In Marianne Faithfull’s song The Ballad of Lucy Jordan, the titular heroine laments, at the age of 37, from the stifling comfort of her suburban bedroom, that “she’d never ride through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in her hair”.
A relatable precis of the type of middle-age regret that I’ve always been determined would never happen to me. No sign of a showy open-top yet, sadly, but at the grand old age of 44, I discovered I could achieve a similar high simply by jumping on a bike and spending an hour zooming around a locked down London. And with no hairdressers open for weeks, I had plenty of hair for the warm wind to ruffle.
I’ve always felt like a beginner when it comes to cycling. My stabilisers were whipped off years after everyone else’s and because I never learned to drive a car, I have a terror of traffic and wide carriageways. Any time I steeled myself to get on a bike in London, I’d trundle nervously, sticking to cycle paths and quietways, tensing every sinew should a car come near. No potential catastrophe was too fantastical for my imagination.
Cycling was functional, an A to B thing; I was determined not to take it seriously, swearing on the holy book – a copy of The Stud by Jackie Collins, in my case – that I’d never don Lycra or curse at a pedestrian. Cycling as a sport belonged to others, not people like me who pedalled in the manner of a kindly vicar and gave way at junctions to toddlers on rollerskates.
During lockdown, something changed. Well, everything changed. Lockdown in any city must have been strange and unnerving, but confined to my flat, able only to peep out at distant tower blocks from my window, I felt disconnected, sad that the city was still out there, without me.
I decided to go out, grab a hire bike and remind myself where I was. At first I stayed close to home, cycling around my neighbourhood, the swoosh of tyre on tarmac echoing round the empty streets. Then I retraced familiar journeys, marvelling at the silence as I wheeled cautiously, as if I were still surrounded by traffic.
Quickly, I got braver, the opportunity to explore becoming too tempting. The weather was so fine, the sky bright and the roads clear; it would have been a waste to turn round and go home. My daily hour of exercise delivered epic journeys, mammoth (to me) round trips of 15 miles or so.
I navigated routes I’d thought would never be available to me. Years ago, cycling toward Buckingham Palace down the Mall, nerves got the better of me and I pulled into the kerb. Now, nothing could stop me. I soared over its red tarmac and across Trafalgar Square, sweeping up the Strand, switching lanes like a slightly wobbly pro at Aldwych, then through the City and beyond.
Lockdown anxiety melted away. I revelled in the luxury of having the time and freedom for landmarks to become unremarkable – I pedalled over the Thames and back; I zigzagged round back streets I used to know, revisiting old flats and workplaces like a very niche ghost. I began carefully but confidently overtaking buses and cabs, and coasted along A-roads that would usually be choked by traffic.
London became a huge open-air museum to life before coronavirus, and I felt like it was all mine. In minutes, I could glide through areas as yet unthrottled by gentrification, and other neighbourhoods so impossibly luxe and unfamiliar that they felt like science fiction to me.
With every trip out, I got more confident. I dreamt of ditching my unwieldy, bulked-up hire bike for a racer that sliced through the air like a hot knife through butter. Best to start small, though, I thought, and accessorise before I went big. I treated myself to a few pairs of shorts – essential for optimum cyclist tan-lines and also looking chic as I zoomed along – and face coverings to keep my spluttering to myself, checking out my haul with PayPal to keep things quick and simple.
I began to feel stronger, not just in my rapidly hardening thighs and glutes – so lovely to see muscles again, it’s been a while – but inside, in my mind. I felt free. If I didn’t like where I ended up, a few minutes of pedalling and it was all behind me. It didn’t matter, just as long as I was going somewhere. I no longer signalled turns with a shaky and quickly retracted hand, but a full yoga extension (yes, I took up yoga during lockdown too; allow me this cliche), breezing balletically round corners like I’d had 10 vitamin shots before breakfast.
But I’d always have to turn back eventually. I’d arrive home mildly dehydrated and saddle-sore, yes, but still tingling with boundless energy and clarity, and in control – the perfect antidote to the disempowerment of lockdown. As restrictions eased, I’d spend hours on the road and not a moment wasted. Now, the bustle is returning, and traffic seeps back on to the streets, but I won’t be deterred. No juggernaut or beetroot-faced car driver with anger issues can break my resolve. London has opened itself up to me and things will never be the same again. Least of all my thighs. Like granite. Seriously.
Hobbies like cycling can be expensive – what with buying a bike, helmet, all the gear – but with PayPal Credit you can spread the cost.
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