We posted on Instagram a few weeks ago about Emily Willcox, a fitness influencer who last summer dabbled in cycling. “Cycling is a white man’s sport…so by default I’m already an icon,” our headline ran.
We have a treasured rule in Cycling Weekly: Never read the comments. Ever the rebel, I took a sneaky look regardless, and was met with a range of expected responses, from disbelieving men to exhausted women.
“What barriers? There aren’t any!” “Who cares?” was the tone of one. Another: “Any other women here with popcorn for the comments?”
Firstly, there’s the cost of a bike. Whether that’s a hand-me-down or a top of the range model, the cost of entry to the sport could put you back anything from £100 upwards, and for a new, entry-level road bike, is likely to be at least around £1,000. And that’s before you tackle the mire of cycling kit, tech and constant maintenance costs. Things like the Cycle to Work scheme in the UK help, but £500 could be too much money for someone, let alone the £2,000 plus of a decently-specced machine. How is that not a barrier?
Of course, all you really need is a helmet, shoes and some comfy clothes to get cycling, plus the bike. But it isn’t always that simple, and that could be a big cost to someone. And that is still more than the trainers, shorts and top you need for running.
Videos of perfectly dressed cycling influencers are increasingly colouring the world of cycling, mystifying who it is for. I’m not immune. I didn’t think I had the right ‘look’ to transition from mountain biking to road cycling: as much as I have experienced the benefits of lycra, it will never be my uniform of choice. I felt embarrassed cycling around on my own in full kit, and underdressed on social rides. I couldn’t strike the right balance.
“Cycling seems to have convinced itself that if you’re not spending, say, £150 on your shorts, or two months’ wages on your bike, they’re probably not worth having,” James Shrubsall wrote in an article on the cost of cycling last week.
“You have some elitist run clubs that are like, we run fast, if you don’t run fast then join another run club, but a lot of kind of just normal social run clubs will have different tiers, so you can run in three different pace groups, so you can at least gauge how fast it’s going to be,” Willcox explained to Cycling Weekly earlier this month .
“I don’t feel like that happens in cycling. You kind of have a route and then it’s like, see you on the other side! If you get left behind, there’s no one coming back for you. I think it’s quite hard to just rock up to a cycling club you’ve never been to and feel like you’re welcomed.”
This might be Willcox’s experience of clubs, but there are many that are more welcoming, a whole new generation of groups has been set up to be more open; and that’s not to damn all ‘old-school’ ones either. While there are some that are speedy, elitist, and exclusionary, putting new cyclists off, there are others which are welcoming.
However, if you’re not a speedy man, you might feel out of place. The illusion remains: if you’re not on the right bike, in the right kit, the right gender even, it’s not really a space for you. I know, because I’ve felt it too.
Cycling has deeper barriers than gender when it comes to who is made to feel excluded. “We recognise that the peloton, at elite level, does not represent society,” the outgoing CEO of British Cycling, Jon Dutton, told Cycling Weekly last May. At the Paris Olympics, one person of colour represented Great Britain and Northern Ireland in a cycling squad of 36.
“By default, I’m the main character” Willcox wrote in an Instagram caption last summer. “Certainly not because I’m good – but because I’m rare.”
Andy Edwards, author of the Diversity in Cycling report, warns of the culture of elitism in cycling, which can further alienate cyclists who don’t see themselves represented at all levels within the sport.
Herein lies an irony. The bike has historically been a social leveller. Once bicycles were mass produced, they revolutionised transport for the poorest in society. And as more people cycled, this new mode of transport shifted into a sport driven by the working classes: no lycra needed.
However, when transport moved into a hobby, the barriers appeared.
How did we get here? Where attaining the label of ‘cyclist’ seems mired in the need for expensive kit and pristine bikes? Where heading to a social ride is a terrifying prospect if not disguised in the garb of ‘cyclist? When an activity once for all seems reserved at the top levels for only one portion of the population?
The barriers to cycling are many and they are varied. Some are harder to touch, entrenched in a culture that has become obsessed with status and image. Others are systemic. All can be changed.
The more we say barriers don’t exist, the deeper they’re entrenched. Think about other people’s realities, why they might not be into riding, what could prevent it. Recognising that there some people are made to feel like cycling isn’t for them is the first step. The second is working out why – and what we can do about it.
