Use youthful bravado to persuade your dad that you are:
> Fit enough to join him in the Saturday morning fast road group, as your first club ride;
> Knowledgeable enough about bike fit to set up one of his spare bikes for your own position;
> Aware of the need to carry your own bonk food.
Before said ride, be stupid enough to believe your dad when he says:
> “We’ll not be going far”;
> “I’ll wait for you if I see you’re getting dropped”;
During the ride:
> Eat all your bonk food within the first fifteen miles, in the hope that it might enable you to speed along the unfamiliar roads and catch the group disappearing into the distance, at the head of which is your dad, doing a big turn;
> Eventually find your way to the cafe stop after riding on your own for well over an hour, stars in front of your eyes, and loudly berate your dad, who then points out you don’t have any money to buy anything to eat and offers a banana, knowing you don’t like them.
> Go out without ten pence in your jersey pocket so you can phone your mam to come and pick you up from the roadside.
On the other hand, I learned a lot about myself – and my dad – on that day. Cycling can be very hard. Don’t get ideas above your station. Be self-sufficient. Set up your bike properly*. You can ride further than you think you can. Cafe tantrums make you look daft. Bananas are our friends. Dads can be absolute ballbags, but most of the time it’s in your best interests.
I fondly remember he and I fell asleep on the sofa together upon our return from that ride, me from absolute fatigue and him from decking a can of Special Brew out the fridge as his recovery drink.
* – Not sure what pipe I was putting pressure on during that ride, but it felt like I was pissing molten lava for several days afterwards. Proper recoil-in-pain stuff. That’s probably my most abiding memory of the whole episode.
