“That’s cheating!” The familiar, piercing accusation from a fellow cyclist fades quickly as I cruise by, leaving him to battle a beautiful yet brutal 15 per cent incline. As a Lycra-clad e-bike roadie, I’m accustomed to receiving comments like this from riders tackling the same cruel ramps of England's Cotswold Hills. Inevitably, I drop them with comparative ease, but the sense of shame is harder to shake.
I don’t need other cyclists to tell me what I already know. Deep down, I’m acutely aware that I’m a cheat. I slink into café stops avoiding eye contact, tormented with self-conscious angst, praying there’ll be a shady corner where I can hide my e-bike from the critical gaze of fellow cyclists.
