Davide la Locomotive

I started out with the slow group—no one got left behind.

But when I moved up to the fast rides, the rules changed.
“If you get dropped, we won’t wait.”

Eventually, I was the one making that call.
And on one ride, I had to make it early.

This is what happened.

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At Oxford, I joined a cycle club for the first time. I’d go on their club rides. At first, I rode with the slower group—they didn’t leave anyone behind. It was the middle of winter. About five degrees. We were all wrapped up warm in jackets and tights.

Then a guy showed up in shorts and a short-sleeved top.
We all laughed.

I assumed he knew what he was doing—that he didn’t need proper cold-weather kit.
I was wrong. After an hour or so, he started getting really cold.

At that point, we were twenty miles from Oxford, and it wasn’t funny anymore. Hypothermia is dangerous. You lose feeling in your fingers. You can crash. Some of the ride leaders had to tow him back. He got home safely—but he didn’t come riding with the club again. Maybe he felt bad about what happened.

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As I got stronger, I moved up to the fast group. These rides were advertised with a warning:
“Bring a map. If you get dropped, we won’t wait.”

I always brought a map.
In practice, they weren’t that mean. I got punctures—people waited.

I remember one ride where a new guy showed up. He was struggling early on, and by Henley, he was dangling off the back. On the way home, he blew up on a hill. We gave him some food… and then we left him.

I always felt bad about that.
Even though everyone knew it could happen.

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Eventually, I ended up leading the fast rides.
Then I had to make the call: When do we wait? When do we leave someone?
It’s hard—because if you wait too much, the whole group suffers. People get cold. Rides fall apart.

The fast ride isn’t the Care Bears. It’s brutal in the good way — thrilling, honest, no favours. And brutal in the bad way — if you can’t hang on, you’re on your own.

One ride, we were gathering at the start. A guy I’d never seen before came up to me.
I said, “Hey, how are you?”

He knew I was the ride leader, and immediately started telling me it was okay if he got dropped.
I said, “Alright then.”

I’d been through this enough times to know how this would go. But this time, I didn’t wait for the story to unfold—I made the call early.

We rolled out of Oxford, up Boars Hill. I got on the front and smashed it—dragging the group with me.
We dropped the guy before we even left the city limits.

Afterwards, I felt a bit mean.
But if he couldn’t keep up with us on the ride out, he wasn’t going to survive the full route. And I wasn’t willing to risk dragging someone miles from home and turning it into a rescue mission.

At least this way, he was still close to home. He could go for his own ride, on his own terms.

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When you know something isn’t going to work, it’s better to make the call early.
Waiting for things to fall apart helps no one.

It’s hard—because you want to believe it’ll be okay.
You don’t want to hurt anyone.
But sometimes, trying to keep going just makes it worse—for them, and for you.

I didn’t do it to be mean.
I did it because I could see what was about to happen.
Because I’ve seen what happens when you don’t.

Sometimes, you have to be cruel to be kind.
Sometimes, kindness is choosing not to drag someone to the middle of nowhere.
Even if they’re not ready to admit they can’t make the ride.