Confession of a middle-aged bike rider

Self-disclosure from the saddle of experience

It was the summer of 2019. The lavender was in full bloom. My beloved and I were in the south of France.  We had an afternoon free and a love to ride bikes.

We squeezed into our tight, spandex riding shorts with the extra butt padding and were giddy with the spirit of adventure.

Across the cobblestone square, we spotted a bike rental shop. The door had one of those charming bells that rings when someone opens it. We entered the front room which was packed with bikes of all shapes and sizes. I proceeded to announce the obvious, “We’d like to rent some bikes!”

Straight out of central casting, a lean, blue-eyed, woman with a stomach-you-could-bounce quarters-off emerges from behind the counter. She takes a moment to size us up and then smirks as she pegs us as weekend enthusiasts.  

“Would you like to rent e-bikes?” she smiles. “It is kind of hilly around here.”

“Nope, we are NOT cheaters!” I respond with conviction. “We’re in good shape and we’re looking to get in a serious workout!.”

“Are you sure? The countryside is beautiful,” Miss Fit & Trim challenges. “It would be a shame for you to miss out on our lovely villages and hamlets because you couldn’t make it up a challenging hill.”

My beloved and I look at each other confused. Had we just been insulted? She was French, after all. Or were we just handed a much-needed lifeline?  Are we that out of shape that we can’t make it up a few hills? Is it possible that we are so old that we can’t push our bodies past a game of shuffleboard?

No, we agreed. We are NOT that old. We can definitely conquer those peaks. 

In a final effort to get us to change our minds (so, I assume, she won’t have to come to rescue us from ourselves), Fit & Trim reveals “I even use the e-bike sometimes.”

We reconsider. What’s the harm in trying something new? 

Once we bought what Fit & Trim was selling, she scurried into the back room. A moment later, she appeared with two bikes.  They were big and bulky and had an engine-looking thing I hadn’t ever seen before.

I hopped on the smaller of the two bikes. I settled into my seat and then something miraculous happened. I pushed a little black button on my handlebars and the bike started pedaling. All. By. Itself.   

“It takes a little getting used to,” Fit & Trim laughed. She gave us a 5-minute introduction on how to manage our new “pedal assist” power and then handed us our helmets. “Have a nice afternoon. Call this number if you have any problems. Bon voyage.”

At first, I was hesitant to level up. “It’s nice to have the help,” I told myself, “But I won’t need it.” 

I was cruising along in the valley thinking that Fit & Trim had underestimated us, but then, not ten minutes into our ride, we turned a corner. 

There are rolling, friendly hills, and then there are serious vertical inclines. The formidable mountain that had placed itself directly in my path was not the friendly kind. I thought for sure when we reached the top - if we reached the top - it would be past the tree line and we wouldn’t find any vegetation.   

I started pedaling on level one. “I can do this!” I demanded of myself. “I’ve ridden up to the top of tougher hills than this one!”  

But then, my legs started screaming. My quads. My hamstrings. My calves. Raging fires. I was about to get off the bike and walk it up to the top of the mountain that the French call a hill when I realized that I could alleviate my suffering by simply pressing that little black button.   

Should I or shouldn’t I?  

I was approaching – forgive me – a slippery slope.  Once I summoned the pedal assist, things would never be the same.

“You are too old to fight gravity,” my legs heckled. I tightened my grip on the handlebars, stood on my pedals, and pushed harder. “What do you know?” I responded.

“Well, if you haven’t noticed,” my legs shouted, “We’re the ones pushing you up this hill and we’re done. We are not moving another inch!”  

And with that, my legs went on strike. 

I was caught in my own tracks. I had two options: either fall off the bike or press the little black button. 

In the end, I bucked the former and gave into the latter, and within seconds, I was racing to the top. I went from despair to jubilation with the glorious Provence wind blowing in my hair.

The rest of the afternoon was a joy ride (couldn’t resist). Every time my legs started whining, I called upon my new best friend, pedal assist, and the amazing e-bike carried me effortlessly to the top. 

It was all downhill from there. 

When we got home, the first thing my beloved and I did was go online and purchase some e-bikes of our own.  Except this time, our e-bikes are stealthy – you can’t tell that they have a motor to help with the pedal assist.   

With my new stealth e-bike, I was the coolest person on the road last weekend when we were riding on Block Island. This craggy island off the coast of Rhode Island is known for its rocky cliffs and breathtaking beaches. Clocking in at ten miles from end to end, it is a bike rider’s heaven.  

But now, it’s confession time.

We’re heading up a hill against the wind. I move from level one to level two and then give in to level three. In an instant, like hitting super-charge on Mario-Kart,  I start passing the other people on the road. “On your left,” I say as I pass the heavy-set lady who’s powering the pedals from her heart,  the 8-year-old kid with the tomato-red cheeks, and the two tiny-waisted twenty-somethings who should really be wearing more clothes. 

Yup. Rode right by them. Ef-fort-less-ly. 

They looked at me in disbelief.  I imagined them asking themselves, “How could that sixty-something-year-old lady, with the oversized sweatshirt and undersized legs cruise right by me?”

I should have had more sympathy for their plight. I was them once. I’d been there. I had suffered my own personal indignities and was passed “On the left” hundreds of times.

Who cares if I was using the power of my stealth e-bike to speed by them? I was out there. I was riding my bike just like they were.

The ride went along like that for another four blissful miles.   I passed riders of all shapes and sizes. They were all duly impressed by me and my speed.

I was heading up a hill on level two.  Proud of myself and my biking prowess.  I was enjoying my self-confidence. 

But then, the unthinkable happened.  

A guy in flip flops with a rusty, rickety old bike calls out “On your left, ma’am.”