The Civilised Cyclist

I learnt in-the-saddle etiquette from my peers at Elgin Cycling Club, back in the late eighties. Whenever we, either as a bunch or in small groups, passed another cyclist we'd give a wave and/or (depending on our oxygen requirements) say hello. We'd even offer these cheery (cheer was weather dependent) greetings when the other cyclist was a complete stranger, and a complete stranger who was also a member of a rival club.

Waving Cyclist poster from: cafepress.co.uk

I am still in the hospitable habit. I'll greet pretty much any 'proper' cyclist I encounter -- young, old, in lycra or baggies, on carbon or rusty steel. I only switch off my social skills during the weekly commute (it would require far too much waving), otherwise I'm an amiable sort.

The same can't be said for most of the roadies I encounter around Edinburgh. The friendly types are becoming something of a rare breed. I'd estimate that around half of my greetings go unheeded. From those cold types the best I get in return is a glare or disdainful eye cast over my old and trusty (once re-bonded) Scott.

Perhaps these uncivilised sorts are too busy saving energy for the next Strava segment, or too engrossed in their dreams of Tour success to be polite? Perhaps waving, nodding and saying hello are old-fashioned habits and I'm a fogey stuck in my ways? Perhaps, but I'm going to carry on.

What's your policy on politeness? Does it breed camaraderie among us two-wheeled types or is it a waste of precious energy? Let me know in the comments below (or just ignore me and ride on by).

The Breakaway - Coffee Not Included

The Breakaway is available in paperback or ebook, has lots of mountains and you can buy it here. 

Coffee not included.

The Season's Cycle

I live my life by the season. That's not a spelling mistake, I don't mean seasons, plural, I mean the cycling season.

The Giro ended on Sunday so that means I'm currently in pre-summer. (You wouldn't know it by the weather, but that's a gripe for another blog.) That means there's a month until summer proper, i.e. the Tour. To get me through the intervening period I have the Tour de Suisse and the Dauphine. Then it's July, the high point of any year, the maillot jaune and matching fields of sunflowers, white, green and spotty jerseys, the Alps, the Pyrenees and eventually, the Champs Elysees.

The end of summer proper (pic: letour.fr)

The first Monday after the Tour will be flat and empty. I will steel myself and look toward an Indian summer, in Spain. La Vuelta will be a golden opportunity for the Scottish weather to redeem itself, for some riders to salvage a hitherto empty season or, for others, to build their form for the Worlds.

The Worlds: a rainbow through the flattening light of rapidly shortening days.

Lombardia, the race of the falling leaves, the inescapable reality that it really is almost over for another year.

By Paris-Tours I'll already have begun to taper down. In winter my attention will switch across the Atlantic, to San Francisco and the my other sport of choice. I'll sit up late on Sunday nights, munching nachos, getting sick of the endless adverts and praying that Colin Kaepernick has a return to form.

Kaep (pic: sportsworldnews.com)

Through the dark winter days I might cast half an eye at cyclo-cross and the six days, trying not to wish my life away.

I won't fully wake from hibernation until Paris-Nice begins its race toward the sun. By then I will be returned to the cycle, just weeks away from that classic time of year, the month of Milan San Remo, mud, cobbles, murs and bergs.

And as the last Ardenne is crested my mind will already racing ahead, to May, the Giro and another year come full circle.