Being an Avid Cyclist at 50+

The Two-Wheeled Delusion

by a Middle-Aged Man Who Should Know Better

There comes a time in every man’s life when he stares into the mirror and asks, “Why do my knees sound like a microwave full of popcorn?” For me, that time came the morning after I decided to become an avid cyclist. I was in my late thirties, which is an age where your mind still thinks it’s eighteen but your body files a formal protest every time you reach for your socks.

Some time later, when I was married and in my fifties, my neighbor Carl, who is one of those people who “enjoy exercise” (a condition I believe is genetic, like freckles or the inability to stop talking about marathons), invited me on a casual ride. “Just ten miles,” he said, which sounded doable at the time. Ten is not a scary number. It’s the number of fingers you have. Ten-dollar bills. Ten Commandments. Manageable.

What I failed to factor in was that Carl measures distance the way old sailors did—by how many people die along the way.

I dusted off the old bike from the garage, which I hadn’t ridden since the Bush administration. It had tires softer than overripe peaches and brakes that shrieked like an angry banshee every time I touched them. My wife suggested I wear a helmet, to which I replied, “Of course,” and then proceeded to wear it backwards, because I am a man, and that’s how we learn: by being publicly humiliated.

We started our ride at what Carl called a “comfortable pace,” which turned out to be just slightly below the speed of sound. He immediately vanished into the horizon like a Lycra-clad cheetah while I panted behind him, legs spinning furiously like a duck in a blender. By mile two, I had begun listing the names of all the people I had wronged in my life, in case this ride ended with me meeting St. Peter.

Things did not improve when we hit the hills. Carl cheerfully shouted, “Use your lowest gear!” I had already used my lowest gear. I had used all the gears. At one point I think I slipped into a gear so low it started going in reverse.

“Just push through the burn!” Carl called back.

I was no longer “burning.” I had entered a new realm of sensation best described as “boiling from the inside out.” My thighs had started speaking to me in Latin. I couldn’t feel my left eyebrow.

At the halfway point, Carl pulled over and offered me a granola bar that tasted like it had been created by gluing oats together with sadness. I nodded politely, because I couldn’t produce saliva anymore. My body had moved on to more essential tasks, like trying to keep my soul from leaving via my armpits.

Somewhere around mile seven, my body began making negotiation attempts.
“Hey,” it said, “remember reclining? You used to be really good at reclining.”
“Shut up,” I wheezed. “I’m being active now.”
My pancreas replied, “This is a betrayal.”

Eventually, Carl coasted us back into town, looking as fresh as a spring daisy. I dismounted my bike like a man getting off a mechanical bull—awkwardly, with tremors, and deeply suspicious of the floor. Every muscle in my body, including several I didn’t know I had (and one I might have borrowed from someone else), immediately filed for retirement.

But here’s the strange part: the next day, once the dizziness wore off and I stopped hallucinating that my couch was whispering encouragement, I wanted to ride again. Because deep down, beneath the gasping and leg cramps and helmet shame, there was a moment—a fleeting, glorious moment—when the wind hit my face and I felt like I was flying. Granted, that moment lasted exactly 0.7 seconds before I remembered I was terrified of flying, but still. It was a taste of something wonderful.

So now I ride three times a week. I’ve got new gear, a real helmet (which I wear facing the correct direction), and padded bike shorts that make me feel like I’m wearing a diaper full of throw pillows. I still can’t keep up with Carl, but I’ve made peace with that. He’s clearly part gazelle.

Besides, I’ve discovered a powerful truth: the road may be long, the saddle may be unforgiving, and the hills may mock your very existence—but if you ride long enough, and sweat hard enough, and scream internally the correct number of times, eventually someone will offer you ice cream. And that, my friend, is the real joy of cycling in your fifties.

That, and not dying.