I'm no Paragon - yet!

Paragon – ‘A model of excellence’ according to the dictionary. Sunday was the day I had set aside to try out my new cycling club; Dulwich Paragon and I was a little nervous. In all the years I have been cycling I have never really found a group to cycle with that was quite right. The Triathlon club I used to be with, Crystal Palace, went at about the right speed but I had small children at the time and these guys liked to set off late, mess about for a bit, get punctures and, being triathletes, at least one person would usually fall off.  So I wouldn’t get home until mid-afternoon, by which time my poor, long-suffering wife would be holding the boys tied up and at gunpoint in the kitchen.  Then I’d have to spend the afternoon wearing them out in the park, which just made them fitter and me even more tired. In Hong Kong, I hooked up with a small group that was perfect but then I came back to England.

I have cycled alone, cycled with the odd mate (they know who they are – and they are odd!) but I have never cycled with a cycling club. In fact, I have always shied away from it a bit and in turning up on Sunday to ride with my new club, I had to confront why this was.  As I set off over Crystal Palace hill, I started to ponder why, after 17 years of half-serious cycling; I was now taking the plunge. Why I hadn’t joined before was simple; I was scared. Scared of being humbled, scared of the sleek-looking fitness machines I had often seen out on the hills making a mockery of my middle-aged pretentions to be a cyclist.

I’d like to say that I needn’t have worried, that I slotted right into the group and made them gape in awe as I launched my muscular lycra-clad 91kg up yet another fierce climb, my teeth gritted in determination as I swept past them, gleaming thighs pumping and then punching the air two-fisted Cavendish-style at the finish. But that would not be true. Sadly, that’s not how it was.

I knew I was in for a tough time when, having hooked up with a small group who were going for ‘an easy 50 miles’, I was out of breath as we set off down the long hill from Crystal Palace to Elmers End. It’s a long downhill, with a couple of level sections and I had to push hard to keep up and this was where my weight ‘advantage’ counted for me. I stuck with the group for about 10 miles, but with my lungs attempting to climb out of my chest and on the verge of full aortic aneurysm on the first serious hill, I urged them to leave me behind and watched despairingly as they slipped effortlessly away.

I tried not to be despondent – chastened, but not downhearted. It was a lovely spring morning, the lanes nearly empty and the North Downs green and lush despite the impending hose-pipe ban. Obviously, my club riding strategy needed a re-think but I am not actually training to take part in a time trial, so I just set about getting the miles done at my own pace. Despair is maybe too strong a word; I knew I couldn’t keep up, so wasn’t really that put out at being dropped. But fate wasn’t finished with me yet; it still had a helping of hope to throw in my face and another slice of pain.

40 miles into the ride and heading for home, up my old favourite nemesis, Ide Hill. Higher than the Tourmalet and the same gruelling exposure as Ventoux. Tugging once more at the gear-lever and glancing down to check I really was in the lowest gear and out of nowhere, a blue and white arrow shot past me. A knife-like pair of buttocks wrestling in tight lycra shorts like a pair of Labrador puppies, steel hawser thighs, popeye calf muscles and the now familiar words ‘Dulwich Paragon’ spread across the arse. This was Serge, the Frenchman I had ridden with earlier, closely followed by the rest of the group – and we were together again. Well, they waited for me at the top of the hill and then they made me stay with them. And I did, for the most part; wedged between them to shelter from the wind on the flat and getting there as quickly as I could on the hills. (They waited at the top) We stayed together until, utterly spent, I peeled off to go over Crystal Palace hill and back home. I confess that once they were out of sight, I rode so slowly that an old lady, her shopping basket laden with groceries, easily went past me – and I swear she turned to me and smiled mockingly as she stuck the knife in!

So I am not ready to join the speedsters yet – my imperious dominance of CS7 (one of Boris’ cycle superhighways – and my cycle commute) just means that I am faster than the assortment of hybrids and mountain bikes that barge rudely through the traffic in the morning. I am no Paragon yet – but I have a plan…