Bumpy Ride

Bumpy Ride
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday March 7, 2015

Whatever you think of middle-aged cyclists, I envy them their exhilarated faces. Rarely do I see joggers who inspire me. Middle-aged joggers, with their glazed eyes and their slackened, panting mouths, give me the impression they’re trying to hold back an infarction before breakfast.

Lately, I’ve been wearing the same expression. By the time I jog around the park and head for home, the twinge in my knee has become a roar. My lips are set in a grim line. I lead with my left leg to take the pressure off the right. My face is drippy with sweat and florid with exertion.

My neighbourhood pelotons rocket past me like so many superheroes, still fresh from their 40 km dawn airing. Their costumes are a riot of spandex. Their chests and backs carry exotic names like Birzman and Limar, Zefal and Shimano. They chatter as fast as they ride, laughing and shouting each others’ praises. I gaze admiringly at their hairless calves and the sinewy crush of speed and sweat. I see no stress on these faces, just the joy of self-propelled transport streaming down the road.

I, too, want to wear windswept euphoria on my face. So as the sun cruised over the horizon last Monday morning, I dragged my husband’s bike out from under the ivy festooning the shed. I wiped off a summer’s dust with the tail of my t-shirt. I resuscitated the flaccid tyres and got quite out of breath myself. I tugged at the seat-post clamp until it grudgingly agreed I wasn’t six-foot-four (neither is my husband, but he likes the illusion of tallness). Finally, I waggled the saddle down to five-foot-five and warned the black spider clinging to her web in the front wheel she’d regret her stubbornness.

At 6.22am, I threw my leg over the saddle, settled two dainty buttocks into position and cranked my way up the road. Still cool enough to be pleasantly fresh, the early morning easterly buffeted my face. I pumped my legs and my bike surged forward. I listened to the soothing hum of the wheels. My brain shrugged off the last vestiges of sleepiness, as bike and Wonderwoman found their rhythm. Even my aching knee was pacified into submission by the smooth ride. This was freedom!

For the first ten minutes I coasted behind pedestrians waiting for them to move aside. ‘Ding!’ I chimed them politely with a flick of my rusty bell. Their heads snapped around to clock the approaching danger. I sang a two-toned ‘Thank you!’ as they stepped left and I breezed past.

Confidence soaring, I dipped off a driveway and swept into the cycle lane, dodging the litter of box tree nuts along the kerb. A cyclist whizzed past me in a rush of warm air. So close was he, a bead of his sweat splatted my cheek. My front wheel wobbled in shock.

“Squirrel!” he bellowed at me over his shoulder as he tore away.

“Squirrel?” I called after him nervously, darting around another scattering of tree nuts, but he was long gone. I checked behind me to see no-one else was hiding in my slipstream. I shifted my weight from left cheek to right on a seat that was hardening to concrete.

As I swept around a bend and down a steep hill, a peloton streamed past me, riding two and three abreast. With the wind roaring in my ears, I didn’t hear them coming until they zoomed around me, the cogs of their bike-chains buzzing like a swarm of bees. I pedalled furiously to keep up with them, but within seconds, they were just a blur at the bottom of the hill. Despondent, I gave up the chase.

As I coasted down the slope, still panting from my sprint, an insect travelling uphill veered into my lane and rocketed into my mouth. Hitting the brakes, I spluttered and tried to spit it out. The bug must have sensed the drop in air speed because it made a frantic attempt to escape my mouth-flower. It gave a final feeble buzz as I swallowed him (or her). I was still gagging as I turned for home.

It was on the last straight stretch of road that I saw him. A lone cyclist, up ahead, a wiry-looking bloke in lurid lime and black. As he breezed along a gentle decline, I upshifted into high gear and hammered my legs. Tucking chin to chest, I hunkered down over the handlebars and closed the gap. On his tail, I psyched myself for one last burst of acceleration and slid past him, turning slightly to deliver a nonchalant “Mor-ning!” That’s when I glimpsed his well-worn face and my brain absorbed the words on his vest: 80-plus, riding high.

I have more training to do.