Oestrogen Rich

The world of women and cycling is an odd one.  It seems to come in for a lot of discussion to the point where you kind of feel like yelling stop talking about it and just get on with it why don't you.  Because that's what most of us do, just get on with it.  Yet there is something out there, is it concern, is it government targets, is it coming from women or from men, who knows, something which seems to be casting around for change.

I guess from a marketing perspective, there's this possible less touched market that is women on bikes.  It's a part of the biking economy which still has the possibility of generating profit for bike equipment & clothing retailers.  From a government perspective, perhaps there's a perception that there's a group of people whose fitness could seemingly be lifted with a quick fix plan, and an easy win place for obesity issues to be tackled.  Probably I would think the 30 to 50 year old women's group.  People who wouldn't want to be seen dead in lycra, wobbly bits exposed and bike handling skills uncertain in unfamiliar traffic laden cities.

There's also a healthy do gooder chunk to it too I think.  There's a bit of me wonders why exactly it is that my local club, the North Cheshire Clarion want to not bend over backwards, but certainly to actively make provision for inclusion of women road riders.  I am not really sure what the motivation here is.  I believe they have 25 female members of the club, pretty much all of whom I would guess have joined knowing just what the club has on offer and being happy with that.  Nobody joined believing it was a place suited for women.  We just thought it was suited to bike riders.  It wasn't about gender.

But there are these once a month women's only rides, now with a male ride leader since the only regularly available, competent and willing female enthusiast emigrated to Australia.  And somehow, I felt I ought to support these. Now that's weird, isn't it?  What, after all, is my motivation for doing that. I can ride with the club's Saturday slow ride, and indeed very probably the medium ride too.  I'm properly catered for.  It doesn't need to be a women's ride. Yet Saturday found me out on the women's ride, and I think mostly it was because it was there, slightly because it felt like an easier option (I reckoned there was a reasonable chance I'd be in the top half of the group pace wise), and because I felt surprisingly strongly that if the club wanted to do this, it should be supported. I am nothing if not a team player.

I wouldn't for a moment say I regretted having turned up to the ride, even though I was the only rider there. It was a pleasant ride, rolling Cheshire countryside, and although not the easy gentle ride I wanted, due to just being me and James heads out in the wind.  And we spanked the normal ride time, kicked it into the hedge and threw rocks at it.

Now we're talking it through on the forums.  The eternal question has been raised.  What, exactly is it that women want?  Totally leaving you with this thought ...

Left Behind

Battered.  I am driving my body quietly and at my own pace beyond anything I've done before.  And I'm shrinking.  Or at least weirdly independantly a number of my ex work colleagues commented on how tiny I was looking when I popped in for coffee this week.  My theory, which the bathroom scales at home support, is that I'm smaller without my job.  Not in a way that bothers me at all, but I no longer have to assert myself or take a lead on anything whatsoever.  I don't have to be a big person any more, nothing like larger than life, all I am these days is me.  And that's quite enough, thank you.  Sometimes perhaps a little too much.

Being away does odd things to your relationships with people.  In a lot of ways it does good things because it leads you to a point of absolute clarity as to what's important in life, and it is as ever it is, the people.  Which means I make a conscientious effort to maintain the valuable people in my life. Hard work sometimes, but good worthwhile hard work which is important to me.  Internet connections aside, I have time, and want to make the best use of the blocks of time I'm spending at home.  This has meant that from returning home on Sunday, I've done lots of things with lots of people, some really unexpected, things I didn't even know I was doing happened, and friends have also been making efforts to pin down my availability.  It's lovely, I feel somehow held, supported, some kind of metaphysical arms around me the whole time.  I'm humbled by my mates, truly grateful and truly humbled. 

Yet funnily, I'm itching to be on the road again.  Eager as the proverbial mustard to get over to the continent, with the ferry now booked for 31st October.  I carry with me the people who are important to me, hand luggage, not hold, I keep them close to my thoughts and to my heart.

Funnily enough, this song was going round my head today on the road ride with three guys.  Mostly because of the line "left behind" because as is my way, I was at the back.  But trying hard.

Nice Arse

After three months off sick with various different and irritating things, I finally got on my bike in celebration of the March sunshine.  My plan was a 16 mile gentle circuit taking in the valleys of Werneth Low.  I set off with ordnance survey map, copy of map with trail marked in pink pen, copy of written instructions, Garmin 800 Edge and i-phone.  And somehow I got lost.  Twice.  At least.

The journey ended up being a 24 mile meander in the sun, taking in at least one hill somewhat larger than any which had been on the plan.  Best laid plan.  The final humiliation was to check the map, check the instructions, check the Garmin and still be none the wiser as to a) where I was, b) where I went wrong and c) how to get back on track.  Rucksack on the pavement, I leaned down to accept the indignity of having to resort to the i-phone maps and handy little blue and red pin things.  Then it happened.  A hoot, a gesticulation, and words were shouted regarding my lycra clad bottom which was currently waggling in the air while I rummaged.

Still, at least I have a nice arse.

Woman's pride

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!

Nearly Naked

Such a nice day, that not only did I decide to cycle into work once again but paused half way through dressing ... and stopped.  It felt really strange to have the lycra shorts as my outer layer instead of adding on a pair of baggy shorts or 3/4 length trousers as camouflage.  Add to that the T-shirt without a wind stopper of any variety and I felt I had left the house in the buff.  As a general rule, vanity prevents me from exposing my hind quarters to the world without adequate covering, but sod it, it's early when I set off and who's to see?

Cycled through the city centre today which is the route I do generally only when the fighting spirit and vigilance is at the top of its game.  To get through the city you have to be prepared to be a little bit nippy at the lights and a little bit assertive, a lot confident, decisive and very very clear about your intentions.  No car driver must be left in doubt as to what you're doing, and to make sure that's the case ... well, you too need to be sure of what you're doing, and that means taking on board all the information possible rapidly to make that decision and having the fast twitch ready to do what's needed.  Balance and strong indication are pretty key too.  The world of city centre commuting is very mean to those who hesitate and I don't want to have a fit and healthy corpse.

But before 8am the city centre is fairly mellow.  Enough other cyclists about so the car drivers are already attuned to the possibilities of bike riders, and enough people on foot stepping out in front of cars (and cyclists) to make sure everyone is on their toes for the preservation of life and dignity.  Well, maybe not so much the dignity in the lycra shorts.

Audience Participation

There was me thinking cycling to work was a solitary occupation.  The kind of thing poets and philosophers might happily participate in.  Long periods of no company but your own, in your own world, free to muse on the accumulation of litter around the Lower Broughton McDonalds, free to consider the state of the pot holes and drainage as you circle Cheetham Hill and to contemplate the permanent all season puddle along the Alan Turing Way.

Imagine, therefore, my surprise at finding my ride from work was in fact a spectator participation event.  There I am, minding my own business, pedalling steadily away through the roads around the Salford Student Village, being mindful of progress across the roundabout in readiness for the one and only minor uphill on the way home when suddenly, there it is.  A shout.  A coach style "Pick it up" is yelled at me from the side of the road.  And indeed I do pick it up, because that was the plan anyway.  Still, nice to feel part of something bigger.

This morning, in  honour of the start of British Summer time (I believe the finish is next week) I am wearing light weight walking shorts over my lycra.  Do not be fooled, this was not through some misplaced belief the weather would actually be sunny.  Indeed it related more to an anticipation of rain.  The lightweight shorts will not flap like sodden sails around my legs when the rain starts and in showers will be quick drying too.  But short they are, and the shortness is noticed.  Hoots happen.

Girls Talk

Is cycling a feminist issue I wonder.  Mulling over in my over crowded head space some girly issues associated with the bicycle.

Current musing is as a result of a few things - reading an article in the Guardian and reading a snippet or two about Cycletta, and following a clicky link or two.  For convenience, the thought provoking stuff here:

http://www.101wankers.com/
http://www.guardian.co.uk/women-only-cycling-events
http://www.cycletta.co.uk/

There is a lot I don't understand.  I don't understand the woman writing the 101wankers site, where she describes incidents where men have shouted stuff at her or taken other unusual actions while she's on the bike.  Not wanting to follow the recent Ken Clarke comments regarding rape ... I really don't get why she's experiencing these problems, and wonder indeed if it's something she herself is doing, drawing attention to herself in some negative fashion.  I just don't understand because it's something that's never been a teeny weeny part of my cycling experience, and I'm chalking up around 100 miles a month on average so far this year so have reasonable potential exposure to all kinds of situations, city centre cars & pedestrians, drunks etc. I really am putting myself out there.

I also don't understand Cycletta.  I don't know if it's competitive, participation, political lobbying, I don't really understand the purpose.  My experience of mass events attended by women is restricted to the Race for Life events, and I know it's not a social opportunity; you're never going to find a potential riding partner for future in a mass of other people intent on riding their bikes.  I'm a little scared if it is like Race for Life that it'll be totally impossible to make progress, being held behind dawdling participators and forced into an uncomfortable position of over crowding which my bike handling skills are not up to.  If it's more competitive then I'd also be in the wrong place, not owning a suitable bike for such occasions and definitely not having bunch skills.  Added to that I'd be too slow. If it's political then I'd never take part without a clear understanding of what the aim is and what it's standing up for.  Oh, and it's £35 to go out for a bike ride.  That's just stupid. 

For me, cycling fulfils maybe three entirely separate needs.  It can be for fitness when I go out on my own, keeping my own pace and my own company and having complete freedom to do my own thing.  It can be to get from A to B, again at my own pace in my own company and with the option of going for fitness as well as simply making the distance pass as quickly as I reasonably can.  The third need is the one I use it least often for, to fulfil a social need.  Going out with friends on a ride is social not for fitness as you can't really do everything you can on your own in a group, there are other restrictions and you need to focus on the social element or come away from the ride disappointed.  Whichever need, I can be sure Cycletta fulfils none of them.

I am being drawn towards the somewhat disconcerting conclusion that I'm not representative of women.

Testing Times

I will never quite understand men, and men on bikes never, for sure.  Wednesday's commute in on the bike held some testosterone confusion for me.  Let's face it, I am, as billed, an old burd on a bike.  I exude this, even from behind.  The bike you see, has a mud guard and a back rack.  I have a very upright position, and am generally speaking not clothed in lycra.  Hair pokes out from underneath a very lack lustre helmet.  I look the part, nothing to threaten a healthy young male's status here, no need indeed to prove anything against me. 

So then, why overtake me just to slow down and have me slipstream, often free wheeling?  I don't do that.  I don't race up to someone, overtake and then slow down.  Going round a slower moving rider is something I give in fact great consideration to.  Firstly, can I do this safely, without putting myself too far into the line of traffic, and yet without going so near to the other cyclist that I could potentially throw them off balance.  One of Wednesday's testosterone brigade went so close to me his jacket brushed my hand.  Secondly, I look at their pace, my pace, and use my knowledge of the route to know if an over taking maneuver is possibly pointless - i.e. are we about to go up a hill, is there going to be a procession of traffic lights and no point in a rush?

But apparently I am a considerate and careful rider.  And a Burd.  It wouldn't be such a rant worthy topic if it only happened once in a blue moon, but three times on Wednesday lycra clad boys with drop handled bar bikes went past me and sat in front of me.  One of them pretty much in the way as it then slowed my journey down.  I can only assume it's the unseasonal sunshine and the testosterone.  Poor men.  What they suffer.

Wiggle It.

Ah, yesterday was a golden opportunity with the weather picking up a few degrees in the April arrival of spring time.  Froze my fingers off in the morning all in the interests of being part of it by foolishly wearing fingerless gloves.  The optimism born of the weekend.

So ... trumpet fanfare ... yesterday saw the first public outing of the Shakin' My Arse T-shirt.  It was a glorious feeling, pedalling past traffic with a cheeky out of saddle bottom wiggle to emphasize the glory of the fitted pink T-shirt with resplendent wording on the back.  Rather than pissing off the motorists with political slogans designed to antagonise, and rather than doing all those morally unsound things by ignoring the rules of the road, why not, I thought, raise a smile, and hopefully I did.

Well, I suspect I did.  There was a set of lights or two which went green but traffic failed to move, hypnotised I believe by the T-shirt back.  Flaunted my wares at the odd other cyclist.  The very odd other cyclist indeed.  Unanticipated finding a 30s guy on a road bike (proper drop handle bars and everything) falling behind me on the one and only hill of my journey.  Nothing not to like there.

I really must get a photo of it.

First Light

Being away in an amazing part of the country for a weekend of workshops it seemed a shame not to explore the area on the bike.Convinced that somehow I would fit in a sneaky Bike Ride, and inspired by the current 30 days of April challenge to get on your bike each and every day of the month, I committed.  Strapped the bike to the car for the drive to Mankinholes Youth Hostel.

Getting there on Friday night an hour before tea I took my first opportunity to explore the area, a tempting bridlepath beginning just next to the hostel entrance.  I'm a bit of a city girl and still have some of the southerner in me, and generally expect to see bridlepaths as wide and smooth entities.  To my surprise and great delight the path was rocky and gnarly and with a bit of a gradient.  Wicked fun.  Back to the hostel for a shower so cold it brought on an ice cream headache!

The timetable being shared with us, Saturday looked pretty committed.  Breakfast 9am to 10am, workshops 10am to 12pm, with lunch 12pm to 2pm, workshops again 2pm to 4pm and 4:30pm to 6:30 pm with departure for pub grub at 7:30pm.  That was a challenge which required some drink to get my head round.  Saturday morning arrived with a lack of sleep and if I'm honest maybe a smidgeon of a headache.  7am though saw me in lycra with map and helmet at the ready.

I had a plan - stick to very clearly marked not too dangerous looking bridleways, 30 - 40 minutes out and turn round. Simples.  Can't get lost.  It wasn't even 7:15 before I found myself puffing and panting and in the little ring on the mountain bike up a gnarly trail on a deserted foggy hillside.  The incline became shallower and the views opened up.  I took off my gloves and my coat and was down to a baselayer.  Five minutes later at the crest of the hill in cloud, jacket on and raincover on the rucksack.  I'd never been on the mountain bike so early in the morning and a more fantastic start to the day I couldn't imagine.  Best hangover cure ever.

Big plans

Big plans, people, big plans.  I spent last night illicitly poring over OL21, ordnance survey map covering Hebdon Bridge, Todmorden etc.  I am away for a weekend of workshops, but the timetable shows a sneaky Bike Ride opportunity for two hours on the Saturday so I am planning how to get the most out of it.  Most what, though, I ask myself?  Most lung exploding hills, most leg breaking monotonous climbs, most skill stretching single track?  Hmm, haven't a clue, just want to get out and feel my legs and lungs working.

I have reservations regarding the big scary world of the unknown.  Being a bit of a Billy No Mates with respect to a weekend cycling partner I know the safest thing to do would involve a trail centre, waymarked routes, no danger of getting lost and enough bike traffic that if I fall off and land turtle fashion in a ditch there will be someone along shortly to call the ambulance or administer mouth to mouth if I notice they are a bit of a looker and keep my eyes shut long enough.  But trail centres aren't my favourite form of punishment, I like to travel and to explore and to see things.

I realise looking for the most technical terrain is not the way to go if it takes me out on the moors and away from civilisation.  So, the map reveals a nice safe Penine Bridleway, boring but well surfaced wide tracks, probably with traditional speed restrictions such as push chairs and dogs.  Oh well, them's the breaks, and I'll make sure it's a worthwhile exploration regardless of limitations.  Might be a there and back route or a riverside towpath return journey.  Whatever.

Keeping vertical

The boss sent a load of us home early from our staff conference yesterday afternoon.  The sun was shining, what else to do but a Bonus Bike Ride!  As you do, in idle conversation, I mentioned to the BMX coach (single, suntanned, my age ...) just one of my many missing skillsets. 

It does bug me that I can't on the new this year Boardman bike manage to get my front wheel off the ground.  The old decathlon bike was balanced differently and I could do it.  Most of my problem, though, is that I'm scared.  Scared that if I take my weight too far back on the bike then it will pirouette, dumping me unceremoniously on the ground.  It was time to tackle this.

The plan, therefore was to go about conquering the front wheel lift.  Better descriptions than I could possibly come up with here:

http://www.forestry.gov.uk/pdf/skillstipmanualfrontwheelliftsMTB.pdf/$FILE/skillstipmanualfrontwheelliftsMTB.pdf

http://www.forestry.gov.uk/pdf/skillstippoweredfrontwheelliftsMTB.pdf/$FILE/skillstippoweredfrontwheelliftsMTB.pdf

The BMX coach sadly didn't offer me any one to one time, but did offer me a wee exercise.  Suggestion was I lowered the saddle, put on flat pedals and went about the lifts as described but moving my body weight all the way back, and as the bike lifted up the plan was to step back with the low / rear foot onto the ground, all safe and non spontaneous in contact with the floor with other body parts. 

My fear of pirouetting was completely unfounded due to the lack of ability to get the front wheel off the floor other than by the manual wheel lift when I might just be able to bump up a kerb.  Still, lots of trying it reassured me that maybe one day I will manage it, and until then will keep practicing; right up to the point where my back twinges (as it did yesterday).

At least the fear is now a lot less.

Red Run

So after a week of glorious sunshine the obvious plan by Friday was to head to Llandegla trail centre on Saturday to get a trail or two under my biking belt.  Trail centres aren't my favorite form of mountain biking, but they do serve a couple of useful purposes - they have well signed trails, large car parks, cafe and toilet facilities.  The trails are graded so you know you're going to attempt something you should be technically suited to, the distances are designed to last maybe a couple of hours tops, and no roads or road crossings are involved. 

The reasons they aren't top of my list are that I feel part of a treadmill of riders following each other's tails and don't feel like I'm travelling, but enclosed in a man made maze.  They do, however, provide exercise, a sociable ride, safety, security and a fine place to fine tune your skills.  I don't have a lot of skills to fine tune so this should really be something I embrace.

One day I may look to time myself around the red run and put down a personal best marker.  Yesterday wasn't to be that day, however.  I have amazing early season fitness, and may well not see the like of this again, and indeed all fitness is anticipated to vanish by summer as the realist in me accepts that at some point I probably will get injured in some way and find myself with weeks off the bike.  It would be nice to put down a time.  This time, however, I have company which is nice, and sociable and gives me something to measure myself against in a positive way.  I learn not to go full tilt, but to use the time to experiment, to see what happens if I take a rocky line, to concentrate on moving my balance backwards and forwards while going over humps, to try to improve my hill climbing gear selection and even check out how I do corners.  I'm not good at going round corners.  Not sure why.

It's kind of fun standing in strategic places awaiting the arrival of your trail partner for the day.  Young fit men come past you and you can watch their bums receeding into the distance.  

Yesterday I decreed a 4.5 degree temperature as shorts weather.  That's not like me at all, a nesh individual if ever I knew one.  Lulled into a false sense of security by mid week sunshine.

The Ultimate Answer

42 is the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe etc.  Clearly being that very age, this means I have all the answers.  Or  not.  Maybe it is all downhill after this year and therefore I must  make the most of the few months I have remaining.

The joy of commuting to work on the bike at this age is that really, whoever overtakes you on their two wheeled pedaling machine you accept it with equanimity.  It's no problem at all, after all, you have excuses (reasons).  Firstly hey, I'm middle aged, secondly, well, I'm female and prepared to use that to my advantage.  Thirdly I am not a mountain goat / whippet type person and indeed do not have a history of fitness or competitiveness.  This enables you to watch the world pedal by without a care in the world.

Show me, however, a whiff of a mudguard in the road ahead which appears to be getting nearer and it's like a McDonalds to an American.  I cannot resist, and every focus becomes the arse in front which is gradually looming larger.  Like a slinking stealthy predator I reach a maintainable cadence and gently click up a gear so I'm pushing pushing pushing.  I learned early on that a sprint is not maintainable.  And yes, I take the victim who is not only unsuspecting but generally also uncaring, simply cycling their way from A to B. As of course am I.  It's not a competition, just a personal achievement and feeling of joy.

Much more fun is to be had, I find as a law abiding cyclist of sitting quietly at the red lights whilst other less conscientious individuals steal past on their naughty steeds.  Drifting gently past them once the lights are green is more fun than a girl could have, and perfectly legal.  There's a stretch of road on my way home I've happily repeated this sequence 5 times with the same cyclist in one journey.  All the while the mantra is going round in my head "I'm old enough to be your mother".

It's not a competition, it's a commute.  I know that, but isn't it fun to watch the youth of today take you on as an easy overtake and at the first up hill section fall behind you as you glide past on your sit up and beg bike?  Sometimes I even go slower on the flat to entice them in.

Spin Dating

I am not a newcomer to the world of spinning having dabbled a little last year in the lung gasping, arse breaking exercise that is the spin class.  There is nowhere to hide on a watt bike with the numbers and cutesy little graphs staring you in the face.  You can look at  your watts, your calories, speed, a peanut shaped graph showing quite clearly that your left leg is doing more work than your right, and indeed your revs per minute.  It was a bit of a surprise to me (to understate) to find the instructor advising our baseline cadence should be 90rpm.  Previously I had considered that a bit of a sprint.  Always one to listen to teacher, however, I attempted to plateau at 90rpm between efforts, and tried to convert this into the outdoor world of commuting and mountain biking.  Previously, I'd always been a bit of a grind it up the hills kind of a girl.  Now, I had more options.

The next thing the spinning classes taught me was Out of Saddle Climbing.  This was a whole world of horror.  I wanted to die, or to throw up or to faint but none of these things actually happened.  Instead, I learned how to come out of the saddle, what gear to use, what position to take and what leg speeds were possible.  Now, I enjoy it.  Short gnarly sections of steep uphill are a joy on the mountain bike as I launch out of the saddle, giving the guys behind a view of me shakin' my arse, shakin' my arse, shakin' my arse.  I like to disseminate pleasure to the world.

Spinning classes are very much a removal of excuses.  It's not a gym, but a pay as you go, and the classes take place in the building I work in.  There's not a reason in the world not to attend ... except ... cycle commuting.  If I bike to work, it stands to reason I don't spin, and I save myself the £4 for the spinning class, and about £2 in petrol for every day.  As the mornings and evenings get lighter the spinning classes start to become a thing of the past. Now, indeed, they are a punishment for not cycling to work.  An interesting punishment as every time I get on the spinning bike I push myself more, learn something more about my limits and ways to break through them.

Weirdly, my spinning tutor has offered to accompany me on a mountain bike ride.  A natural sceptic I ask myself why.  The options are thusly:

• he is a kind man who has seen my bruises and wishes to support my skills development
• he is horribly fit and wants someone to bike with who makes him look good
• he has no mates and is desperate for biking buddies
• he finds me daft and funny and good entertainment with the possible bonus of getting to see me fall off
• he wishes to get horizontal with me
• hmm.