I cycled to Paris a few months ago. it seems like an elaborate lie nowadays since I spend most of my time locked underground in the tube.
two healthy friends and I on city bikes without gear, very unprofessional looking, covering the dirt-tracks of Morden, the south England seafront and miles and miles of picturesque French countryside to the point where I grew slightly sick from the sight of castles and windmills.
but we felt very empowered. until we reached the New Haven ferry to Dieppe and stumbled upon our counterparts – three male members of the cycling community. they had shiny Nike water bottles, red tights and matching cycle bags full of useful equipment. all we carried was a broken pump and some knickers. I tried to look less like a twelve year old boy with a peanut head on a school hike and rolled up the sleeves of my boyfriend’s laid off jumper – the only moment when men in tights have made me feel body-conscious. ‘where are you off to?’ they asked us. ‘Paris’ we proudly replied. it turned out they were planning to reach Paris that same evening. we were hoping to get there in three days.
and their goal was not France. or even in Europe. these cycling gods were riding all the way to fucking Thailand.
after that I stopped bragging on facebook and just got on with it