My lungs were burning, my legs were aching and there were tears in my eyes. I was cycling up Richmond Hill on my way to Richmond Park. Richmond, one of London’s most desirable areas, is over ten miles from where I live. I needed to catch two trains and then cycle for fifteen minutes from the train station. Twelve of those fifteen minutes were up hill, and it had been over a year since I’d ridden a bike.
Gasping for air, I pulled onto a path and got off my bike and surveyed the landscape. It was a glorious day. Below me I could see the river Thames meandering its way from Hampton, through Richmond, and onto Kew, Chiswick and Fulham. It was a scene that had been painted by Turner; a discovery I had made when I paid a visit to an art gallery in Manchester when I was a student. It was also a scene that was a part of my personal history. I could see a tow path; a path that I used to follow when out on a school ‘cross country’ run.
After catching my breath, I got on my bike again, cycled up the final incline and into the park. Minutes later, I was at my destination: Pembroke Lodge. I saw three middle aged women looking expectantly at me. I had found the ‘over 50’s cycling group’.
The organiser was called Kay. The other two members were called Elaine and Mary. Ominously, they all had impressive looking road bikes and were wearing substantial amounts of luminous Lycra. I, on the other hand, was there on a folding bike and was wearing a light cotton jacket and jogging bottoms. I felt ill equipped.
We waited for ten minutes until another member, Alan, arrived. After a bit of chatter, we were off. Kay led the way, followed by Elaine and then Mary. My cheeky little folding bike and tired legs were no match for Kay and her road bike, who tore down the road at an outrageous pace.
I have since read that Richmond Park is London’s second largest park, and it is roughly three times the size of New York’s Central Park. Our first stop was Sheen Gate, a couple of miles from Richmond Gate.
‘How is the pace? Is it okay? I just wanted us to get on our way’ asked Kay.
‘It’s… fine…’ I lied, panting and coughing.
Our final destination was Battersea Park. Battersea is a part of the city that is starting to change. It felt as if I had always know about the area, perhaps due to its iconic art deco disused power station and its famous ‘home’ for cats and dogs. For as long as I can remember, there has been perpetual talk about plans to redevelop the area, which have continually ended in failure. The most recent plans comprising of housing, offices and shops, have gained traction, leading to stories of people camping overnight to try to buy flats that hadn’t even been built; a further reflection of London’s challenging housing market.
We cycled through an area called Barnes, where I felt an echo of a distant memory from when I was aged fourteen. Although I didn’t remember the area, I felt that the quiet, almost suburban tone of the neighbourhood was faintly familiar. We cycled past an urban wetland nature reserve, and then found the River Thames. The pace had slowed; it became more civilised. Streets had given way to paths that were shared with pedestrians. We passed Putney Bridge and rode gently through Wandsworth Park. We chatted as we rode, sometimes stopping to negotiate paths and obstacles.
Elaine, who was from Atlanta, came to Kay’s group every week. She had followed her husband to London; he had a long term contract to set up some new businesses. Mary was a retired teacher who enjoyed cycling (and preferred cycling with others rather than cycling alone), and Alan, who talked incessantly throughout the entire morning, mostly about politics and immigration, was unemployed.
Kay told me a little about her group. She set it up because she enjoyed going cycling, but she was put off by the other hard-core road racing groups that she had seen on Meetup; she had been looking for something that was a bit more informal. Her group was only eight months old and there were two hundred members, and she starting to look for co-organisers to lead more rides.
‘That’s not the Hammersmith Bridge, is it?’ I said, oblivious to the fact that Hammersmith was in the opposite direction.
‘No, that’s the Albert Bridge. I think this is my favourite bridge in the whole of London’ replied Mary. ‘The towers are a lot narrower than Hammersmith’.
Moments later, we were in Battersea Park, trying to avoid children, dogs and roller-skaters, and soon arrived at our final destination: a café and ice cream parlour that was situated opposite a boating lake.
We parked our bikes, ordered drinks, and chatted about the weather, cockroaches, New York, Dorset, teenagers and sandwiches. After an ice cream (to boost my rapidly collapsing blood-sugar level) it was time to head back the way we came. Elaine cycled onwards to Chelsea, Mary was heading home to Barnes, and I followed Alan who directed me to Putney train station.
When I got home, I had received a message from Kay through Meetup. She thanked me for coming along, and said that I would be very welcome to come on any other rides. It had been so much fun, I might well do just that.
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