Why I’ll never again call myself a cyclist
If you’ve been reading my blog for some time, you’ll know that last winter saw the transformation of yours truly from couch potato and habitual exercise-shunner into someone who owned a bike and actually rode it sometimes (though I refused to wear Lycra for some time – click here for that particular post).
I even built up to the marathon trek that is the 9.4km ride around the perimeter of the Ranches.
Anyway, over the summer, the strangest thing happened: When I could no longer go out on the bike as it was too hot, I began to miss it. I did a bit of indoor exercise to keep the flab at bay but, in my heart, I longed to be back on my bike, free-wheeling down Mirador Avenue in the early-morning sunshine (oh yes, I go the downhill way around AR!).
So now I’ve started thinking of myself as someone who cycles frequently. A “cyclist”, I even once said, although, when DH heard me say that he did have to stifle snorts of laughter.
And last week I found out why. We were having drinks with the lovely couple we met on holiday when the other chap said apropos of something, “I like to ride my bike.”
I couldn’t hold myself back.
“Me too!” I said enthusiastically. “I’m a cyclist, too!” Then, just to show I knew the scene, I added, “Have you considered doing the Spinneys Dubai 92 Cycle Challenge?”
It’s a 92km trek that, to be honest, I pant just thinking about. I mean, it’s 92 kilometres! As DH looked knowingly into his beer, as if he could guess what was coming, I giggled daintily to show how ridiculous the idea of cycling 92km might be.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve entered. I do quite a few international competitions actually.”
I don’t think DH will ever let me and my Lycra cycling shorts live it down.