The group chat says, “New rider joining this weekend. Be nice.” You nod. Of course. You are nice. You’re generous with your wheels, respectful of effort, and famously didn’t laugh (much) when someone unclipped on the wrong side and fell into a bush.
There’s something genuinely magical about discovering a new city on two wheels. Whether it’s your own trusty steed or a creaky rental that sounds like it has asthma, riding a bike while exploring a new place is the cycling version of a buffet. You get…
Everyone loves the Tour de France. It’s the prom queen of pro cycling. The Super Bowl of suffering. The only time your uncle who “used to ride a bit” suddenly has opinions about watts per kilo.
The sun is a vengeful orb. The road is made of melting treacle. Your jersey is glued to your spine, your bidon is the temperature of miso soup, and your Garmin says it’s 37°C but your soul says closer to the surface of Mercury.
