There are few things more humbling than enthusiastically greeting another cyclist, only to be ignored – like you’re a dog asking for his ball to be thrown for the 478th time.

Those who know me will know I am an enthusiastic greeter. Whether I’m running or cycling, I’m always looking for people to say hello to. These days, however, it seems that an unspoken language has developed regarding greeting etiquette in cycling.

Not so long ago, on one of my early commutes to meet my cycling crew, it was just me on the road; and a few 5am gym-goers in their cars, on their way to the place where standing near the weights counts as a workout while earning that ‘free’ smoothie… Anyway, as I continued to ride along, occasionally checking behind me (because, you know, woman on her own in the dark…), I noticed bike lights approaching.

In the back of my mind, I knew those lights belonged to that infamous blue-and-red collective established in 2011 (no names mentioned), where slammed stems are non-negotiable and greetings are optional (read: non-existent).

As they continued to catch up with me – because, let’s be honest, they wake up swinging some ammo – I kept my pace consistent. One by one, each of them rode past me. Yes, they overtook me, and I’m fine with that; but how about returning the gentle, sleep-deprived 4:20am-wake-up croak of “Morning” you’ve just got from a fellow cyclist?

“Not a single one of them returned my greeting, and it’s not as if they didn’t see me.”

Not one. Not a single one of them returned my greeting, and it’s not as if they didn’t see me. Since when did saying hello become non-aero? Hey, I also paid too much for a bicycle, and I also willingly woke up way before sunrise!

Every cyclist knows the rules. Or at least, we pretend to. The subtle head-nod. The casual lifting of your hand off the bars. Or the enthusiastic wave. The shout from the other side of the road… There is an etiquette surrounding greeting in cycling. It may be unwritten and inconsistent, but it’s there – and the silence that greeted me that morning means it was ignored.

Over the years, I’ve noticed that different categories of cyclist tend to greet differently, too. The commuter, with his backpack that makes him look like a ninja turtle – he will always greet you. The new grandfather, in his US Postal kit from 1998 – elite-level greeter. Mountain bikers? They’re usually pretty good, albeit sometimes a bit smug. Triathletes – let’s not forget about the cousins in this particular family tree – well, they’re too busy looking for their socks to lift a hand and create unnecessary drag. Still, you’ll get a nod from them.

But the bros on their colour-coordinated machines with ceramic bearings, riding two abreast and talking at the top of their lungs about asset portfolios and bonus season? Hard no. To them, you do not exist.

At the end of the day, we’re all adults dressed in lycra, looking like low-budget superheroes, up and about at an hour when normal people are still negotiating with their alarms. The least we can do is acknowledge each other. Even if your stem is slammed and your ego is inflated higher than your FTP.

Just… be lekker. It’s not that complicated.

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