He Said He’d Be Back at 11...

There is a very specific kind of freedom that comes with having a cyclist boyfriend.

It usually starts with a sentence like:

“I’m just going for a ride. I’ll probably be back around 11.”

Great! A few hours to myself.

No plans. No questions. No one asking what we should do for lunch.

Just me, my coffee and a completely open morning in peace. And, honestly, I’m not complaining.

8:07 AM

He leaves, the bike goes out and the door closes.

And suddenly the apartment is quiet.

I make coffee and enjoy the rare luxury of not having to discuss whether the weather is “good enough for a ride.”

I have no idea what that means anymore anyway.

Good enough for me?

Good enough for the bike?

Good enough for a 100km ride with enough meters of elevation?

These are apparently very different things.

I sit down and decide I will have a slow morning.

This lasts approximately twelve minutes.

9:15 AM

I start doing things.

A little laundry. A little shopping.

Maybe a second hot beverage somewhere.

Sometimes I make breakfast, get comfortable on the sofa and finally watch my show on Netflix (the one he has repeatedly refused to watch because apparently it is “not his thing“).

His loss.

The nice thing about having a cyclist boyfriend is that his hobby comes with several hours of uninterrupted personal time.

He gets his ride - I get my morning and everybody wins.

10:03 AM

I check the weather.

Not because I’m worried.

Because I know what rain means.

A wet cyclist is one thing.

A wet, cold and frustrated cyclist coming home after his ride is an entirely different situation.

And apparently, a frustrated boyfriend is much worse than a wet cyclist.

But let’s be clear: he’s a seasoned cyclist. He’s a big boy.

He has a cycling computer, the right equipment and, presumably, enough common sense to figure out what to do if the weather turns.

So I check the forecast, but not because I need to know where he is.

I just prefer my afternoon without an unnecessary weather related meltdown or attitude.

He can make his own decisions. (I just hope he makes the right one)

For everyone’s benefit.

10:47 AM

I happen to look at the clock.

He said 11. It’s 10:47.

Of course, it is actually quite nice when he sticks to the time he said he would be back.

An 11 o’clock cyclist who is actually home at 11?

Lovely.

But realistically, I have learned that cyclist time is not quite the same as regular time.

“Back at 11” means:

Maybe around 11, unless the route is going well, the weather is nice, the legs feel good, someone suggests one more climb, or the coffee stop takes slightly longer than expected.

So, essentially, 11 is a rough suggestion.

Not a deadline.

And if his 11 is flexible, mine can be too.

11:45 AM

By now, I’m well into my own morning.

Coffee. Walk. Netflix.

Maybe some shopping.

Maybe a friend.

Maybe absolutely nothing.

Whatever the day happens to bring.

And if I happen to treat myself to another coffee, lunch or something I definitely didn’t need while he’s out…

Well......

I like to think of that as my cycling boyfriend compensation scheme.

He gets to spend four hours riding through the countryside.

I get to spend some of his money.

Seems balanced and only fair, right???

12:00 PM

Still no boyfriend.

But I’m hungry.

And I already know what lunch is going to look like.

After a long ride, apparently the simpler the carb, the better.

Pasta. Bread. Rice. Potatoes?

Whatever can be eaten quickly and in unreasonable quantities.

There is no need for elaborate meals.

No complicated sauces.

No tiny portions.

Just carbs.

As many as possible. As quickly as possible.

And somehow, after eating enough to feed a small family, he is still hungry.

I have learned that “Are you hungry?” is a completely unnecessary question after a long ride.

The answer is always yes.

12:41 PM

The front door finally opens.

The bike comes in first. (Of course)

Then the cyclist.

He looks tired, happy and slightly proud of himself.

I ask how the ride was.

And I get the full report.

The road, the climb, the descent, the wind and he can't miss the most important part...

The part where everything felt amazing.

The part where everything absolutely did not.

I don’t understand every detail.

But I pretend to be interested in it.

1:15 PM

Then comes the part I still don’t understand.

The bike cleaning.

Because apparently riding a bicycle for four hours means it now needs another two hours of personal attention.

Water. Cloths. Special products. Wipes. Wax???

A suspicious amount of inspecting and caressing. Sometimes it even involves a flashlight.

I have seen less preparation go into cleaning actual cars.

Meanwhile, I am thinking: It is a bicycle, chill.

He is almost treating it like a priceless piece of art.

Eventually, the bike is spotless.

The cyclist is still hungry.

And somehow, this is considered a successful afternoon.

2:00 PM

By now, the bike is spotless, the carbs are gone and the morning is officially over.

He settles in.

I carry on with whatever I was doing.

Maybe I finish my Netflix episode.

Maybe I go out again.

There is no particular ceremony to it.

He went cycling.

I had my morning.

The world kept turning.

And, honestly, I think that’s the beauty of it.

He gets his hobby.

I get mine.

His just happens to involve 100 kilometers, several meters of elevation and a bicycle that needs more skincare than most people.

Mine involves considerably less Lycra and sweat.

Both seem to be working.

The Slight Problem

There is, however, one small problem.

The more often he goes cycling, the more normal all of this becomes.

The early starts.

The suspiciously specific weather discussions.

The enormous amount of food.

The bike cleaning ritual.

The fact that “just a ride” can apparently take most of the day.

And somehow, it has become part of the routine.

Not necessarily my favourite part of the weekend.

But certainly a very predictable one.

Maybe That’s the Arrangement

I used to think a cyclist boyfriend meant sacrificing your weekends to someone else’s training schedule.

Turns out, it mostly means learning that “I’ll be back at 11” is an optimistic estimate, and that you can do a lot between 8 and whenever he eventually rolls through the door.

Coffee.

Netflix.

Shopping.

Lunch.

Possibly a small charge to his credit card.

He gets his ride.

I get my morning.

And if he happens to come home at 11?

Lovely.

If not?

Well, apparently I have more Netflix to watch.

Seems fair.