Still a cyclist

In which I inaugurate a new hashtag

Yesterday was the Rapha Women’s 100: a day that started out as a brand promotion but has turned into a movement, where thousands of women all over the world go out and ride 100km, in many cases for the first time. Some ride together, with their cycling clubs or in groups set up for the occasion, and some ride alone, because there isn’t a group in their area or, in my case, because they’re not sure of their ability to ride the full distance, or keep up the necessary speed.

I’m having a bad couple of weeks health-wise. (If you’ve been reading for a while, you’ll know that this has been going on for over two years, and that I have good days when I feel like I’m almost back to normal, and bad days where I feel like I’m permanently broken and will never be well again.) So perhaps I should have (urgh) made the sensible choice and postponed my Women’s 100 ride until I was feeling better.

But I really wanted to do it. I wanted to ride along knowing that thousands of other women were riding with me. And I wanted to be outside, working hard, breathing deeply, smelling the early autumn air and feeling the wind against my skin.

So picked a route, and set off to ride it.

OK, ok, I picked the hardest route I could possibly find – a 100km loop with more than 3,000m of ascent, that was the winning entry of a 2020 a competition to find the “toughest ride in the UK.” It starts in Sheffield, and the old Emily couldn’t believe I’d lived here for over a year before I got round to trying it.

I didn’t really expect to finish it (though I hoped I might), and sure enough, I ended up calling it a day partway through. But I’d got what I came for – exertion, challenge, fresh air, steep climbs and, what I often enjoy on big rides, plenty of thinking time.

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I had a small epiphany about an hour in, when I paused at the top of a hill to let my legs and lungs recover. I was trying to stop myself from turning over all my usual miserable thoughts about how different my fitness and ability are now from how they were before I got ill. Not only do I miss the feelings of being strong and powerful, and riding all day and night – I also worry constantly that I’m no longer relevant, that no one will take me seriously any more when they realise how little I’m able to cycle these days. I follow loads of people on Instagram who are currently in their prime, riding impossible distances, winning races and pushing boundaries, and I feel happy for them (I remember when I was doing that, and how much I enjoyed it), but also wonder if perhaps I should bow out now, and let them take the floor.

Why would anyone want to hear from a cyclist who used to win races and ride hundreds of kilometres a week, but now can’t?

But it’s not just me, I realised all of a sudden, as I stood at the top of that hill. There are so many people I know – and so many more that I don’t – who are in the same boat; who used to cycle a lot, and are now cycling less, because of injury, or illness, or pregnancy and parenthood, or increased workload, or mental health stuff, and for all sorts of other reasons.

I’m sure a lot of them must feel exactly as I do. Do I still count as a cyclist, if I’m barely riding any more? Will I still be welcomed by my community, when we used to bond over our big rides, and now mine are so much shorter? Am I still even myself, when for so long I was defined by my exploits on the bike, and now that’s a much smaller part of my life?

So much of the cycling world – especially the part we see online – is based around a narrative of progress and achievement. And I think that’s great, up to a point. But I also think it leaves out one of the most important parts of the story, which is what happens (and will happen to all of us, apart from those who are unfortunate enough to die in their prime) when we eventually slow down.

And we will slow down. It’s inevitable. Old age is coming for us all, even if we do manage to dodge illness and injury and caring responsibilities, and even if there are many accelerations and decelerations along the way. I think this is particularly pertinent to ultra-cyclists, because what they do is so extreme. If you’re going to enter events like the Transcontinental and Le Loop, you’ll need to find time and energy to ride thousands of miles in training, and get yourself to a peak of fitness far beyond what most people will ever achieve. A handful of people do carry on at this level, and make a career out of racing, but most will have to let their cycling slide after the event, as real life crowds back in.

There are people I remember meeting during my racing days, on the road, on the start line and at the finish line, who I never heard of again. What happened to them? Are they still cycling? They probably are, but we don’t hear about it, because nothing they ever do will measure up to that one big ride they did. And what a shame that is. It seems to suggest that we’re only as good as our last major achievement, that we’re not worthy unless we’re striving towards some goal, and that perhaps if we haven’t done anything impressive lately, then there’s nothing to say.

Well, I think we need to change that.

So many of us aren’t talking about our rides, because we think that no one wants to know about your little outing unless it’s noteworthy in some way. This is why Instagram can feel like such a depressing place: everyone’s posting about their big rides; no one’s posting about their small rides – even though I suspect the majority of bike rides that people do are fairly short.

Comparison is one of the worst things about social media – but connection is one of the best. And when I put up a post yesterday evening, talking about my slow, incomplete, unimpressive ride, and exhorting other people to talk more about theirs, I got more responses than I have since I started posting about body image, from countless people who, like me, felt like they were the only one who wasn’t out there smashing it. If you’re on Instagram, I recommend you go and read through all the comments people have left. I did, and I feel so much better now.

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When I think about the cycling community I’m part of, I don’t actually imagine us all out on a ride together – I imagine us sitting round an enormous café table, sipping our beverages of choice and bonding over the things we have in common. I don’t want it to be just the fast lads, or the people who’ve completed an ultra that year (though they’re welcome too) – I want to chat to everyone who’s ever smiled as they rode their bike, or who has a story to share from a ride they did, no matter how short it was, or how long ago.

Wouldn’t it be a shame if those people stopped coming to the café, just because they haven’t ridden for a while? Think of the friendships we’d miss out on; the stories we wouldn’t get to hear.

So yesterday evening I issued a call to action. If you’re on Instagram (or anywhere else on social media), please tell us about your rides, even if they’re not big impressive ones. Use the hashtag #stillacyclist, so that other people can find them. (You can follow a hashtag, so every post that uses it will appear in your feed.) And maybe this will give us a kinder, and more accurate picture of what our community actually looks like, and how welcome we all still are.

You’re still a cyclist if you’re not riding as far as you used to.

You’re still a cyclist if you’ve had to slow down.

You’re still a cyclist if you’ve never been that good, but you really love it.

You’re still a cyclist if you think your glory days are behind you.

You’re still a cyclist if you ride an e-bike.

You’re still a cyclist if you had to pull out of the sportive before the end, and went home in tears.

You’re still a cyclist if family commitments mean you can only get out once a week.

You’re still a cyclist if you occasionally fall out of love with it.

You’re still a cyclist if you don’t record your mileage or average speed.

You’re still a cyclist if you wear baggy clothes.

You’re still a cyclist if you don’t go on club runs any more.

You’re still a cyclist if you’re going to the shops on your town bike, even if you do ride a carbon road bike at the weekends.

You’re still a cyclist if you have days when you hate it.

You’re still a cyclist if you’ve strayed into other sports (hello to the rowers and the climbers and the fell runners).

You’re still a cyclist if your body doesn’t look (or behave) like it used to.

You’re still a cyclist if you ride indoors.

You’re still a cyclist if these days you’re mostly riding at the speed of your youngest child.

You’re still a cyclist if you did a 400 two weeks ago and haven’t been able to get on your bike since.

You’re still a cyclist if you got dropped on the club run.

You’re still a cyclist if you spent more time in the café than on the trails.

You’re still a cyclist if you somehow can’t find the time to do much of it these days.

You’re still a cyclist if you don’t have a training plan.

You’re still a cyclist if your best ride was over ten years ago and you’re still going on about it.

You’re still a cyclist if nowadays it’s just commuting.

You’re still a cyclist if you took the easy route home.

You’re still a cyclist, you have nothing to prove, and we all want to have you at the café table with us.

Lots of love and solidarity,

Emily

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If you live in Birmingham, Bristol or Dorchester, I’ll be in your town this week (Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday respectively), in conversation with Duncan Steer. There’ll be plenty of opportunity to ask questions and to chat afterwards, and if you’re a regular reader of this newsletter (or even if you’re an occasional or first-time reader), then I would love to meet you.

Tickets (and further details) are available here.