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Once a school of life at 30 km/h, the group ride has become a free-wheeling Strava Live: solitary attacks, hysterical shouts for a tiny pebble, and half the peloton dropped at the first false flat. Since Covid, the codes have exploded with the massive arrival of newcomers who ride as if they were alone in the world. Is the collective ride and its social virtues condemned? Or is it enough to bring back a little mentorship and savoir-vivre for the peloton to become a real group again, rather than a bunch of egos on two wheels?
By Guillaume Judas – Photos: depositphotos.com
In the past, group rides were sacred. Not every day. Not for all rides. But it was the nice Sunday morning or Wednesday rendezvous for racers. A good way to meet up with friends and “put in the km” without really noticing the time passing. Of course, there was always that last sprint to the town signs, always the same one, just for fun. But we’d only start it at most five km before. The old-timers would get dropped. The beginners would yo-yo. But everyone would meet up at the fountain once the virtual finish line had delivered its verdict. We weren’t talking about KOMs every five minutes yet, we weren’t checking our phones at every red light to see if we’d beaten so-and-so on the baker’s segment. No, we rode for the pleasure of being together, to learn to hold our line like a pro, to raise a hand when a pedestrian crossed like a zombie, and not to turn every climb into a world champion attack. We weren’t riding to show off that we had the biggest.
The peloton was a micro-society with its rituals, its old-timers, and its newbies. The old veteran would ride at the front, calm as a monk, and dispense his lessons between sips from a lukewarm water bottle: “Don’t stick to the wheel of the guy in front when you’re yawning, kid.” And we listened. Because getting collectively chewed out was a guarantee of never doing it again.
The Covid Fracture
Then came Covid. Deserted roads, closed clubs, indoor trainer apps screaming “ALL OUT!” every thirty seconds. When we were finally allowed to ride outside again, a new species had arrived: the post-apocalyptic cyclist. Aero helmet screwed down to the ears, latest-generation bib shorts, bike computer beeping more often than a metal detector on a Normandy beach, and sometimes even earphones in their ears. They arrive, they see twenty guys spinning their legs easily, and they think: “Cool, a warm-up before my FTP test.”
The result? The group now resembles a stock-car race without rules. One attacks as soon as they see the village sign, another brakes in the middle of the road because they saw a “too cute” squirrel, a third shouts “HOLE!” for a grain of gravel as big as a Smarties. At the back, half the peloton has been lost since the last roundabout and everyone is sprinting as if their mother was being chased by a bear.
The tragedy is that no one says anything anymore. Before, you’d be put back in your place directly, with love but firmness. Today, we look down, we complain on WhatsApp afterwards, and we swear never to ride with “those show-offs” again. Great atmosphere. The old-timers don’t come anymore. Some still ride among themselves, but their heart isn’t in it. The old-school racers still enjoyed riding with the young ones. The future champions. Giving some advice. Congratulating them after a big victory they’d seen in the newspaper, or online. Today, a novice at Longchamp threatens to “punch the nose” of an ex-pro who finished five Tours de France and simply wants to explain to him which way to take his turns. Respect? Why, since now it’s “every man for himself“?
Reviving the Group Ride
So yes, there are more cyclists on the roads, and that’s rather good news. So, for that: thank you, new cyclists. Thank you for integrating our microcosm, for sharing with us your experience from other sports. But no, we’re not going to let the group ride die just because some people are discovering cycling at the same time as their midlife crisis.
The solution is simple, and it costs nothing: resume your role as an older brother or sister. Ride for two minutes next to the guy who’s zig-zagging like a paper airplane. Calmly tell him: “Breathe through your nose, fix your gaze twenty meters ahead, and stop your front wheel from tangoing with mine.” He’ll look at you as if you’ve just revealed the meaning of life to him. And he’ll thank you. Maybe not right away. Maybe in two years, when he, in turn, becomes the grumpy old-timer complaining about the youngsters. Because deep down, that’s what cycling is: an unbroken chain of benevolent scoldings and coffee-creams at the summit.
So next time you go on a group ride, ask yourself the only question that matters: am I riding for my ego to gain three places on Strava… or for the peloton to be stronger on the way back down? The group ride isn’t dead. It’s just in an artificial coma. It’s up to you to pull the plug… or to revive it. Come on, let’s get back in single file. And smile.
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