The battle with age

Ah, the bittersweet ballet of a middle-aged Scotsman on a road bike, a wheeled war cry against ageing, gravity, and midlife spread. There he goes, Lycra clinging to him like clingfilm wrap on leftover haggis, wheezing up a Highland hill that felt a lot smaller when he was 25 and full of Irn-Bru and bravado. He loves the freedom, aye, the wind in his thinning hair, the rush of flying doon a glen like a budget Braveheart. But by God, his knees sound like a ceilidh band every time he pedals. And let’s not even mention the saddle. It’s less “ergonomic design” and more “instrument of medieval torture.” He tells himself it’s all for fitness, but truth is, he just wants to eat like he’s still in his twenties without needing a defibrillator after a bacon roll. Strava is his battlefield now, measuring glory in sweaty KOMs and passive-aggressive comments from Dave fae the club ride. But he can’t give it up, because for every soul-crushing climb, there’s the descent. Fast, furious, and just dangerous enough to remind him he’s still alive. Barely. Road cycling. It’s freedom, it’s fitness, it’s hell on wheels. But it’s his hell.