Rhythm Thief
Veteran
I went to a barbecue at a friend's house a couple of months ago. He's quite a keen cyclist, and was out early the next morning with his brothers and another friend to do a 50 mile MTB race. I'd never met them, and over the burgers and beers, one of them said to me "I hear you're a cyclist as well". Oh, not really, said I, I haven't been on a bike for getting on for a year now, and even then I wasn't cycling regularly. I do still own three (or possibly four) bikes though. "Well, in that case, you're still a cyclist" he said.
But I didn't believe him. When I thought about cycling at all, it was with a sense of deep foreboding about what hard work it would be if I ever did get back on a bike, coupled with a vague sense of regret for my former 25 year old racing whippet self and a sort of mild curiosity about what I could buy with the money my three (or possibly four) bikes would fetch on Ebay. I wasn't a cyclist: merely owning bikes isn't the mark of a cyclist, any more than owning a Nikon makes me a photographer. I was resigned to spending the rest of my days trading on past glories - "I used to do Audax rides, you know. And I commuted 200 miles a week. Yeah, I'd still be able to do it, but I just don't get the time / work too far away / am old and fat" - and occasionally thinking that I really should get out on the bike one of these days.
Well, for some reason, a few weeks ago I packed a bag containing a change of clothes, a wash kit and my safety shoes. I took it all to work (in the car) and left it in the cab of my truck. There it remained, undisturbed, for a couple of weeks until last Friday I decided it was about time I stopped being so bloody feeble and started doing some exercise again. Partly prompted, it must be said, by another friend's comment that despite still feeling young, at 39 I was entering "heart attack alley". So ... as you may have read elsewhere, I allowed myself two hours for the 18 mile journey, stocked up on energy bars, pumped up the tyres on my ancient Dawes Galaxy, located my lycra kit (which I was unreasonably gratified to find still fitted, albeit with bulges where previously there were none) and pedalled off to work.
What a revelation! I really enjoyed that first ride in, it took me nearly an hour less than I'd allowed myself and I arrived in time to listen to the News Quiz while I got changed. I spent the whole night at work feeling buoyed up by the ache in my legs and the accusations of being "f**king mad" from my workmates. This is what it's all about, I thought, and it was ... until I came to pedal home again. That was no fun at all ... I thought I'd eaten enough to last me the journey, but I hit the wall about ten miles in and failed to enjoy the rest of the ride. When I eventually got home, I shovelled as much food as I could find down my neck and collapsed into bed.
So ... since then, I've ridden in twice. Both times have gone significantly better - I've been careful to keep myself fed and watered during the shift and have actually started to attack the hills a bit. (Although even when I was fighting fit I was never much cop at climbing; I'm not really built for it.) And this morning, instead of coming straight home (29.2km) I decided to make the most of a glorious morning and ride the lanes a bit (36.4km).
It's early days yet, but it's a long time since I felt so alive after a ten hour night shift. I've finally remembered why I used to love cycling so much, and to be honest it feels like I've never been away. I didn't believe it when I was told I was still a cyclist, but it turns out that it's absolutely true. And I don't intend to stop being one anytime soon.
But I didn't believe him. When I thought about cycling at all, it was with a sense of deep foreboding about what hard work it would be if I ever did get back on a bike, coupled with a vague sense of regret for my former 25 year old racing whippet self and a sort of mild curiosity about what I could buy with the money my three (or possibly four) bikes would fetch on Ebay. I wasn't a cyclist: merely owning bikes isn't the mark of a cyclist, any more than owning a Nikon makes me a photographer. I was resigned to spending the rest of my days trading on past glories - "I used to do Audax rides, you know. And I commuted 200 miles a week. Yeah, I'd still be able to do it, but I just don't get the time / work too far away / am old and fat" - and occasionally thinking that I really should get out on the bike one of these days.
Well, for some reason, a few weeks ago I packed a bag containing a change of clothes, a wash kit and my safety shoes. I took it all to work (in the car) and left it in the cab of my truck. There it remained, undisturbed, for a couple of weeks until last Friday I decided it was about time I stopped being so bloody feeble and started doing some exercise again. Partly prompted, it must be said, by another friend's comment that despite still feeling young, at 39 I was entering "heart attack alley". So ... as you may have read elsewhere, I allowed myself two hours for the 18 mile journey, stocked up on energy bars, pumped up the tyres on my ancient Dawes Galaxy, located my lycra kit (which I was unreasonably gratified to find still fitted, albeit with bulges where previously there were none) and pedalled off to work.
What a revelation! I really enjoyed that first ride in, it took me nearly an hour less than I'd allowed myself and I arrived in time to listen to the News Quiz while I got changed. I spent the whole night at work feeling buoyed up by the ache in my legs and the accusations of being "f**king mad" from my workmates. This is what it's all about, I thought, and it was ... until I came to pedal home again. That was no fun at all ... I thought I'd eaten enough to last me the journey, but I hit the wall about ten miles in and failed to enjoy the rest of the ride. When I eventually got home, I shovelled as much food as I could find down my neck and collapsed into bed.
So ... since then, I've ridden in twice. Both times have gone significantly better - I've been careful to keep myself fed and watered during the shift and have actually started to attack the hills a bit. (Although even when I was fighting fit I was never much cop at climbing; I'm not really built for it.) And this morning, instead of coming straight home (29.2km) I decided to make the most of a glorious morning and ride the lanes a bit (36.4km).
It's early days yet, but it's a long time since I felt so alive after a ten hour night shift. I've finally remembered why I used to love cycling so much, and to be honest it feels like I've never been away. I didn't believe it when I was told I was still a cyclist, but it turns out that it's absolutely true. And I don't intend to stop being one anytime soon.
- Brilliant mate!
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