Are you a Mamil?
In defence of midlife Lycra louts
It comes to something when your 73-year-old mother-inlaw sees you as a figure of fun. Mine routinely lies about her age (she claims to be 38 – seven years younger than her own daughter) but maintains the belief that she is a vastly superior athlete to the likes of me.
Then again, we – the likes of me – are easy targets. We are Mamils, weekend warriors aping our professional cycling heroes. An all-too-visible exemplar of the mid-life crisis in motion – set to be out in force this bank holiday, buzzing like drones, clogging the climb up Box Hill.
Motorists may hate us, but being a Middle-aged Man In Lycra has come to define my life. I can take the jokes, the barbs and the brickbats with a smile for one simple reason: it makes me happy.
It was not always this way. Back in 2010, I was a regular 38-year-old (a real one, not my mother-in-law’s fantasy version) who played a bit of golf, the odd game of football and enjoyed more than the occasional pint. Then I bought a bicycle and everything changed. My reasoning was sound enough: I have relapsing remitting multiple sclerosis, which affects my balance, and meant running was something of a lottery.
After falling sideways into a bush one time too many, I decided to give cycling a go instead. Once you are up and running (pardon the pun), the bicycle’s forward momentum takes care of your balance, solving my problems at a stroke. But when I walked into the cycle shop that spring morning, I was not opening the front door so much as Pandora’s Box.
Overnight, I was sucked into the vortex of Mamildom. I shudder to think what it has cost me since, but can say, with some conviction, it would be enough to put down a deposit on a four-bedroom house.
It started off gently enough. I settled on a racing bike which at the time I thought cost a hefty sum – £500. Turning to the clothing racks, I picked out a baggy pair of shorts and an oversized jersey to accommodate my 13-stone frame.
From the first turn of the pedals, I was hooked. Do you remember the first time you rode a bike as a child? That was how I felt: exhilaration at the speed, the sense of freedom and the sheer joy of whizzing around the country lanes.
Within six months, I had cycled to Paris with a pair of old mates who had discovered cycling before me. Arriving at the Arc de Triomphe, I felt like a conquering hero, not a podgy old git with a chronic neurological condition.
Out went the baggy clothes, in came a wardrobe of indecently tight Lycra. Soon my £500 bike felt like an old shire horse, so I had a custom frame made by the bespoke cycling experts at Wyndymilla (the team there have since become friends, I go so often). The weight fell off me, and while I will never be anyone’s vision of an Adonis, it was a big improvement. I felt great and looked great. Or so I thought, until I strode up to my wife in the park after a Saturday morning ride, resplendent in vivid pink Lycra, and was genuinely surprised to see her friends stifling giggles. “Darling,” said Jen, taking me to one side, “I’m really glad you’ve found a hobby you love, but will you do me one small favour?”
“Of course!” I grinned. “Never – EVER – turn up in public looking like this again,” she said with a tight smile, “now go home, have a shower and put some normal clothes on.”
Reader, I did not stick to my side of the bargain. My cycling wardrobe has grown exponentially since then, and none of it is what the conventional fashionista would describe as attractive. Three years ago, I got together with my closest friends to set up our own cycling club, Fiasco. Besides meeting that deep-seated, unspoken tribal need we boys all share, it also provided the opportunity to design our own kit. Lots of it.
Today, Fiasco has a shade under 30 members, all clad in Fiasco jerseys (short and long sleeve), bib tights (short, long and fleece lined), gilets, rain jackets, winter coats, arm, knee and leg warmers, gloves, overshoes and much more. Every item, needless to say, is snugly fitted in a manner that leaves little to the imagination. It will surprise nobody that not one of our members – male or female – is under the age of 35.
This is the culmination of what I can only describe as an obsession. Being a Mamil has almost come to define me. I have twice completed the Etape du Tour (a stage of the Tour de France ridden by amateurs), cycled from my home in Godalming to Bordeaux and spent hours on end riding my bike, almost every Saturday morning for the past seven years.
Yet through it all, I never once stopped to wonder why I was doing it. Then, out of the blue, I was contacted by Nickolas Byrd and Eleanor Sharpe, a pair of award-winning documentary makers from Australia.
Weeks later, I was “starring” (their term, not mine) in a feature-length movie that will be screened at cinemas across the UK on April 9.
Mamil explores the question I had somehow managed to avoid: what drives middle-aged, predominantly middle-class males into the saddle?
Mamils have huge spending power – in the United States alone they spend $6 billion on bikes and cycling products every year. The documentary bounces between Australia, the UK and the US to find out what drives people like me.
It touches on the expense (I won’t tell you what my favourite bike cost, but it is worth more than the other six combined), risks and injuries (one Mamil hits the road in a neck brace rather than endure another day off the bike) and its effectiveness in tackling depression and serious illness.
I am convinced cycling, and the sense of comradeship it comes with, is the primary reason my MS has remained in check. One Mamil interviewed in the film reveals that he was going to commit suicide until he remembered there was a big club ride coming up in a few weeks.
This is not hyperbole. Being a Mamil really does change lives.
It is a stress-buster, moving meditation and fitness coach, rolled into one. Even if our wives, girlfriends – even our mothers-in-law – see us as figures of fun.
I can take the jokes, the barbs and the brickbats with a smile: it makes me happy