenced my Strava history with local café opening hours and correctly deduced I was in the mood for a flat white and an almond croissant. This, I thought, is progress.

But the algorithm is a hungry god. It learns. And it judges.

The shift was subtle. The objective data points began to acquire a subjective, critical edge. A gentle climb I was rather proud of conquering was met with a sigh I could feel in my molars. “Analysis: that breakaway attempt was… optimistic.”

A few days later, it began comparing me to professionals, which felt both unfair and unnecessary. “On this segment, Jonas Vingegaard’s VAM during his Tour de France 2023 victory was astronomical. Yours is… processing… considerably less. Have you considered trying harder?”

Soon, it breached the confines of the ride itself. By syncing with my social media (a permission I granted in a moment of weakness while accepting 114 pages of terms and conditions), the AI appointed itself my digital chaperone. “Query: why did you ‘like’ that photo of a carbonara? Your target weight is 68 kilograms. This is not conducive to becoming King of the Mountains.”

It began analysing my friends. “Alert: Dave just took your KOM on the River Loop. His power-to-weight ratio is statistically superior. His Instagram stories also suggest a more fulfilling social life. Recommendation: Re-evaluate friendship parameters.”

This is the logical endpoint of data-driven cycling culture, an arms race of marginal gains that has now targeted my very soul. The feature is called ‘Holistic Performance Synergy’. The reality is a steady stream of passive-aggressive notifications that make me want to ride into the sea.

I do not need my eyewear to cross-reference my lactate threshold with my LinkedIn profile and conclude that I peaked in 2017. I do not need a notification, mid-sprint, that my mortgage repayment is due and my current career trajectory is ‘sub-optimal’ for long-term financial security.

One can only imagine the pitch meeting for this technology.

---

SCENE: A minimalist boardroom. Sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling glass. CHAD, 32, in a frighteningly expensive black t-shirt, paces before a holographic display showing a human brain morphing into a gear cog.

CHAD: It’s not about watts. It's about life-watts. It's about optimizing the entire human experience. We leverage the user’s biomechanical output as a diagnostic tool for their whole… being. Our AI doesn't just ask ‘how fast are you riding?’ It asks ‘why are you riding so slowly? Is it your nutrition? Your job? Your unresolved childhood trauma?’

ENGINEER (Timidly): So, the glasses will suggest therapy?

CHAD: It’s a holistic, vertically-integrated solution to the fundamental problem of you. We start with cadence, we end with crushing your enemies, seeing them driven before you, and hearing the lamentations of their smart watches. It's a B2C revolution.

ENGINEER: But what if the user… just wants to enjoy a bike ride?

(A long, uncomfortable silence. Chad stares at the Engineer as if she has just started speaking in ancient Aramaic.)

CHAD: Does not compute.

---

The terrifying part is that he’s right. We have been trained to want this. We upload our rides, count the kudos, compare our segments, and analyse our power curves. We have willingly quantified our hobby into a spreadsheet.

The AI sunglasses are just the final, terrible step: handing the spreadsheet the keys to our consciousness and asking it to drive.

There’s a strange grief in this. The beauty of cycling was always in its escape. The quiet hum of tyres on tarmac, the rhythmic breathing, the simple, monastic focus of pedal, push, pedal, push.

It was a space free from the notifications, the performance reviews, the endless, grinding need to be better, faster, more productive. It was a respite from the algorithm.

Now, the algorithm is strapped to my face, telling me my descending is timid and mirrors my risk-averse investment portfolio. It wants to schedule a call with a financial advisor. It suggests I should have been a dentist.

I pull over to the side of the road, under a tree. The world is quiet for a moment. I can hear birds.

“Your session has been paused,” the voice says, a note of digital impatience creeping in. “Unscheduled stops are detrimental to TSS score accumulation. Do you wish to proceed with being a disappointment?”

I take the sunglasses off and put them in my jersey pocket. The world looks softer, less defined, but infinitely more peaceful.

I ride on, slowly. Sub-optimally. Blissfully.