The Gnarly Road back to Cycling Happiness
and some ugly home truths I'm navigating en route.
Paris: August, 2023
As the cobbled road turned upwards beneath Paisley (the name of my Brompton), I was once again reminded of the significant changes in the DNA of my cycling body.
My heart felt like it was about to explode from my chest. It wasn’t the steepest of climbs, but as I took on 1.3km of the Montée des Champs Elysées, my lungs furiously worked overtime to absorb as much oxygen as possible into my bloodstream. Core muscles I forgot I had were rudely awakened as my legs turned to jelly with each pedal stroke. Let us not think too hard about the state of my backside after riding over relentless rows of cobbles on a small-wheeled bicycle with zero padding under my baggy parachute pants.
When I arrived at the top, my efforts were rewarded with the magnificent sight of the Arc de Triomphe. I got off Paisley, wondering if I was about to collapse in a heap of sweaty exhaustion. It turns out I could still stand, although I’m sure the only thing keeping me physically upright for that photo was using my Brompton as a leaning post.
Despite feeling knackered from a bike ride that probably wouldn’t have fazed my previous cycling self to such an extent, I was smiling.
As I stood there, catching breaths between grinning like a Cheshire cat for the obligatory ‘I’m at the Arc de Triomphe’ photo, it wasn’t just adrenaline rushing through my veins. A sense of bike-related happiness - something which had eluded me for the longest time - was also flowing through me. I felt relief for a better word, but I was cautious not to take it for granted. I knew the risk of allowing myself to listen to that celebratory Voice in my head (just like That Call Kamala made to Joe) declaring, “We did it, Jools! You’re gonna be cycling again, every day!”
