The Roads We Ride

There’s a strange thing about cycling: the more miles you ride, the more invisible the road can become. At first it’s everything, you notice the surface, you curse the potholes, you praise the smooth sections. But then, as fitness grows and rides get longer, the road almost disappears. It becomes a backdrop, a stage where numbers and watts are measured out. It’s only when you slow down, or maybe when you’ve ridden long enough, that you start to see it differently.

I realised this recently while scrolling through old photos. Most of them were, as you’d expect, of climbs, summits, or sweeping mountain views. But tucked between them were a few frames that stopped me: close-ups of the tarmac itself, the light running across it, the way a bend in the road seemed to shape the entire image. That’s when it hit me. The road wasn’t just the thing that got us to the destination, it was part of the destination.

Think about it. Every road tells its own story. Some roll out wide and inviting, smooth as glass, tempting you to push harder, faster, to see what’s around the next bend. Others are stubborn, broken, patched over countless times, demanding patience. Then there are roads that cling to mountainsides, daringly narrow, as if they weren’t built for cars at all but for us, for riders chasing silence.

The road changes with time too. The same stretch of asphalt feels different in the blue light of morning than it does in the fading gold of evening. In winter, it’s cold, quiet, holding a sharp edge beneath the tyres. In summer, it radiates heat, almost humming, carrying the rhythm of cicadas in the background. It’s alive, in its own way.

And it’s not just the surface beneath the wheels. It’s the cracks, the paint lines, the subtle crown that sheds rain to either side. It’s the smell of freshly laid asphalt when you roll through a resurfaced section, or the faint vibration of cobbles that sneak up in old towns. These are details we usually pass over without thought, but they’re part of the memory of a ride. Ask any rider about their favourite loop, and they won’t only talk about climbs or cafés. They’ll mention the fast descent with the perfect surface or the gravelly back road that keeps you honest. The road itself gets remembered.

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For me, that memory is often tied to feeling. There’s the joy of roads that flow like water, where you barely need to touch the brakes. The frustration of false flats that look easy but burn the legs with every pedal stroke. The calm of long, straight stretches where all you hear is the hum of tyres and the sound of your own breath. Different roads draw different versions of you out of hiding.

And maybe that’s why, after years of riding, I find myself looking at roads the way photographers look at light. They’re not neutral. They shape the ride, they shape the story. A perfect mountain view wouldn’t feel the same without the ribbon of tarmac threading through it. The bends carry anticipation, the switchbacks test resolve, the surface tells you whether you’re in for a smooth dance or a stubborn fight.

I think we sometimes get lost in numbers, average speed, watts, distance, elevation. All of those matter, but none of them explain why a certain ride stays with you. Numbers can’t capture the way sunlight slants across a hairpin, or how a road curves so perfectly that it feels like it was drawn for you alone. That’s something you only feel when you’re out there, wheels humming, eyes half on the horizon and half on the ground beneath you.

So yes, the climbs are epic, the summits rewarding, the descents unforgettable. But the unsung hero of every ride is the road itself. The cracks and bends, the light and shadow, the silence and sound, they carry memory. And the more I notice, the more I believe that the road isn’t just part of the ride. It is the ride.