LIFE ON BIKE
- 景行 毕
- Oct 2
- 2 min read
There’s a universal truth in cycling: the moment you feel most heroic is exactly three seconds before gravity reminds you who’s boss.
Take last Saturday, for example. I was riding through Cardiff, chasing golden-hour light like I was auditioning for a BBC nature documentary. One hand on the bars, the other adjusting my camera strap—what could possibly go wrong? (Answer: everything.)
Cue a pothole roughly the size of a small swimming pool. My bike went thunk, my dignity went bye-bye, and I performed what I like to call the “Lycra belly flop.” A group of dog-walkers applauded. A child asked if I was filming a stunt show.
The good news? I got the shot. The bad news? My elbow now has more gravel embedded in it than your average driveway.
But here’s the thing: cycling gives you these ridiculous stories you’d never get from sitting in a car. Every scrape is a punchline, every detour a new adventure, and every crash—well, at least good blog content.
So if you’re here expecting polished glamour shots, sorry. This is The Story of Bobby: equal parts pedals, pixels, and pratfalls.
Only very committed (or very confused) people meet a cycling club at 4:30 in the morning. At that hour, my brain is still asleep while my legs are somehow doing 90 RPM. The streets are empty except for us, which is probably a good thing because I’m riding more like a half-awake penguin than a sleek athlete. Every red light feels like an invitation to nap. But then, halfway through, the caffeine gels kick in, the sun shows up, and suddenly we look less like zombies and more like… slightly faster zombies. By the time we finish, I’m both exhausted and weirdly proud—because apparently suffering on two wheels before dawn is my idea of fun.
Riding in Cardiff is always a bit of an adventure. One moment I’m cruising along Cardiff Bay, pretending I’m in a glossy cycling magazine ad, and the next I’m dodging seagulls that seem personally offended by my existence. The roads can be tricky—potholes big enough to qualify as swimming pools—but then you turn a corner and boom: castle walls, the river glittering in the sun, or the sea breeze that makes every uphill slightly less miserable. It’s that mix of chaos and beauty that makes cycling here addictive. Cardiff keeps me humble, keeps me pedaling, and most importantly—keeps me stocked with stories (and seagull-related trauma).
Some cyclists spend their rides chasing personal bests—I spend mine chasing my bike parts down the road. In Cardiff, it feels like my chain has a personal vendetta against me, popping off at the worst possible moments. I’ve fixed a flat under a bus stop, reattached a pedal with nothing but sheer optimism, and once tried to tighten a bolt with my house keys (don’t ask how that ended). At this point, I’m less of a cyclist and more of a traveling mechanic with questionable efficiency. But honestly, every breakdown teaches me something: patience, creativity, and the importance of carrying more than one Allen key.
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