Riding With the Boys

My lungs heaved.  I willed my legs to give me a little bit more.  My gaze narrowed to the tire in front of me.  Don’t lose contact.  Don’t lose contact.  I repeated the mantra in my head, praying to the fickle gods of cycling that the top of the hill would come soon.  Now would be good.  My vision narrowed again, this time from spots forming in my periphery.  Don’t lose contact. I tasted bitterness in my throat.  Blood?  Stomach acid?  I didn’t have the mental space to think about it.  I dropped my head, begged my legs to give me a smidge more power, and managed to hang on to the wheel in front of me.  Thank the sweet gods of cycling, we reached the top of the hill.  As we crested, the leader sat up, then the guy in front of me, then me.  I looked over my shoulder.  We had dropped the rest of the group, so we soft-pedaled to let them catch up.

As we re-grouped, one of the guys pedaled up to me.  “Nice job, Heidi.  You crushed that climb.”

“Thanks,” I replied, still catching my breath.

“That was impressive.”

I smiled.  “Thanks,” I repeated.  “I always try to make sure I’m ahead of at least two of you guys.”

The guy paused, looking puzzled, then asked, “Why?”

I glanced over at him.  “Because I’m the only woman in this group.  I’m already the token girl.  I don’t also want to be the woman who makes everyone wait.”

He paused again.  We pedaled side by side for a few moments, then he said quietly, “Wow.  I’ve never thought about that.”

I chuckled.  “I’m sure you haven’t, but I have.”

This narrative is not new.  Cycling has historically been a male-dominated sport.  The Tour de France began in 1903, but the women’s version didn’t start until 1984 and has only recently gained more traction and popularity.  On a group ride several years ago, one of the guys I was riding with asked me, “Why are women so intimidated by road biking?”

I looked over at him and shook my head.  “Are you serious?  Look at you.  Look at this group. Everyone is super fit, wearing spandex and weird helmets, riding carbon-fiber space machines, sailing down the road, speaking in words that only cyclists understand.  It’s not an easy sport for a lot of women to jump into.”

Just like the guy who commented on my climbing performance, this guy paused for a few moments.  He then said, “Wow, I’ve never thought about it like that.”

I nodded.  “I’m sure you haven’t, but I have.”

I was 21 when I bought my first road bike.  Before that, I had always ridden an old-school hard-tail mountain bike on the road.  One sunny day, I pedaled my mountain bike down a smooth paved road when a fit man in spandex whizzed past me on a fancy road bike.  He called out a greeting, but he blasted by me so fast his words got lost in the vortex.  I watched him fly down the road like a cannonball fired from a cannon.  I looked down at my old mountain bike and knew it was time for an upgrade.

The next day, I drove to the bike shop around the corner from my apartment.  It was a big box bike shop, a national chain.  I parked my car and sat in the parking lot, working up the courage to go inside.  I watched customers enter and exit the store.  They were all men, all fit, all looking confident.  Some of them were pushing expensive-looking bikes through the doors.  Some walked out with shopping bags filled with what I only assumed were exotic bike-related items I had not yet discovered.  Through the front windows of the store, I could see rows and rows of shiny new bikes.  I watched the staff members, all male, helping the fit men locate the exact exotic bike-related item they were seeking.  I started my car and drove home, berating myself the whole way.  I grew up with an older brother and his friends.  I went to daycare with two older boys.  I played sports with boys all through middle school and high school.  My roommate was a man.  What was my problem?  That night, I gave myself a pep talk.  Heidi, people do this every day.  You are not the first person to to decide to start cycling.  Suck it up.  You want this.  So go get it.

The next afternoon, I found myself sitting in front of the bike shop once again.  This time, I didn’t hesitate.  I walked into the store, exuding false confidence.  One of the young, fit employees approached and cheerfully asked if I needed any help.

“Yes,” I replied with all my fake confidence.  “I’m looking for a road bike.”  I paused.  “For my brother.”  What??

“Great!  How tall is he?” replied the employee.

“He’s about an inch taller than me,” I said, watching my fake confidence laugh at me.  What are these words coming out of my mouth?

The employee proceeded to show me a bike that was the right size for my brother (who, by the way, is actually about four inches taller than I am, so this whole lie was a lie on multiple fronts).  I was in too deep.  I couldn’t see the way out, so I followed the employee to the front of the store, purchased a bike that was too big for me, and drove back to my apartment.  I felt humiliated and ashamed.  I rode that bike for four years before I worked up the courage to return to the bike shop and buy a new bike.  This time, I expressed it was for me, and this time, I purchased the correct size.

As I kept riding, I learned more about bikes.  One of the men I worked with was a cyclist, so I joined him and his wife on a few rides around the city.  I learned a lot, asked a lot of questions, and gained more confidence.  I rode more, signed up for a few charity rides, realized that I was pretty good at road biking, and rode even more.

Shortly after I moved to Montana, I saw a sign advertising a Saturday group ride.  I showed up the following Saturday, along with six men.  I was the token girl.  I vowed to myself that I would never be last.  I didn’t want to be the only woman and also make everyone wait.  I kept showing up every Saturday, and I kept pushing hard to hang with the fast guys.  I got fast in the process, and I learned a lot more.  

On one sunny Saturday ride, I was complaining to one of the guys that women’s bike shorts were cut too short on the thighs.  They ride up and cause chafing.  Men’s shorts are longer and don't ride up.  The guy laughed and said, “Women’s shorts are shorter because women want them shorter.”

I shook my head.  “No.  Women’s shorts are shorter because the men who make women’s shorts want them shorter.  I, as a woman, want longer shorts that don’t make me chafe.”

Yet again, there was a long pause.  Yet again, he replied, “Wow, I never thought about it like that.”

And yet again, I replied, “I’m sure you haven’t, but I have.”

I have been a cyclist now for most of my life.  I am no longer intimidated to walk into a bike shop.  I ask every question that comes to mind, and I don’t feel nervous or embarrassed about it.  The bike shop where I now patronize is owned by a wonderful and kind man.  His employees are just as kind and knowledgeable as he is.  They patiently answer all my questions, help me with anything I need, and take a genuine interest in my bikes and my riding abilities.  Would I feel this way if I were my 21-year-old self walking into this bike shop for the first time?  I don’t know.  What I do know is the sport of cycling has come a long way, but it has a long way to go.  As is true with most disparities, we need to have conversations with each other.  People don’t know what they don’t know.  The men in my cycling group learned a lot from me being there, riding with them, and talking.  

My advice to anyone thinking about getting into cycling is this: just go for it.  Ask all the questions.  Don’t be intimidated.  Cyclists are just people in weird clothing.  Oh, and make sure you tell the bike shop employee that you are buying a bike for yourself.