October café stops are survival scenarios. A liminal space between hope and hypothermia. The coffee is hotter. The desperation is realer. The personalities? Sharpened by windchill and bad decisions.
Here are the five types of cyclists you’ll meet, and possibly become, when the temperature drops and the pastries are the only warm thing within 20km.
The shivering latte hugger
You’ll spot them instantly: both hands wrapped around a mug like it’s the last source of heat on Earth. Helmet still on. Jaw chattering. Eyes hollow.
They do not speak. They do not sip. They simply absorb heat via ceramic osmosis.
Their fingers no longer work. Their gloves are soaked. They’ve forgotten how to chew. Their bike is parked at a 45-degree angle because they no longer possess the core stability to use a kickstand.
You offer them a napkin. They blink once.
They are not okay.
The smug guy in merino
This one is thriving.
He’s warm. He’s dry. He looks like a walking Rapha catalogue and smells faintly of eucalyptus and self-righteousness.
“I told you guys merino was the move,” he says, unwrapping his banana bread with steady hands and clear sinuses.
He does not appear to have sweat glands. Or regrets.
He doesn’t need overshoes, he says. “Wool socks do the job.”
You consider stabbing him with your spoon.
The compulsive adjuster
They arrive and immediately start rearranging everything: gloves off, gilet unzipped, base layer halfway removed, neck buff turned into a hat, hat turned into a napkin.
They cannot sit still. They are locked in a battle with their own clothing. Their thermal tights are inside-out. Their jersey is now a cape. Their shoe covers are somewhere near the espresso machine.
They speak only in sighs and muttered phrases like “I knew I shouldn’t have worn the windstopper.”
They will leave in a completely different outfit than they arrived in. Possibly someone else’s.
The one who brought a full change of clothes like a weirdo (a genius)
They reach into their saddlebag like Mary Poppins.
Out comes a dry base layer. Then socks. Then a spare neck warmer. Then a second set of gloves, warm from the depths of their smug, organised soul.
You laugh at first. Then you cry a little. Because this person is not cold. They are sipping hot chocolate in a clean jersey while you shiver in wet Lycra that smells like agricultural runoff.
You call them a weirdo. But you also call them clever. Quietly. In your frostbitten heart.
The “we should probably head back” denialist
This one refuses to believe the temperature is dropping.
“No, we’ll warm up on the way home,” they say, as sleet begins to fall sideways.
They’re the first to suggest outdoor seating. The first to remove their gloves. The last to admit that maybe, just maybe, October isn’t late summer anymore.
You’ll find them twenty minutes later, standing in the wind, crying into their cappuccino foam, whispering: “I thought it would be sunny again by now.”
It won’t. It never is.
Closing thoughts from the pastry cabinet
October café stops are where cycling gets real. Your limits are tested. Your layering strategy is exposed. Your friendships are forged in shared suffering and wet saddles.
So bring gloves. Bring a plan. Bring a dry buff in a ziplock bag. Or just bring cash and enough charm to beg for indoor seating and a warm slice of banana bread.
You’ll need both.
