But then Saturday arrives. And they arrive.
The New Rider™.
They roll up on a spotless aero bike, smile wide, kit coordinated like it’s effortless, and say things like: “I’m just here to enjoy the ride. I don’t really know what I’m doing yet 😅”
This is a lie.
Stage 1: Judgement
You scan them like a robot from the future.
- Clean chain? Check.
- Calf definition? Concerning.
- No saddlebag? Bold.
- Oakleys upside down on the helmet? Worrying signs of confidence.
- Water bottle with weird homemade electrolyte mix? Danger.
You reassure yourself with a familiar phrase:
“They’ll blow up halfway up the first climb.”
They will not.
Stage 2: Doubt
The ride starts. They slot in mid-pack. Quiet. Humble. Smooth.
Then you hit the first kicker. You’re out of the saddle, sweating, making deals with the hill.
They say gently, kindly:
“Mind if I come around?”
You nod. They float past. Their chain does not even click. They climb like wind doesn’t apply to them.
At the top, they wait. Still smiling.
“You’re really strong,” they say.
They mean it. And that makes it so much worse.
Stage 3: Internal collapse
Your thoughts spiral:
How are they this fast?
Do they even sweat?
Do they used to be pro? Are they still pro?
Maybe I should just fake a puncture and ride straight into a ditch.
You try to drop them on the descent.
They’re already gone, cornering like they’re auditioning for Red Bull Rampage.
Stage 4: Delusion
You tell yourself it’s fine.
“They’re probably 22 and have no job.”
“I’ve got endurance, not sprint legs.”
“They don’t know what suffering is. I’ve bonked in a snowstorm.”
“Maybe they’re on EPO. Which I support. But still.”
You ride next to your usual group buddy and whisper,
“They’re too strong, right? Like… it’s weird?”
They just nod.
They’re also suffering.
You feel seen. But not healed.
Stage 5: Acceptance (but resentfully)
At coffee, The New Rider offers to buy a round.
You accept. Because you’re tired. And you want oat milk.
You consider them closely.
They’re nice.
They’re funny.
They compliment your socks.
They use actual thank-you hand signals in traffic.
You want to hate them. But you can’t.
They’re just a better cyclist. And, insultingly, a better person.
Epilogue: You will stalk their Strava
You say your goodbyes.
But you will:
Find them on Strava.
Scroll back six months to check their training volume.
Compare every ride.
Create a private segment they’ll never see, just so you can win something.
And eventually, you’ll message them and say:
“Great ride today. Want to go out again next week?”
And they’ll say yes. Because they’re new. And kind. And don’t yet know that you are spiralling emotionally every time they casually pull on the front into a headwind at 38km/h.
Final thoughts: It’s fine. (It’s not fine. But it will be.)
There will always be someone stronger. Someone newer. Someone who says “I’m just getting into it” while riding you into the pavement.
But here’s the thing:
They’ll become part of the group.
They’ll eventually have a bad day.
And when they do, you’ll be the one saying:
“Take my wheel. You’ve got this.”
Because cycling humbles all of us eventually.
And next time, you might be the terrifying new rider in someone else’s story. Right?
