Call me an antisocial misery guts if you wish, I’d rather cycle solo than join the group ride

by admin April 3, 2025

written by admin April 3, 2025

Generally speaking, I like other people. If it wasn’t for other people life would be different. I wouldn’t exist, and neither would you – so other people get a resounding double thumbs up. But that doesn’t necessarily mean I have to go out riding bicycles with them.

Call me antisocial misery guts if you wish, but, whilst I don’t quite detest cycling in the company of others, I do find it an infinitely less rewarding and therapeutic experience than riding alone. Going solo is the ultimate form of escapism.

If I want to chat I go to the pub and do it, or phone up my Auntie Vera who could talk the hind legs off a donkey before polishing off its mates. Conversely, if I’m descending a country lane at 35 miles per hour, while I’m obviously delighted that the pan-fried sea bass with seasonal veg medley was an unmitigated hit at the dinner table last night, I’m currently doing all I can not to lose my bicycle down a pothole. This logic applies even more in an off-road setting, where there are roots and rocks to look out for.

Planning a route is almost as fun as riding it and, in some cases, takes just as long. I find an intense joy in plotting a course that will allow for exploration over specific terrain and a specific duration. If I’m looking for an on-bike strength session I’ll head for the hills and throw in a few reps of the steepest. If I want to ride fast I’ll find the flattest roads and build a loop where the lion’s share of wind is at my back. When the call of the wild is in my ears, I’ll plot a remote gravel ride and spend the day on the trails.

I like a macchiato and a slab of lemon drizzle cake as much as the next rider. But I don’t want to feel obligated to stop for a slice half way through a 50 mile ride. In fact, I don’t want to stop for anything halfway through a 50 mile ride. I want to ride 50 miles without enduring the rigmarole of pausing, stripping off 20lbs’ worth of cycling attire and shivering my way through a cup of coffee. When warmth finally arrives, lo and behold it’s time to get dressed again and the subsequent 15 minutes are spent attempting not to succumb to hypothermia. If I’m feeling peckish on a bike ride I’ll locate a gas station and make merry with a meal deal on the forecourt for five minutes. I recommend the triple cheese, Hula Hoop and Cherry Coke combo.

Any fantasy I harbour about being a good cyclist is usually extinguished as soon as the road shows the slightest rumour of rising. The minute any kind of gradient is introduced to the ride I find myself hopelessly floundering at the back, while those who have a slightly more controlled approach to the amount of junk food they consume skip merrily off the front. We 90kg types may look thick-skinned and grizzled but we’re invariably sensitive souls who don’t want our weight penalty highlighted every time we ride our bicycles, I’d much rather suffer in private.

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Call me an antisocial misery guts if you wish, I’d rather cycle solo than join the group ride

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