Recently, I found myself in the midst of a deeply philosophical conversation with my wife. It was the kind of profound dialogue that makes you question not only the laws of physics, but also the fragility of the human brain after a bike ride.
You see, I had just finished a grueling 13-mile cycling workout. The kind with thigh-burning climbs followed by long, flat stretches that feel like Mother Nature’s idea of resistance training, thanks to a stiff headwind that seems to know exactly where you’re going and how to make your life miserable on the way there.
Now, I’m no athlete. I don’t have a podium in my living room or protein powder in my coffee. But for a man of advanced “old fart” age, I hold my own. I even upgraded my gear: I swapped out my 45mm gravel tires for a sleek set of 32mm road tires. Lighter. Higher pressure. Less rolling resistance. The kind of upgrade that makes you feel like you’re shaving seconds off your personal record.
Turns out, I was mostly shaving off my own illusions.
Despite all the science and rubber involved, my time on the usual route barely improved. Sure, the bike felt peppy—like it had just downed a double espresso—but when I checked the stats, the harsh truth stared back at me: a whopping 0.5 mph improvement. Basically, I had traded comfort and traction for a psychological placebo. Classic cyclist move.
But the real story begins after the ride.
I’m home, stretching out sore quads, when my wife asks the million-dollar question:
Wife: “How far did you ride?”
Me: “13 miles. I averaged 13 miles per hour. How long do you think it took?”
Wife: “…13 minutes?”
Me: laughs like a smug peloton dropout “No, not quite.”
Wife: fiddling with the calculator app like it’s a Rubik’s cube made of shame “Okay…13 times 13 minutes?”
Me: “Let me try again. I rode 13 miles at 13 miles per hour. How long did it take?”
Wife: pause “Oh my gawd. An hour.”
Now, I want to be very clear: my wife is a brilliant woman. She graduated from Cornell University, for crying out loud. This was not a failure of intelligence, but rather an unintentional demonstration of how the obvious can seem suspiciously tricky.
And that, dear reader, is how the Thirteen Mile Test was born.
What Is the Thirteen Mile Test?
It’s simple:
“If you ride a bicycle for 13 miles at 13 miles per hour, how long does it take?”
There is only one correct answer: One hour.
And yet, it feels like a trap. That’s the genius of it. It’s not just a math question—it’s a cognitive landmine. It tests not just intellect, but confidence under pressure, the ability to resist overthinking, and most importantly, whether you can function without outsourcing your brain to a calculator app.
Applications of the Test
From now on, I propose that the Thirteen Mile Test be universally applied in the following areas:
• College admissions interviews: Skip the essay. Ask the question.
• Job applications: Especially for management. Maybe especially for middle management.
• Political candidates: If someone knocks on your door asking for your signature to run for office, hit them with the test. If they fumble, politely hand them a campaign sticker… for their opponent.
• Online dating: Put it right in your profile. “Swipe right only if you pass the Thirteen Mile Test.”
• Customer service calls: Let’s make sure the rep can solve your billing issue and do basic division.
Final Thoughts
Look, I’m not saying my wife isn’t smarter than me. She is. She uses words like “deleterious” without irony and knows how to open a PDF. But every now and then, our brains short-circuit—especially when confronted with a question so absurdly simple that it must be a trick.
So next time you want to really know what someone is made of, skip the Myers-Briggs. Skip the SAT. Just ask them this:
“If you ride a bicycle for 13 miles at 13 miles per hour, how long does it take?”
And watch them squirm.
