It’s been a few days, and I’ve had time to reflect on my dilemma. I’ve made a decision.
Here are the facts: I am a woman. I am a wife, a daughter, and a sister. I am a doctor. And I am an ultra cyclist. I’ve been all of these things, all at once, for years, and it’s never made me feel uncomfortable.
But this challenge exposed a part of me I’ve always kept hidden.
Sure, a few close coworkers know I cycle a lot, and everyone sees me show up in my kit, but most have no idea what I actually do. The training, the distances, the hours, it’s always been something personal, something I didn’t really share. My bike has always been my safe space. Until now. This challenge made my riding visible. Quantified. Exposed.
And that’s new for me. I shun social platforms like Strava. I don’t track my stats, don’t log my efforts. I only know how long it roughly takes me to get from A to B. Saddle time is the only metric I (try to) care about. Suddenly, I wasn’t just aware of how far I ride, but also of how far that sets me apart. And the contrast is sharp. I started to worry people would think I was faking it or trying to game the system.
Then came the reactions, the casual diagnoses from people who didn’t understand. Some said I had an addiction. Others called it compulsive behaviour. As if riding long distances must be rooted in some kind of pathology.
But here’s the thing: I’ve had weeks, months, where I didn’t touch my bike at all. No guilt. No cravings. No withdrawal. I don’t follow a training plan. I don’t count kilometers. Before this challenge, I couldn’t even tell you how much I actually cycled in a week, or a year. So how exactly is this a compulsion?
Others called it a “craving,” probably meaning endorphins. But I don’t feel that chemical lift until I’ve been riding for roughly 200 kilometers, and that doesn’t happen regularly. So no, I’m not chasing a high.
Putting those labels on me isn’t just inaccurate, it’s offensive. And it’s hurtful.
I ride because I enjoy it. I like spending time with my husband. I like being outdoors, exploring new places. It clears my head. It gives me confidence. I do things I didn’t think I could. It gives me joy. That should be reason enough.
But we live in a society where everything needs a justification. You’re not trying to lose weight? You’re not trying to get healthier? You’re not tracking numbers? Then why are you doing this? Joy is the reason. And that should be enough. We’ve forgotten how to do things just because they bring us joy. Joy is just as valid a justification as weight loss, performance, or progress. It doesn’t need to be repackaged as something else to matter.
So when someone opts out of the usual goals and metrics, people get uncomfortable. They try to make it make sense by assigning blame or finding something wrong. If I’m not chasing numbers or proving something, then I must be addicted. If I enjoy it that much, it must be compulsive. Maybe I’m chasing approval.
Let’s be honest: I studied medicine for six years. Does that mean I had an addiction to learning? I did seven years of residency, endless night shifts, exhaustion, stress. Does that make me an endorphin junkie? Does Usain Bolt have a neurosis? Or Đoković? Maybe Tadej Pogačar is just addicted to performance chemicals? Seeking approval? Do you see how ridiculous and hurtful this is?
I don’t even train 10% of what those athletes do. And no one questions them. In fact, they’re celebrated. It’s seen as discipline, drive, excellence. But the moment you commit to something that doesn’t fit the usual narrative, especially something you do just because you love it, people feel the need to pathologize it.
A small part of me wonders if it would’ve been perceived differently if I were male. Men are often celebrated for intensity, obsession, and pushing limits, especially in endurance sports. When a man spends countless hours on a bike, he’s seen as dedicated, disciplined, driven. He’s focused. Purposeful. Men are allowed to be “obsessed” or “intense” without raising eyebrows. In fact, those traits are often framed as masculine virtues. I honestly don’t want to turn this into a gender issue (which I hate more than gravel 😉), but it is striking that my husband, who cycles even more than I do, has only ever been called things like sportive and disciplined. Maybe I don’t fit the typical societal expectations of my gender. But to be honest that’s not my problem either, and I’m not going to make it my problem.
For me, it started as a way to get in shape and avoid public transport during COVID. I discovered I liked it. I had a knack for it. So I did more of it. End of story. And after a few too many of those stinging, misguided judgments, I decided it was easier to just keep it quiet. Not because I was ashamed, but because I was tired of being misunderstood.
It’s time to stop hiding. It’s time to just be visible.
Nothing’s changed. I’m still the same person. A woman. A wife, a daughter, and a sister. A doctor. An ultra cyclist. The only difference is that now, people can see it. So I decided to heed Velominati Rule #5: harden the f*ck up.
Everyone and their grandmother has an opinion about everything and everyone. If someone wants to believe I’m a junkie or have a neurosis, that’s on them. Have fun with it. Knock yourself out. I know the truth. That’s all that matters. And if it bothers them, they can look the other way.
With that clarity, I did what I actually wanted to do: I planned a ride. Because according to Velominati Rule #9, I am a badass. And badasses do whatever the f*ck they want.