I am a cyclist

This week I am a cyclist. 

This should not be a surprise to anyone - the tour de france is in full flow and the continued efforts of our Mayor ensures that cycling is on my agenda. I have no doubt that I can cycle, after all we are on minature raliegh bikes as soon as we have grown out of duplo. Progressing quickly from little red kids bikes onto lurid yellow and green mountain bikes, before a brief flirtation with a road bike and the associated discomfort of a proper bike saddle. It is here that most of us stop our association with bikes. Britain is cold, the roads not smooth and those who drive on them not used to seeing cyclists. Years of hearing our parents mutter under their breath on a bank holiday "bloody cyclists", and despite the fact that even a fish can apparently ride a bike, we are conditioned to think that cycling is not a sport we should follow. 

This is in stark contrast to our European brothers and sisters, whose cities like ours encourage cycling but unlike the good old brits actually provide pay as you go bikes as well as safe bike lanes not populated by Dominos pizza scooters and white van men with their Capital Radio breakfast show blasting.

But back to the point, this week I am a cyclist..... and in 13 months I am going to ride from London to Paris, arriving in Paris the day the Tour de France ends there. I will understand the pain these super fit sportsmen have been through for two weeks as I will have been through the same. I will know the bond they feel with their team as I too will have a team and we shall glide through Kent to Dover, arrive in Calais and cruise through North France to Paris.  I know this will happen, I cycled 4/5 miles as a child ergo I am now older (fitter?) and I can do 77 miles in a day (by chance, the stage one London to Dover distance).


I go to the gym, I'm wearing a cycling top- confirming I am a cyclist - I nod to other cyclists on the way. The nod is the same nod you get when you are jogging and you smile at at runners, the nod you share with other husbands/boyfriends/fathers outside changing rooms while you and they wait for wives/girlfriends/daughters. It is a nod that says I know your pain, we have a common understanding and respect because we are doing the same thing - you are in the club. 


30 minutes brings cramp in one thigh and a litre of water. Like a pro cyclist I now have my top unzipped as I navigate the virtual climbs the exercise bike brings. I even feel that I could do with a support car which only confirms to me that I have more in common with the professionals than I first thought.

11.33kms later I stagger home and switch on the Tour de France. It appears that the day I announce myself to the cycling world, Lance Armstrong may have lost his immortality, falling twice and unable to keep pace with the mass of competitors as they climb up foothills of Morzine.  Maybe its a sign that the greats of cycling are fading and a new generation is needed to come to the fore.....I feel part of another club, I am a cyclist and I am young-ish. Having basked in glorious mediocracy of rugby, golf, football, cricket and every other sport I have tried, I am relived that I have found my calling.....


I am a cyclist.


One slight problem - I have no bike but as the sun goes down on another hot weekend in London and the pre-work fears start to grow, I can take comfort in my understanding of the upcoming Tour de Farce by sampling some French cheese....