Women's Health (South Africa) - - LETTER FROM THE EDITOR -

Want to hear a con­fes­sion? Course you do. Who doesn’t? Bet­ter mor­tals than me. I am the edi­tor of Women’s Health and I can­not ride a bike. Nope. Not even a lit­tle bit. “But it’s just like rid­ing a bike” you say? Erm, no it bloody isn’t! I have tried and I have the scars to prove it, but it wasn’t un­til I took over the Sa­cred Ly­cra Pants of WH and moved to Cape Town that I got an itch to fi­nally get it right. There’s lit­tle point in con­sid­er­ing join­ing the rest of Cape Town in its an­nual pil­grim­age to Afrika Burn if one is only go­ing to be run­ning gaily along­side them as they pedal off to the next party. No one wants to be the dusty, sweaty girl who ar­rives two hours later. Plus, se­ri­ously: FOMO. Cy­clists al­ways seem to have su­u­u­uch a good thing go­ing. Sure, the clothes are un­flat­ter­ing AF, but they get mud­died and blood­ied and they speed down hills and feel the wind against their cas­quettes... Or so I am led to be­lieve. Sigh. So, I did what any pro­fes­sional in my po­si­tion would do and I asked for help. Which came – as it so of­ten does – in the form of my this-should-be-hi­lar­i­ous daugh­ters. They flung me onto a bi­cy­cle and made me glide around the park. I was do­ing a stag­ger­ingly fine job – in amaz­ing star-span­gled leg­gings, I might add – un­til a six-year-old fu­ri­ously ped­aled past me with a with­er­ing: “Yoh, but your bal­ance is bad.” Bas­tard. Our man­ag­ing ed, Amy, de­cided last year that she was go­ing to take up cy­cling and tried ca­jol­ing me into join­ing her. Yeah right. She’s just fin­ished what is ar­guably one of the tough­est sin­gle-day moun­tain-bike races in the coun­try – whoop, whoop! – with a load more race dates for the year on her cal­en­dar and her the­ory is this: if she can, any­one can. And she did. And she does. And she still will. Swot up on her mam­moth cy­cling spe­cial on page 102 – it should in­spire you enough to give it a go and in­form you enough to ac­tu­ally get off your soon-to-be-gel-padded arse. I’m think­ing it’s just the push – urgh, sorry – I needed too. But if you spot me out there on wheels and I’ve caved to a pair of nov­elty socks, please push me off my bike. There’s only so much a Jozi girl will do in the name of fash­ion.

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