To Everyone Who Loves Cyclists...

A thank-you to everyone who puts up with us!

Floundering in a sea of red brake lights on the main road, kilometres from my turnoff, I had to acknowledge two hard truths. The first was that I had gravely miscalculated how long it would take to get home from my ride, leading to the second hard truth: there would be no time for a shower. I would be going to dinner with hair that smelled like my trail helmet, which smells like an old washing-up cloth.

I had promised my sister I’d be home from riding by 4pm. I screeched into the driveway at 4:43 and roared through the house, casting aside sweaty bike clothing, wiping mud splatters off my neck with a towel, and grabbing leftovers to wolf down in the car. We made it to my friend’s loft apartment just 20 minutes late. As I greeted everyone with a hug, hoping my perfume masked the scent of washing-up-cloth hair, I felt a little guilty for being late. I also felt like I’d got away with something.

Some say that being a cyclist is a ‘lifestyle’. I think it’s more like having a second, ‘shadow’ life that you have to keep a watchful eye on to prevent it from imploding your real life. Being a cyclist requires a continual negotiation between indulging our very time

consuming hobby, and not being a terrible human being to everyone else in our lives who doesn’t ride.

Think about how annoying we must be to our non-cycling loved ones: we’re never available for any midday activity. Brunch? You mean a three-hour, midmorning meal that leaves me comatose the rest of the day? Rather ride. Lunch? Sure, if you don’t mind waiting until 3pm. Hike? Wouldn’t it be more fun to go for a chilled bike ride instead, or pedal to whatever site is the focal point of all that walking?

When I do make myself available, I’m obnoxiously strategic about it. Every time my best friend – who’s not a cyclist – asks when we can hang out next, I calculate to the next Saturday I’d be willing to (grudgingly) sacrifice: maybe after that stage race/100km ride/ week-long bike trip I’ll need a break from my bike. Or I try to turn a family gettogether into a one-way bike tour with free shuttle service back home.

And besides being late because “the ride took longer I thought it would”, I’m also the worst dinner party guest. I either ate lunch at 3pm and have no appetite, or I’m a ravenous monster who demolishes all the guac and cheese cubes on my own. Oh, and I have to go home early because, y’know… riding tomorrow.

Sometimes I hear cyclists say that “I’m a better mom/dad/husband/wife/partner if I get my ride in”. But let’s be honest: our rides are primarily self-serving. And even if they’re not, we miscalculate too often. I’ve been late to a friend’s wedding because I tried to ‘squeeze in’ a 70km ride. I missed another friend’s beach weekend after getting lost on my 100km ride that morning.

Why does it always feel like such a compromise to me to do anything with a beautiful Saturday or a warm summer evening but ride a bike? Why can’t

I just be normal?

Because I’m not normal. I’m a cyclist. People use the word ‘addicted’ to describe us, and from the outside looking in, our need must seem compulsive. But it’s not a simple matter of being hooked on endorphins or exercise. If that were the case, we could run (so efficient! So inexpensive!) or do CrossFit or any other activity that takes less time, equipment, and preparation.

For cyclists, the ride is more than a dependence. The ride is the absolute best possible way we can imagine to spend a day. On the ride, we feel alive in a way that can elude us in the rest of our lives. On the bike, I express a different side of myself, I find a favourite version of me. Maybe all this is just a roundabout way of saying some of us are just hardwired to love riding.

But dammit, we love you non-cyclists too. That’s why we even attempt the balancing act: the early-morning wakeups, the bikes schlepped to and fro at great inconvenience (and sometimes great expense). God knows we try, even though we don’t always get it right.

So to everyone who doesn’t ride but loves one of us anyway: sorry, and thank you. Thank you for accepting us for who we are, and for not making us choose between who we love and what we love.