Eight Steps to Heaven
A guide to getting started in cycling with Paul Kimmage
We are out for a summer ride in the village of Clogherhead:
“See that guy in the parked car?” “Yes, dad.” “What will happen if he decides to get out as we’re going past?” Leave plenty of room for idiots who don’t check their mirrors.
We are riding along the coast road to Portmarnock: “See that cottage up ahead?” “Yes, dad.” “What happens if a dog suddenly runs out?” Expect the unexpected.
And there was more: Keep two feet out from the verge at all times and watch for holes, ridges and changes in the surface of the road; beware of gravel on corners, oil, mud, wet leaves, greasy manhole covers, painted yellow and white lines and tram-tracks; avoid going out in freezing temperatures in winter — even the pros will fall on ice; and be mindful of the extreme danger of low sun in December — motorists following behind may be blinded and not see you.
5 OK, you’ve got the bike and the kit and you’re ready to ride. There was a heavy frost overnight? Spare yourself a broken collarbone and wait until it thaws. The forecast is rain all day? Put it off until tomorrow. It’s cold but dry? Fold your windproof jacket into the middle pocket of your jacket; take some tyre levers, a spare tube, some money, a phone and let’s go. But how far? And where? Start with a 40km circuit on some quiet country roads with a couple of hills. Set a steady cadence in a gear that feels easy and ride within yourself. Get a feel for the bike and how it handles and make full use of the gears — that’s what they’re there for — on the hills and descents. Treat yourself to a coffee when you’re half-way round.
You’ve stopped for half an hour? Slip your wind-proof jacket on for ten minutes until you warm up again. Relax your iron grip on the bars and release the tension from your shoulders and arms — let the bike absorb the bumps. Stay focused, but make sure to soak up the views and the smells. You made it. You’re home.
Now, how did that feel?
6 LET me guess? You fell off after 300 yards at the stop sign at the end of the road because you panicked and couldn’t get your foot out of the pedal. A woman passed you on the hill and you tried to keep up and pushed yourself into the red. The coffee stop was great until you jumped back on the bike again and tried to sit on the saddle.
Your ass feels like it’s been scorched with a blowtorch, your legs hurt, your arms ache and your nerves are frazzled from watching for dogs and dodging potholes. And you’re a liar. “I really enjoyed that, honey,” you tell your wife because you know she’ll go ape-shite if she knows the truth: “Whaaat! You’ve spent a fortune on the bike and all that fucking gear and you’re in complete and utter agony!”
But don’t worry: C’est normal.
Perhaps the hardest thing about cycling is the pain it inflicts when you’re just starting off — every muscle, crack and orifice of your body is under siege. Here’s the cure: your first spin was a Saturday? Put the bike away until the following Wednesday and go out on the same circuit. Then rest for another three days and do it again.
You have stopped falling off at the end of the road; you are holding the bird on the climb; you’re getting faster and more confident. The endorphins are kicking in and you’ve stopped lying to your wife. You’re not even reaching for the Sudocrem!
And the best bit? It gets even better from here.
7 YOU’VE started to get friendly with the bird on the climb. She’s a member of the Saggy-bottom Wheelers and invites you to join. Riding in a group presents some daunting new challenges. You blow some snot from your nose and smear someone’s glasses; you’re riding ten feet behind the wheel in front and passing on the wrong side; you hit your brakes too hard and almost cause a massive crash. And your head hurts from all the shouting: “CHANGE!” (The signal to take a shift at the front.) “HOLE!” (A crater on the road.) “ON THE LEFT!” (A guy jogging.) “WATCH THE DOG!” (An angry-looking Alsatian bolting from a gate.) “CAR UP!” (A motorist trying to pass from behind.) “CAR DOWN!” (A motorist coming towards you.) “STOPPING!” (The group have reached a junction.) “ALL CLEAR!” (It’s safe to cross.) And then there’s the etiquette: It’s your turn to take a pull at the front and you move alongside the club’s best rider — a former national champion — and decide to up the pace. “What are you doing?” he says. “I don’t know,” you reply. “You’re half-wheeling me!” “What?” “You’re riding in front of me.” “Well, I . . .” “Are we not going fast enough for you?” “No, no, I . . .” “Do I smell?” “Not at all. “Well ride beside, not in front of me. It’s bad manners.” “Okay, sorry, I didn’t know.” “And when you meet another group or rider on the road, try nodding or giving them a wave.” “Right.” “We’re not runners.”
8 IT’S going well. You’ve learnt the skill and the etiquette of riding with a group and the coffee stop has taken on a whole new dimension. Your club mates have become friends. They are talking about a summer trip to France and some climb called Alpe d’Huez.
You’ve lost weight. You feel great. You’re having so much fun, your wife wants to start. You buy her a bike and some gear and sit her down for the first lesson: “Okay, listen carefully sweetheart. This is the greatest sport in the world, but it’s going to hurt like hell.”
You’re in heaven.