I have rediscovered the joy of cycling – but I still can’t stand cyclists

On a family ride along a Peak District tourist trail, Will Gore feels the disapproval of the ‘professional’ bikers

Will Gore has divided cyclists into two groups – ‘amateurs’ and ‘professionals’ – and he has picked his side (Getty)

We are not a cycling family. When we first moved to the Chilterns, 15 years ago, I rather fancied the idea of whizzing around on two wheels. I hadn’t ridden since I was a student, but my dad had an old bike he was happy for me to have, and I enjoyed a few runs into town on it. The slog back up our hill, however, was less fun, and with nowhere sensible to store it, maintaining the machine’s condition was no easy thing. After a couple of years of its tyres gradually deflating, I realised I was happier on two feet and took the bike to the tip.

My wife hasn’t had a bike since she was a child, and my daughter outgrew hers two or three years ago. That bike was inherited by her younger brother, who learned to ride during the quiet pandemic, then promptly forgot how to do it – undermining one of life’s great assumptions in the process.

We discovered the boy’s memory loss at the start of the summer. I wanted to make sure he could still cycle so that we had the option of hiring bikes during our upcoming holiday in the Peak District. It took several visits to the flat tarmac of a nearby school car park before he relearned the skill. I wondered whether the rest of us would remember.

I needn’t have worried. On our second day in the Peaks this last week, we rented bikes and set off confidently along the Manifold Way, cycling the route of the Leek and Manifold Light Railway – a line that was first authorised in 1898, opened in 1904 and had a lifespan of just 30 years; rather less time than it will take even to construct HS2.

My son wobbled a little, and took one tumble, which left him bloodied but unbowed. His sister loved it, as did my wife and I. After completing the 16-mile route we were saddle-sore and exhausted, but the clamour for more was loud. So, two days later, we ventured out again, this time aiming to take on the 27-mile Tissington trail, which follows another abandoned railway line, from Ashbourne in the south, to high ground beyond Dovedale and Hartington further north.

Again, the joy was unbridled; the slight incline on the outward journey making us feel that we had every right to delight in the feeling of flying homeward, downhill all the way. The views of the dales were stupendous and the route’s railway history, along embankment and through cutting, via bacon rolls in a former signal box, was tangible. This ride had been even better than the first.

But if there could be any complaint, it was the cyclists. Not the other holidaymakers like us, tottering along on their hired bikes at a stately four miles an hour uphill, stopping with relief at every likely place for a glug of water or a square of chocolate. No, these guys at least seemed to be having a great time, however much they sweated.

The same could not be said for a majority of the cyclists who my son described as “professionals”. These were the ones with their own swanky bikes, lycra-clad in luminous colours, wraparound glasses and gloves. Some flew past without so much as a “by your leave”, while others came stealthily up behind until you could feel their tutting breath on your collar. Most of the men seemed to have beards and moustaches, which may be a way to keep flies out of their sour-looking mouths.

To each fellow wayfarer I gave a cheerful “morning!” or, on the steeper bits, a slightly puffed-out “hiya”. The amateurs returned my greetings, and sometimes we’d have a fleeting exchange. The professionals were very occasionally spirited in their replies, sometimes offered a non-committal grunt, and frequently gave nothing back at all – though I could feel their glare from behind their shades. Almost none of them looked to be having fun.

It can be frustrating when someone plays at a hobby about which you feel passionate, and perhaps the pros had reason to be irked by wobbling children and panting adults. But if anyone could forget how to ride their bikes, I wish it were the miserable lycra lot.