A week in the life of a cyclist

A peek into the madness that is the amateur cyclist’s daily life. So Pro…

Weird prizes in cycling

Cycling is weird enough. Lycra. Funny hats. Chafing cream. It’s little wonder the sport hands out some very odd prizes. Piglet anyone? Giant sausage?

One star cycling reviews ⭐☆☆☆☆

Scorn. Vitriol. Bleak humour. This is a celebration of the one star review, an ode to keyboard revenge. Real reviews from angry people. Ignore them at your peril!

How to ride the Dunwich Dynamo

How to stay awake and enjoy this overnight ride from London through the small hours to the Suffolk coast. My favourite ride.

Hell of the north: Paris – Roubaix, 1919

Cycling is full of hyperbole and cliche. Epic, hell, brutal. It’s rarely any of these. And then you see the images of the first Paris-Roubaix race after World War 1. A ride through hell. This is the origin of Paris-Roubaix’s nickname as the ‘Hell of the North’.

The inevitable guilt complex

Life, I decided, is more important than cycling. Blasphemy. Treason! Hang him! Lovers who’ve come to terms with their love for one another and other people. We’re not exactly on a break, no. We’re just open to seeing other people. And you know what, I’m enjoying it.

What am I training for? [The meaning of life]

I don’t race, I ride. Yet I’m training. For what I’m training for, I cannot say. There’s no medals to point to. There’s the small number of hill climb races I enter. Or the bravado of leading out the peloton or the fear of being dropped on a club ride. There’s local hills and personal bests. Yet I’m not really training for any of these.

Obsessions only cyclists have

Yeah, I’m niche. Not really something to boast about yet we humans like to feel as if we’re forging our own paths, that we are remarkable in some small way, atypical, one of a few. We follow not crowds, only our own will, for yes I’m smart, in control, not one of them, all those […]

Today we ride

Ride, roll, spin. Gasp. As if to live I must fight for air. Hunched, knees unnaturally near jaw Not the poise of one who flies. Gloves fingerless So nails can enjoy the view. Drink suckled from teat Nothing odd with that.

The melancholy of losing form and fitness

I used to be a contender. I could have taken that KOM. I was quicker goddammit and now look at me. Pathetic. Slow with a tailwind, the merest incline induces a series of huffing and puffing and effing and blinding. Strava automatically marks my rides as private as a sign of a respect to my […]