I recently had a conversation with a female friend about the intimidation she felt walking into her local bike shop. 

No shade to the shop – it wasn’t about them. It was about how she felt. When I asked her why, she said it was a combination of a few things. And it got me thinking…

I was once like her. 

There was a time when I’d only ever send my bike in with my then-partner, be it for repair work or even just for her (my bike is a girl, obviously) ‘spa day’ – a wash and lube. The thought of walking into the shop as a woman genuinely scared the shit out of me. I would get my partner to fight my battles whenever things got a bit sticky, and to handle all the ‘work’ that needed to get signed off.

Maybe it was not knowing the tips and tricks. Not knowing the lingo. Not feeling like a ‘cool’ cyclist. Or not having exactly the best bike.

Once – just once – I went to drop my bike off on my own. And I remember walking out afterwards and feeling like a complete tonsil. The irony! Because nothing happened. I walked in, explained what I needed, they took my details, I handed my bike over, and I left.

So why did I feel so intimidated?

I guess it comes down to walking into a space that doesn’t feel like it was built for you. The assumptions. Not looking the part. The fear of asking a ‘stupid’ question, or just being ignored, which only confirms all your existing insecurities. And cycling has its own language; if you’re not fluent in that language, it can feel like you don’t belong, before you’ve even opened your mouth.

But somewhere along the line, something shifted.

I don’t remember the exact moment, but now my LBS hates to see me coming – in the best way possible. I’ve become very comfortable in that space. I’ve claimed it as my own.

I’ve swapped the mechanics’ toolboxes around, re-labelled the spares cupboards, and taped tools to the wall. I sit behind the workshop manager’s desk and send emails to the boss. I’ve wrapped an entire box of elastic bands around the computer mouse, removed the batteries and hidden them, answered the workshop phone, stapled all the job cards together… The more I get told to stop, the more it encourages me.

And somehow, I haven’t been kicked out yet.

I was in there a while ago and the place was buzzing, but there wasn’t another woman in sight. I strolled in, full of confidence, and said quite loudly, “Woah, this place is busy!”

A male customer looked at me and said, “Would you like someone to hold your hand?”

A male customer looked at me and said, “Would you like someone to hold your hand?”

Now, if you know me, you know I have zero filter even on a good day; and my face usually says it all before I even open my mouth. But I just looked at him, and said, “Do you know who I am?” Then I walked straight into the workshop and received warm greetings from all my mechanic mates.

Here’s the thing: most of that intimidation is internal. Built up over time, and shaped by the stories we tell ourselves.

Walk in. Own it. Walk out. 

Because nothing will happen. No one will laugh. No one will tell you that you don’t belong. I love how the cycling space is changing. I love seeing more women on bikes, riding with way more confidence. Pushing through discomfort, being met where they are. The space is changing, finally. 

* Lauren van Wyk is an outdoor enthusiast who doesn’t like to take ‘no’ for an answer. If you see her behind the workshop desk, spare a thought for those mechanics.

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