Pride is a scary thing. Or is it a closet competitive nature which is bursting out of me in middle age. If so, where the hell was it in my early twenties when perhaps it could have been of some use, maybe even helped to make me a career woman instead of a steadily cruising secretarial type.
The ride home today I planned on taking it easy, and the plan started badly. First set of lights and there in front of me in my sights is a woman on a road bike. She looks young and slim and fit, and suddenly I feel like I'm in the Tour de France, that rider who's hanging off the back of the bunch, with the unattainable goal of regaining the peleton too far ahead to be reached. But nonetheless, as though she is a magnet I try on the long level stretch of road to make up the distance and get onto her back wheel. Eventually I do, but in honesty am then relieved when we go separate ways as frankly that was hard work.
I make it through the city centre without incident, but there at the lights at the bottom of Liverpool Road something unusual happens. There, in the cyclist stop box are three other cyclists. I assess their general appearance, clothing, age, weight, bike, and position myself where I feel I should be in the lineup. It's a tricky and delicate thing this, and male pride could get involved. Basically I don't want to find I've placed myself immediately behind someone who is a dawdler as opportunities to safely overtake will be few and far between and that's just plain frustrating. Also, I don't want to put someone else in that position of having to hang behind me waiting their chance to carry on and get on with their own journey home. Tricky, eh? Here in particular the men and the boys get separated. It's a long uphill drag with a steeper lip at the top just before reaching lights. Doing this at my own pace is crucial for my survival!
I place myself second in the lineup. Behind the tall skinny guy in red lycra but ahead of the 50ish year old in jeans. There's also a guy on a mountain bike, probably my age, not wearing lycra, carrying a couple of pounds perhaps but not obese. I take the chance that superiority of steed will win me the day. This turns out to be a good assessment of ability. The guy in jeans is lost behind all of us. I can't get on the wheel of red lycra man, and although MTB guy is obviously present behind me (I can hear him panting) it seems to work out. A mile later though, he's still kind of there. He gets dropped, gets back on, gets dropped, gets back on. We chat at the lights and he smiles and comments about making me do all the work. I narrow my eyes "yes, so I saw" I say cheekily. Then we're off again. Problem though with knowing that I have someone working his pants off to stay on my wheel is I feel I have to keep going. And going. And going. For me this is a long sustained effort, because I'm really trying, there's no slacking here. 3 miles of this and eventually he goes his own way.
But what was it made me try harder because I knew he was there? It felt more like an effort to not hold him up than an effort to demonstrate superiority. Whatever it was, I'm pooped!
No comments:
Post a Comment