A love letter to racing strangers through the city

This article is part of a series called ‘A love letter to…’, where Cycling Weekly writers pour praise on their favourite aspects of cycling. The below content is unfiltered, authentic and has not been paid for. 

People often ask me if I race my bike, and I say yes. Yes, I do. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t. 

I know full well what they mean by the question. They’re talking about the pinning-on-a-number kind of racing, the one where you turn up at a village hall at 7am and brush lycra-covered shoulders in a peloton. I’ve never done that, I say. But every time I get on my bike, I’m racing. 

I could be riding to the park, or home from a friend’s house. Maybe I’m cycling out to the big supermarket, or nipping to the pub for a drink. No matter what, if I’m sat in the saddle and turning the cranks, I’m riding to win. Whatever that means.

There’s a beauty to it, really. I think it stems from those first childhood pedal strokes, that feeling of liberation, and the sense of going faster than you’ve ever gone by yourself before. 

When we were younger, my brother and I used to race each other up the local hills. We’d shout out that we were Bradley Wiggins and Mark Cavendish, although, in hindsight, the latter was an ill-chosen character for such an incline. Generally, he’d beat me, but I’d still get a buzz.  

Now, when I pull up at a red light, that same childish rush absorbs me. I glance left and right, take stock of my commuting rivals, and as the amber changes to green, I kick out the saddle, and solo away across the tarmac.

When I reach top speed on my one-gear Decathlon runaround, I tuck my shoulders in and try to get aero. I dip my head into the air. I'm wearing baggy jeans and riding flat pedals, but I have to take the marginal gains where I can. 

My races don’t just start at red lights, though. Sometimes, I’ll spot an unassuming cyclist in the distance, and hunt them down like the bunch chasing the breakaway. I’ve never lost a pursuit. Of course, I decide where the finish line is, which always plays in my favour. 

Other times I’ll sense a cyclist creeping up on me and sprint to hold them off. I’ll glide round bends and accelerate on uphill drags, checking over my shoulder to monitor the gap, never breaking the laws of the road. Then comes the final glance, when I see them duck off into a side road, and a feeling of accomplishment that I’ve shaken them off. 

Honestly, there’s nothing quite like the joy of winning a race the other person didn’t know they were in. 

Only once have I lost, in fact. I still think about it a lot. I caught eyes at a red light with a man in chinos and a t-shirt, and he clocked the race was on. It was only once we pulled away did I see that he had cleats and clipless pedals. I was no match with my flats. Still, I fought until I gave myself a stitch, and nearly threw up. 

So that's why, when people ask me if I race, I say yes. Everyday. I’m pretty good at it, too. Even if the strangers I'm racing have no idea what’s going on.