September has arrived in Greece.
Technically, this means summer is ending.
Somewhere in Europe, cyclists are beginning serious conversations about arm warmers. Lightweight jackets are being removed from drawers. People are using phrases like “a bit chilly this morning.”
In Greece, you open the weather app.
32°C.
You close it.
You open it again, because perhaps the first 32°C was some kind of administrative error.
Still 32°C.
Excellent.
Unfortunately, today’s schedule has produced exactly one available window for cycling.
Not early this morning, when the roads were quiet and the temperature almost civilized.
Not this evening, when the sun will finally begin apologizing for its behaviour.
Now.
You have approximately one hour.
And because you’re a cyclist, the question isn’t really whether you’re going.
The question is how long you’re going to stand in the kitchen pretending you’re considering not going.
15:02 — The Negotiation Begins
There are perfectly reasonable arguments for staying home.
It’s hot.
You have work to do.
You could ride tomorrow.
Rest is part of training.
Recovery is important.
You’ve read articles about this.
Professional athletes have recovery days.
Perhaps today is the day you finally start behaving like a professional athlete.
This is an extremely convincing argument for approximately eleven seconds.
Then you look at the bike.
The bike looks back.
There is something deeply judgmental about a road bike sitting quietly against a wall.
It doesn’t say anything.
It doesn’t need to.
You check tomorrow’s schedule.
Worse.
Fine.
You’re going.
But you’re going easy.
This is important.
Just an easy one hour spin.
No efforts.
No chasing.
No unnecessary suffering.
A mature, sensible ride appropriate for the conditions.
You have made this promise before.
15:07 — Selecting Clothing for the Surface of the Sun
Choosing cycling clothing at 32°C is less about fashion and more about determining which items appear least capable of storing heat.
You open the wardrobe.
There are several jerseys.
Actually, there are considerably more than several jerseys.
This isn’t the time to examine the financial decisions that led here.
You reach for the lightest one.
Then pause.
Maybe the other one is lighter.
You hold both.
Impossible to tell.
One looks cooler.
This is apparently sufficient scientific evidence.
Bib shorts.
Lightweight socks.
Sunglasses.
Helmet.
You briefly consider whether the helmet is strictly necessary before remembering that, yes, your skull remains important even during hot weather.
Then sunscreen.
Plenty of sunscreen.
Cold water.
One bottle isn’t enough.
Two bottles.
Ice cubes.
You look at them with satisfaction.
Those ice cubes have absolutely no idea what is about to happen to them.
15:14 — The Final Opportunity to Abandon the Mission
Shoes on.
Helmet on.
Bike out.
You open the door.
The heat hits you.
Not violently.
That would almost be more respectable.
It simply surrounds you.
Instantly.
Completely.
Like opening an oven to check whether the potatoes are ready, except you are the potatoes.
There is still time to turn around.
Nobody knows you’re going riding.
There are no witnesses.
Strava hasn’t started yet.
This entire thing could disappear from history.
Then you clip in.
Decision made.
15:18 — Actually, This Isn’t So Bad
The first few minutes are surprisingly pleasant.
The bike starts moving.
Air moves across your skin.
Your legs feel good.
The road is relatively quiet.
You begin wondering whether people exaggerate about riding in the heat.
32°C?
Fine.
Absolutely manageable.
Maybe you’re simply better adapted to hot weather than most people.
Perhaps years of riding in Greece have produced some sort of Mediterranean physiological advantage.
This thought survives until the first red traffic light.
You stop.
The airflow disappears.
Immediately, every molecule of heat in Attica appears to locate your exact coordinates.
You stare at the traffic light.
Red.
Still red.
Surely this is unusually long.
A bus pulls up beside you and contributes additional warmth to a situation that did not require assistance.
Green.
Finally.
You accelerate away as though escaping a crime scene.
15:26 — The Plan Was to Ride Easy
Remember the plan?
Easy ride.
Very sensible.
Heart rate controlled.
No pointless efforts.
You settle into a comfortable rhythm.
Then the road rises slightly.
Nothing serious.
You’ve ridden this section dozens of times.
Normally you barely notice it.
Today your legs send a formal written complaint.
The Garmin offers numbers.
You disagree with them.
Surely you’re producing more power than that.
You push slightly harder.
The Garmin remains unimpressed.
This feels personally insulting.
But heat has a way of changing the mathematics of cycling. An effort that feels routine on a cool morning can feel remarkably different when the temperature climbs.
So you do the intelligent thing.
You back off.
For approximately three minutes.
15:32 — Another Cyclist Appears
Ahead.
Maybe 150 metres.
White jersey.
Black bib shorts.
Good bike.
You continue riding normally.
This person has absolutely nothing to do with you.
You don’t know them.
They don’t know you.
You are both adults independently enjoying the same public road.
Besides, today’s ride is easy.
You already established this.
The gap becomes perhaps 120 metres.
Interesting.
You’re not chasing.
Obviously.
Your cadence simply feels more natural at this speed.
100 metres.
Still not chasing.
You’re probably just slightly fitter.
80 metres.
You take a drink.
Very relaxed.
This isn’t remotely competitive.
60 metres.
Perhaps they’re doing a recovery ride.
It would therefore be completely meaningless to catch them.
40 metres.
You catch them.
You say:
“Hi.”
But not in a breathless way.
This is crucial.
You must deliver the word “Hi” with exactly the amount of casualness required to suggest that your heart rate isn’t currently sending emergency correspondence to several government departments.
You continue past.
Now you have a new problem.
You cannot slow down.
15:39 — Congratulations, You Have Created a Race Nobody Entered
You glance down.
This is no longer recovery pace.
Not even close.
You tell yourself you’ll ease off after the next corner.
Then after the next junction.
Then at the top of the small rise.
You absolutely do not look behind you.
Looking behind would imply that you’re racing.
You’re not racing.
You merely become unusually interested in whether there is traffic behind you.
There isn’t.
Good.
Wait.
Why is that good?
Stop it.
This is ridiculous.
It’s 32°C.
You’re a grown adult.
You slow down.
Finally.
Maturity has prevailed.
Then the cyclist passes you again.
Oh.
Well.
Apparently maturity has been cancelled.
15:44 — The Cold Water Has Left the Building
You reach for your bottle.
Twenty five minutes ago, this bottle contained cold water and several optimistic ice cubes.
The ice cubes are gone.
Not diminished.
Gone.
The water is now at a temperature normally associated with children’s baths.
You drink anyway.
The second bottle will be colder.
It isn’t.
Somehow it might actually be warmer.
You begin mentally designing a water bottle using technology borrowed from NASA.
There must be a solution.
Carbon fibre bicycle costing thousands?
Perfectly normal.
Insulated bottle capable of keeping water cold for 60 minutes?
Apparently humanity hasn’t prioritized correctly.
You take another drink.
Warm water has never tasted so necessary.
15:49 — Shade Becomes a Currency
During winter, you barely notice where the shadows fall.
At 32°C, you become an expert in solar geometry.
Tree.
Excellent.
Building.
Excellent.
Bus shelter.
Potentially useful.
You begin choosing your line based not on road quality but on available shade.
Three metres of shadow?
Take it.
Tiny patch underneath a tree?
Absolutely.
You would happily deviate from your route for six seconds of darkness.
A long shaded section appears ahead.
It’s magnificent.
For approximately thirty seconds, life becomes reasonable again.
Then you emerge into direct sunlight.
The difference feels approximately equivalent to being slapped with a frying pan.
September, apparently.
Autumn.
Of course.
15:55 — The Great Route Negotiation
You’ve been riding for roughly forty minutes.
This presents a decision.
Turn left and head home.
Sensible.
Or continue straight and add the little loop.
The little loop is perhaps fifteen minutes.
Twenty maximum.
You have somewhere to be.
You know this.
The entire premise of today’s ride was that you had exactly one hour.
Therefore, logically, you should turn left.
You continue straight.
Nobody knows why cyclists do this.
The extra loop isn’t even particularly interesting.
You’ve ridden it hundreds of times.
But returning home with 26 kilometres when 31 kilometres is available feels somehow unacceptable.
There are no medals for this.
No prize money.
Nobody is waiting at home to announce:
“Congratulations! Thirty one kilometres!”
Yet here you are.
Doing the loop.
16:03 — September in Greece
And then, briefly, you remember why.
The road opens.
The traffic disappears.
The light has that hard, brilliant Mediterranean quality that makes everything look sharper.
Blue sky.
Dry landscape.
Olive trees.
Mountains in the distance.
The air smells like late summer because, despite what the calendar claims, that’s exactly what this is.
Your legs settle.
The heat hasn’t disappeared.
Neither has the sweat.
But for a few kilometres, none of it matters.
This is the part that’s difficult to explain to someone who doesn’t ride.
From the outside, you’re a person voluntarily exercising in uncomfortable heat.
From the bike, you’re somewhere else entirely.
You’re moving.
The day has stopped demanding things from you.
No emails.
No meetings.
No notifications.
No small obligations multiplying in the background.
Just the road.
The bike.
Your breathing.
And the increasingly urgent realization that you definitely should have turned left ten minutes ago.
16:08 — You Now Have 12 Minutes to Get Home
The relaxed philosophical portion of today’s programme has concluded.
You check the time.
Interesting.
You check it again.
Still interesting.
You perform rapid mental arithmetic.
Distance home.
Average speed required.
Traffic lights.
Shower.
Change.
Whatever comes next.
This is achievable.
Probably.
The ride that began with a solemn promise to remain easy now enters its final phase:
The Unscheduled Time Trial.
Suddenly you have excellent legs.
Where were these legs 30 minutes ago?
Apparently they were waiting for an administrative emergency.
You increase the pace.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Then slightly more than enough.
Then considerably more than enough.
16:14 — Every Traffic Light Is Now a Personal Attack
Red.
Of course.
You stop.
Sweat immediately begins falling from places you weren’t aware could produce sweat.
You stare at the light.
Come on.
A pedestrian crosses.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
You respect pedestrians.
You genuinely do.
But this particular pedestrian appears to be conducting a detailed inspection of every individual stripe on the crossing.
Green.
Go.
Next junction.
Red.
Naturally.
The universe has become involved.
16:19 — Home
You arrive.
One hour and one minute.
Close enough.
Bike against the wall.
Helmet off.
Shoes off.
You stand under the air conditioning.
There are moments in life when humanity’s technological achievements become particularly clear.
This is one of them.
You drink cold water.
Actual cold water.
Magnificent.
You look at the two bottles on the bike with disappointment.
They have nothing further to contribute.
Then comes the shower.
Possibly the greatest shower ever experienced by any human being.
You emerge feeling approximately 74% human again.
16:31 — “Actually, That Was a Pretty Good Ride”
This is the strange part.
Twenty minutes earlier, you were questioning every decision that led you onto a bicycle in 32°C heat.
Now?
That was great.
Really great.
You feel better.
The workday has been interrupted.
Your head has cleared.
You got outside.
You rode.
You even had that beautiful section where everything briefly made sense.
And you definitely weren’t racing that other cyclist.
You check the ride.
There’s a PR.
Interesting.
You weren’t trying.
Obviously.
The September Cyclist’s Reality
There is a serious point buried underneath all this.
Hot weather cycling isn’t the time to stubbornly pretend conditions don’t matter.
When it’s genuinely hot, the sensible choices still count: avoid the hottest hours when your schedule allows it, reduce intensity when necessary, carry enough fluid, protect yourself from the sun and choose lightweight, breathable cycling clothing that helps you manage the conditions.
And if the heat becomes excessive or you’re not feeling right, shortening or skipping a ride is considerably smarter than proving something to your Garmin.
But real life doesn’t always provide the perfect training window.
Sometimes the cool 7 a.m. ride isn’t available.
Neither is the beautiful sunset ride.
Sometimes you’ve got work, family, appointments and everything else that exists outside cycling.
And then, suddenly, you discover a hole in the schedule.
One hour.
Right now.
Unfortunately, Greece has decided that September is merely August wearing a different name.
So you adapt.
Two bottles.
Light kit.
Sunscreen.
Sensible route.
Reduced expectations.
And perhaps, just perhaps, don’t start an imaginary race with a stranger halfway through.
Although we both know how that’s going to go.
Because Sometimes One Hour Is Enough
Cyclists spend a lot of time dreaming about the perfect ride.
Perfect temperature.
Perfect route.
Fresh legs.
Empty roads.
No wind.
Three free hours.
Coffee stop.
Nothing waiting at home.
Those rides are wonderful.
They’re also not most rides.
Most rides have to fit around life.
They’re squeezed between meetings.
Taken before work.
Started later than planned.
Cut shorter than we’d like.
Done when it’s hotter, colder or windier than we’d choose.
Sometimes you have three hours.
Sometimes you have sixty minutes and a weather app displaying a number you’d rather not see.
But the strange thing is that the imperfect rides often become the memorable ones.
Because you nearly didn’t go.
And then you did.
An hour later, you’re back.
Hot.
Tired.
Slightly late.
Ridiculously pleased with yourself.
And already looking at tomorrow’s weather.
31°C.
Excellent.
Practically autumn.
