I am a cyclist. But before I became a cyclist, I was… a non-cyclist. This is an important distinction, because non-cyclists and cyclists have some very different habits. As a non-cyclist, you get used to carrying a tiny umbrella in a small handbag; you occasionally go out in a floaty skirt; your life is ruled by things like public transport and after-school traffic; and your cupboards are always full, because you stock up on your massive weekly car supermarket trips.
Then I started cycling everywhere (new town, limited public transport – oh, and the sudden death of my Fiat Punto) – and I was pleased with the many improvements to my life: a lovely bike ride to work instead of a dreary commute; increased fitness levels, firmer thighs; and a bottomless appetite (which is how I view exercise in general: an excuse to have lots of helpings at dinner).
But I was unprepared for the wardrobe crisis that comes with cycling everywhere. As a non-cyclist out shopping, my eye had always been drawn to flimsy, floaty, unstructured things. Things like tight polyester dresses; skirts that billow up around you when you twirl; swishy, wide-legged trousers.
All these things spell ruin when you’re a cyclist. Or rather: all these things GET ruined. The swishy skirt rips as it gets trapped in the back wheel; the polyester dress gets sweaty; the loose trousers get your leg entangled in that annoying bit of sticky-outty wire by the pedals, and result in some heart-stopping wobbling in the middle of the road. The pale striped blazer gets spattered with spectacular mud. The pressed trousers sport a blackish oil smear. And so on.
For the first time in your life, you start spending time in places like Decathlon and Sweaty Betty, and your eye gets drawn to comfy leggings and sporty T-shirts. You acquire a fluorescent jacket, and you’re ridiculously pleased when a fellow cyclist compliments you on it. You start incorporating practical, non-flimsy items into your day-to-day outfits. You occasionally turn up to a meeting with your trousers tucked into your socks.
But your beloved old wardrobe is still there. And just occasionally, you do want to arrive at a party looking like something that stepped out of a 1920’s movie set, or turn up to a job interview looking sleek in a suit. Very occasionally, you want people’s first impression of you to be of something other than leggings and cute trainers. You know what I mean?… (And it’s the moment of arriving that counts: if you’ve rocked up to a party and your slightly muddy hot pink jacket and trousers-tucked-into-socks is what made the first impression, then it hardly seems worth scuttling off to the loos to make any changes to your outfit.)
And this is when I find myself thinking: the female cyclist is the Cinderella of our time. The random smears of dirt on the outfit and the hands you try to hide, which are smutty from fixing the bike chain after it unexpectedly slips off in the road. The transformation, which usually takes place in the bushes outside pubs, from muddy cyclist to ballgown-clad sex siren. The late-night ritual of then tucking that ballgown into those enormous elasticated cycling pants you borrowed from your boyfriend, and cycling home with your ass comfortably padded out with silk. The joy of knowing that, like Cinderella, you have a secret.
And, conversely, the joy of never having to leave a party at midnight. Public transport timings, and pumpkins, no longer rule your life. You are free.
