People who meet me now can’t believe that I used to be fat — they literally can’t imagine it — but it’s true. Through my late teens, I tried several times to lose my weight, but it wasn’t until I took to cycling that I succeeded. What started as an exercise regime, turned into an obsession! Cycling defined my 20s.
Encouraged by my peers, I soon became a strong rider; an all-rounder, taking on sprints and steep climbs. It wasn’t long before I was routinely riding mid-range training rides (80–100km) at a 30km/h average; reaching the 70s in all-out sprints and hitting Cat. 1 climbs with gritted determination! Of all my friends, I was the first — and, as far as I know, still the only — to ride an English century: 100 miles, achieved in well under 5½ hours. However, while I once came 2nd in a large charity event, I have never raced.
My guess is that this is purely psychological. I could have easily competed at a club level; doing so would be really good for my development, both as a cyclist and as a person. Beyond that, I have no discipline: It’s very difficult for me to get out of bed or ride in all weathers. As such, despite my passion and long-legged mechanical advantage, I will never be a champion. I’m fast and probably had it in me — especially when I was a bit younger — but I guess it will always be no more than that; a passion.
Of course, that doesn’t stop me from dreaming: Every summer I’d go out and get fitter and faster than ever, riding until either I or my bike starts to fall apart! The suffering, the disappointment and the elation from challenging yourself: I love it.
That is, until I moved to the city. Cycling in London is no fun at all, having feasted on the chocolate ice-cream that is riding in one of the most beautiful places on Earth. As such, with tremendous lament, I have effectively hung up my clipless shoes and said “Goodbye” to my once mighty quadriceps; trading them for the thankless drudgery of commuting.
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