Join The Ride

By Mike Finch

THERE WAS MORE GREY HAIR IN THE PELOTON THAN AT A FRIDAY MORNING LAWN BOWLS SOCIAL, and I’d worked out that at 49, I was probably the second-youngest rider in this Sunday morning chain gang. THE WHATSAPP MESSAGE FROM RIDE MAG EDITOR TIM BRINK HAD SUGGESTED A ‘RECOVERY’ RIDE; AND AFTER A TAXING CYCLE THE DAY BEFORE, I WAS LOOKING FORWARD TO A GENTLE PEDAL WITH A GROUP OF OLDER FOLK, AND A COUPLE OF STIFF CORTADOS AFTER. // We rolled out of the shopping centre into a gentle breeze (more on this later!), and soon the group was pedalling sedately along the marked cycle route, chatting excitedly about – I SUSPECTED – SUCH THINGS AS PENSIONER SPECIALS, AND GEORGE’S UPCOMING 65TH BIRTHDAY SHINDIG. // BUT BREEZY TURNED TO WINDY; AND SOON, THESE SILVER-HAIRED LADIES AND GENTLEMEN WERE BARRELLING HEAD-ON INTO A GALE, SEEMINGLY OBLIVIOUS TO THE INCREASINGLY STRONG GUSTS. “FOR GOODNESS SAKE, CHAPS,” I MOANED QUIETLY IN MY HEAD, “CAN’T YOU SEE WE’RE RIDING INTO A HURRICANE?!” // Forty-five minutes later the bunch had split, and I was hanging on for dear life. But eventually I too was done, and I fell dejectedly off the back. // THAT’S WHEN I SAW HER: HUNCHED OVER HER AGING TREK AND DRESSED UP IN FULL, ILL-FITTING LEGGINGS, THE STRAGGLY GREY HAIR UNDER HER HELMET A MARKER OF HER ADVANCED YEARS. I SLOWLY PUSHED PAST HER, AND SHE GLANCED AT ME BEFORE SLOTTING IN BEHIND MY WHEEL. // AS I GROUND TOWARDS THE TURNAROUND MEETING POINT, I DUG DEEPER THAN I HAVE DONE FOR A LONG TIME. I FELT POSITIVE SHE WOULDN’T HANG ON IN THIS WIND, BUT I DARED NOT LOOK AROUND. SURE ENOUGH, AS I ROLLED UP TO THE WAITING BUNCH, SHE WAS RIGHT BEHIND ME. SHE SMILED SWEETLY AND SAID “THANKS”, ACKNOWLEDGING MY EFFORTS TO HELP HER RIDE INTO THE WIND. // LITTLE DID SHE KNOW THAT IN TRUTH, I’D BEEN TRYING TO DROP HER 74-YEAR-OLD ASS!