Ragtime Cyclist column

Cyclists take advantage of the good weather.
Cyclists take advantage of the good weather.

Many of us who ride regularly call ourselves cyclists.

This suggests it’s not a hobby, or a sport, as much as a way of behaving. It defines the way we eat, the things we talk about, and is, ultimately, the thing we would always rather be doing when we’re not doing it.

(I’m exaggerating, of course. Add your own family related disclaimer here).

Lots of other people think that’s a bit sad and we need to lighten up and get over ourselves, and who am I to say they might not have a point.

But whilst out on our regular Wednesday night ride recently, the group had swelled in number by one or two who don’t refer to themselves as cyclists, because they give themselves a different definition: triathletes.

Being a sociable type, and naturally interested in strange and foreign ways of behaving, I quickly got into deep conversation about why someone would first of all want to go for a swim before a bike ride, and then have a quick run afterwards.

From what my new triathlete friends were saying I got the impression that they actually relish doing battle with the other flailing arms during the swim, and they genuinely enjoy the punishment (and, let’s be honest, sheer tedium) of the run.

Having said all this, I couldn’t help noticing that not only did my triathlete friends possess the well-toned and muscular calves and thighs of a cyclist, but they topped it off with an upper body worthy of the name.

A quick look at my own torso confirmed that, while it doesn’t exactly resemble the badly drawn stick figure of a Tour de France contender, it’s maybe not as muscular as it once was.

Post ride, I mulled it over with the wife:

“I’ve thought about doing triathlons”, I said, “I think I’d have to wear speedos though. What do you think?”

“About speedos?” she said, eyebrows raised.

“About triathlons. I think it would be good for my general fitness, but I’d have to spend so much time training that it’s probably not really fair on you and the kids?”

She fixed me with a sympathetic gaze.

“Love, you’re no more a triathlete than I am an acrobat.”

Which is a fair point.

End of conversation.