On a ride late last year, I was deep in that zone where you let your mind wander far and wide, to take it off the fact that you’re cycling up an exposed hill in the summer heat. Instead of the soothing sounds of nature, all you can hear are your (presumably) final gasps of air. A few lads came past on their e-bikes and, naturally, I upped my tempo to match theirs – to show them that until their arrival on the scene, I had been ‘taking it easy’ on purpose.

We chatted – well, they chatted while I huffed and puffed a few responses in their general direction – before I veered off onto a trail that I always intended to take and in no way was a last-minute decision to save face while sputtering and spluttering next to the e-bikers. I rationalised my actions internally, telling myself it was too hot to be riding at this time of day, that my bike was the wrong shade of dark blue for summer cycling, and that the emotional distress of paying euro prices for a beer in Cape Town all affected my ability to climb.

“It dawned on me then that cyclists would make excellent politicians.”

It dawned on me then that cyclists would make excellent politicians. After all, we’re experts at lying to ourselves – and others – for personal benefit. We’re master manipulators of our own truth. We’re outstanding obfuscators of the facts. We’re fantastic fibbers. We’re deliriously delusional when it comes to our abilities and limits. We’re our own happy hype-squad.

How many times on a group ride have you heard the ailing member of the peloton offer an excuse like, “Sorry guys, my daughter washed my bike with salt water from her beach bucket, so none of my gears will change.”

Or, “I’m not sure what’s wrong. I feel great, but my power is down. It’s probably the pollen in the air coupled with the moon’s waxing gibbous phase. I’ll be stronger when it’s back to a waning crescent.”

One of the (many) criticisms I receive from my wife is that I never tell her the full story we’re our together on a ride. She’s a planner and I’m a hopeless wing-it type. You can imagine how these philosophies collide in everyday life, but when it comes to cycling, it’s positively catastrophic. It usually boils over on a long ride, when one of us is taking strain (not me) and the other is feeling fine (me). My wife will ask something like, “How much longer is this climb?” and I, having no clue how long the climb is, will respond assertively that, “There’s just one more corner to go.” When that corner has come and gone, and the climb keeps rising, a stony silence descends on proceedings.

Over time, I’ve come to realise that I am far more willing to try and hoodwink myself and my ride partners than face the reality of a never-ending climb. I am happy to fudge the truth for momentary peace. (Yes, all linked to childhood trauma – blah blah, thanks.)

It was too much for my wife, who now seeks new sporting pastures. I have taken to riding with my child. “How much further until we can have a milkshake, dad?”

“Not far now, my girl. Just one more corner to go…”

READ MORE ON: column SPOKESMAN