Her alarm goes off at 5:47 a.m.
Not 5:45.
That would be ordinary.
Not 6:00.
That would be dangerously close to becoming a normal person.
5:47.
There is probably a scientific explanation for this. Or perhaps 5:47 was simply the time she selected three years ago and changing it now would feel like admitting defeat.
Outside, the world is dark.
The sensible people are asleep.
The very sensible people will remain asleep for another two hours.
But somewhere in a quiet bedroom, a hand appears from beneath the duvet and searches for a phone making an increasingly offensive noise.
For approximately seven seconds, she considers abandoning cycling forever.
This happens every morning.
Then she gets up.
Because she is The Woman Who Rides Before Work.
And she has a bike waiting.
5:52 A.M. : Negotiations Begin
Getting out of bed is the hardest climb of the morning.
Forget 12% gradients.
Forget headwinds.
Forget the final kilometre when your legs have quietly submitted their resignation.
Nothing compares with leaving a warm bed while the rest of the house is asleep.
She stands in the darkness and begins negotiations with herself.
I could ride after work.
No, you won’t.
I could ride tomorrow.
That’s what you said yesterday.
Rest is important.
Interesting that you’ve suddenly become so concerned with sports science.
It looks cold outside.
You haven’t even opened the curtains.
Eventually, discipline wins by a narrow and deeply unpopular majority.
The cycling kit goes on.
And something changes.
This is one of cycling’s strange psychological tricks.
Nobody wants to get out of bed at 5:47.
But once you’re wearing bib shorts, quitting becomes administratively complicated.
You’ve already committed.
6:03 A.M. : The Kitchen
The kitchen at six in the morning is not a place for conversation.
It’s a place for procedure.
Coffee.
Water.
Something small to eat.
Bottle.
Helmet.
Glasses.
Phone.
Keys.
Computer.
Shoes.
Where are the gloves?
The gloves were definitely here yesterday.
Why is only one glove here?
How does a cycling glove disappear overnight?
There are no answers.
Eventually the missing glove is discovered somewhere completely logical, such as beneath a newspaper in another room.
Now comes the coffee.
Morning cyclists don’t necessarily drink coffee because they need caffeine.
They drink it because holding a warm espresso at 6:04 a.m. gives them approximately ninety seconds to reconsider every life choice that led to this moment.
She looks outside.
Dark.
She checks the weather app.
9°C.
Feels like 7°C.
Wind: 11 km/h.
Chance of rain: 8%.
Eight percent.
Cyclists understand that an 8% chance of rain means one of two things:
It will not rain at all.
Or it will rain specifically on you.
6:12 A.M. : The Door Closes
Click.
And there it is.
The moment everything changes.
The front door closes behind her.
The bike rolls onto the street.
She clips in.
The first few pedal strokes feel terrible.
They always do.
Legs stiff.
Eyes half open.
Brain operating on software last updated around 2009.
The first kilometre is less “athletic performance” and more “human system boot sequence.”
But gradually, the machine starts working.
One turn.
Then another.
The streetlights pass overhead.
The tyres make that quiet sound against the road.
And within ten minutes, she remembers why she came.
The City Before Everyone Else Gets It
There is a version of your city that most people never see.
It exists briefly every morning.
Before traffic.
Before school runs.
Before delivery vans start stopping absolutely everywhere.
Before someone in an SUV decides the bicycle lane is actually a convenient temporary parking facility.
At 6:20, the streets belong to different people.
Bakers.
Cleaners.
Taxi drivers finishing night shifts.
Dog walkers whose dogs appear considerably more enthusiastic about the arrangement than they do.
And cyclists.
The morning riders recognise each other.
Sometimes there’s a nod.
Nothing excessive.
Nobody is looking for friendship at 6:23 a.m.
But the nod says:
Yes. I also made this questionable decision.
Respect.
She Isn’t Training for the Olympics
This is important.
She’s not a professional cyclist.
There isn’t a team car following her.
Nobody is handing her bottles from the side of the road.
Nobody cares about her power numbers except her and occasionally even she doesn’t care very much.
She has a job.
A calendar.
Meetings.
Deadlines.
Emails.
Probably one meeting that could absolutely have been an email.
She rides because cycling fits into a part of her day that belongs entirely to her.
Before work starts asking questions.
Before notifications begin.
Before somebody writes “quick call?” when experience suggests there will be nothing quick about it.
For an hour, nobody needs anything.
There is only the road.
6:31 A.M. : The First Hill
Every morning route has one.
The hill.
Not necessarily a big hill.
Certainly not famous.
Nobody has travelled internationally to ride it.
The Giro d’Italia will not be visiting.
But at 6:31 in the morning, it might as well be Alpe d’Huez.
She changes gear.
The road rises.
Breathing becomes louder.
The peaceful morning suddenly becomes considerably less peaceful.
Halfway up, another cyclist appears ahead.
This changes everything.
She wasn’t racing.
Absolutely not.
This is a relaxed morning ride.
Zone 2.
Easy.
Sensible.
Mature.
But the cyclist ahead is getting closer.
Still not racing.
Definitely not.
She just happens to be travelling slightly faster now.
For health reasons.
Twenty metres.
Fifteen.
Ten.
The other cyclist looks back.
Disaster.
Now they both know.
The Cold War has begun.
The Completely Accidental Race
Nobody says anything.
Nobody needs to.
The speed increases.
Heart rate rises.
Zone 2 quietly leaves the building.
They reach the top almost together.
Both pretend nothing happened.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
Casual.
Relaxed.
Two adults simply enjoying gentle cardiovascular exercise at a completely reasonable intensity.
Her cycling computer disagrees.
New personal record.
She will investigate this later.
Thoroughly.
6:44 A.M. : Sunrise
Then comes the reward.
The sky begins changing.
Dark blue becomes orange.
Orange becomes gold.
Buildings catch the first light.
If the route runs beside the sea, a river or open countryside, the effect is even better.
And for a few minutes, the world looks extraordinary.
No photograph quite captures it.
She tries anyway.
Obviously.
Bike positioned against railing.
Sunrise behind.
Quick photograph.
Another one because the first is slightly crooked.
One portrait.
One landscape.
Perhaps the bicycle needs to move six centimetres to the left.
This is costing valuable riding time.
Eventually she gets the shot.
It will later appear online accompanied by something understated like:
“Morning spin.”
Morning spin.
As though she accidentally found herself 25 kilometres from home before breakfast.
The Weather Problem
People who ride before work become amateur meteorologists.
They know wind direction.
Sunrise time.
Temperature.
Humidity.
Cloud movement.
Probability of precipitation.
They can identify approaching rain from the smell of the air with a confidence normally associated with farmers and sailors.
This is because getting the clothing wrong at 6 a.m. has consequences.
Too little clothing and the first fifteen minutes become an experiment in regret.
Too much and twenty minutes later you’re carrying half your wardrobe stuffed into jersey pockets.
Morning cycling is essentially a daily examination in textile management.
Gilet?
Arm warmers?
Long sleeves?
Base layer?
Gloves?
Overshoes?
The forecast says 12°C but feels like 9°C, rising to 16°C by 8 a.m., with moderate northwesterly wind.
Easy.
You need seventeen separate garments.
Her Cycling Wardrobe Has Become Suspiciously Large
There was a time when she owned “cycling clothes.”
A jersey.
Shorts.
Maybe a jacket.
That was adorable.
Now there are categories.
Summer jerseys.
Cold weather jerseys.
Lightweight jerseys.
Long sleeves.
Base layers.
Thermal layers.
Wind layers.
Rain layers.
Things designed specifically for temperatures between 11°C and 14°C when the wind is coming from approximately Belgium.
Bib shorts have multiplied.
Socks have become strangely important.
And there are enough cycling glasses to suggest she may be operating an optical business from the garage.
Yet every morning she somehow announces:
“I have nothing to wear.”
Cyclists have more in common with fashion people than either group would like to admit.
7:02 A.M. : The Decision
This is the dangerous point.
She should turn left.
Left goes home.
Home means shower.
Breakfast.
Work.
Responsible adulthood.
Right adds another twelve kilometres.
Right includes the good road.
The quiet one.
The one with the sweeping bend and the short descent.
She looks at the time.
Technically…
No.
Absolutely not.
She has a meeting.
Left.
She turns left.
This is growth.
Maturity.
Discipline.
She is extremely proud of herself.
Then she sees another cyclist turn right.
For one horrible moment, she questions everything.
Why Morning Riders Keep Doing It
From the outside, it makes very little sense.
Wake up earlier than necessary.
Put on tight clothing.
Go outside when it’s cold.
Pedal up hills.
Come home tired.
Then begin an entire working day.
Why?
Because the tiredness isn’t the same.
There’s physical tiredness, yes.
But mentally, something has reset.
Problems that seemed enormous yesterday evening feel smaller after forty kilometres.
Ideas appear.
Decisions become clearer.
Sometimes nothing profound happens at all.
Sometimes you simply ride your bicycle.
And that’s enough.
The day hasn’t started happening to you yet.
You started it.
That’s the difference.
7:18 A.M. : Back Home
The front door opens.
She carries the bike inside.
Shoes off.
Helmet down.
Gloves placed somewhere she will definitely remember tomorrow.
She checks the cycling computer.
She shouldn’t.
There isn’t time.
But perhaps just quickly.
Distance.
Speed.
Elevation.
Heart rate.
That hill.
Personal record confirmed.
Interesting.
Completely meaningless, obviously.
She looks at it again.
Very interesting.
Then comes the most aggressive transition in recreational sport.
Cyclist to professional adult in approximately thirty five minutes.
The Shower Time Trial
This deserves Olympic status.
Bike away.
Kit off.
Shower.
Hair.
Clothes.
Breakfast.
Laptop.
Coffee number two.
Where’s the charger?
Why isn’t the laptop charged?
What time is the first meeting?
8:30.
Fine.
It’s 8:17.
Plenty of time.
8:21.
How did four minutes just disappear?
Toast.
8:25.
Coffee.
8:28.
Sit down.
Camera on.
At 8:30 exactly, she appears on screen.
Hair done.
Professional.
Calm.
Nobody on the call needs to know that forty minutes earlier she was descending at 55 km/h while wondering whether she had enough time for the extra loop.
“Good morning, everyone.”
Good morning indeed.
The Secret Advantage
By 9:00 a.m., colleagues are discussing how tired they are.
Someone says they couldn’t get out of bed.
Someone else is on their third coffee.
Another person announces that they really need to start exercising.
She says nothing.
There is no need.
She’s already watched the sunrise from a bicycle.
She’s already climbed the hill.
She’s already won an imaginary race against a stranger who almost certainly didn’t know they were racing.
The day can do its worst.
She’s ahead.
Except Around 3:17 P.M.
There is, however, a price.
At approximately 3:17 in the afternoon, the morning ride sends an invoice.
The energy dips.
The chair becomes extremely comfortable.
An email containing the phrase “circling back” arrives.
She briefly considers moving to a remote mountain village where electronic communication has not yet been invented.
Another coffee?
Dangerous.
Tea?
Pointless.
Snack?
Yes.
Always snack.
Morning cyclists understand that food at 3 p.m. is not greed.
It is recovery nutrition.
Science.
Please don’t ask for the study.
Then Evening Arrives
The workday ends.
Eventually.
The bicycle is there.
Maybe still slightly dirty.
Bottle waiting to be washed.
Kit hanging somewhere.
Cycling computer charging.
She checks tomorrow’s weather.
Of course she does.
10°C at 6 a.m.
Wind 8 km/h.
Clear.
Sunrise 6:39.
Perfect.
She tells herself she’ll go to bed early.
This is one of the great lies of amateur cycling.
At 10:48 p.m., she’s still awake.
At 11:07, she’s looking at tomorrow’s route.
At 11:13, she checks whether changing one section would add four kilometres.
At 11:18, she finally puts the phone down.
The alarm is already set.
5:47.
Why She Really Rides
Ask her why she does it and you’ll probably get a practical answer.
Fitness.
Fresh air.
Training.
Mental clarity.
Because mornings are the only time available.
All true.
But perhaps there’s something else.
Adult life becomes remarkably scheduled.
Wake up.
Work.
Appointments.
Shopping.
Responsibilities.
Messages.
Bills.
Repeat.
Cycling creates a small escape inside that structure.
For an hour before the working world wakes up, she isn’t an employee, manager, colleague, client, parent, partner or person responsible for replying to seventeen unread messages.
She’s simply a cyclist.
There is a road ahead.
A bicycle underneath her.
And enough time for one more hill before she has to go home.
That hour belongs to her.
Maybe that’s why the alarm keeps ringing.
Tomorrow Morning
At 5:47 a.m., the alarm will go off again.
She will hate it.
This is guaranteed.
She’ll negotiate.
She’ll consider sleeping.
She’ll remember that recovery is important.
She may even produce an extremely convincing internal argument explaining why skipping one morning would actually improve her long term athletic performance.
Then she’ll see the cycling kit waiting.
Five minutes later, the coffee machine will start.
Ten minutes after that, she’ll be clipping into the pedals.
The streets will still be quiet.
The city will still be half asleep.
The first kilometre will still feel terrible.
And somewhere around kilometre five, she’ll start smiling.
Because this is her time.
Before the traffic.
Before the meetings.
Before the inbox.
Before work.
She rides.
