If one more man comments on my cycling shoes, I might just push a stiletto into his derailleur and kick a heel into his crankset.
I wouldn’t, of course – I’m neither stupid nor dangerous. But sweet mother of downtubes it’s tempting sometimes.
The gusset-twisting problem of what women should wear while cycling has wheeled on ever since the 19th Century panic over 'Bike Face.' But while that Victorian hysteria all centred around bulging eyes, increased freedom and a 'tightened mandible,' today’s unease seems to centre around bulging crotches and a tightened focus on our labia minora. Yes, I’m talking about the Colombian women’s cycling team.
The Colombian women’s cycling team uniform stirred controversy for looking a bit like a pubic area and was even decried by Brian Cookson, the president of the International Cycling Union as 'unacceptable by any standard of decency'. But it should go down in history alongside Germaine Greer’s naked somersaults [link NSFW], Alanis Morrisette’s shiny nude suit at the Junos (the Canadian version of the Grammys) and Demi Moore’s pre-Bruce bush [link NSFW]. It is a thing of peach-hued glory and an inspiration to us all. Because, let me tell you, as a woman who regularly dons a pair of padded cycling shorts to cycle 40 miles off into the horizon, the best way to confront the fact that you are basically wearing a sweat-stained bodystocking with stitched-in XL night-time sanitary towel is head on. Or arse first.
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Of course, the male impulse to comment on what women wear in the saddle isn’t just restricted to Cookson or the Colombians. On an almost daily basis men slide up to me in the cycle lane, at traffic lights, crossing the Thames or while racing a minicab, to give some unsolicited criticism of my clothes, my posture, my bike and my shoes. Just last week a man spent a good minute telling me how I should hold my own handlebars. I was so furious I had to spend the next five miles overtaking every single cyclist in my path until I was pedalling at a speed not unknown to NASA.
'Yes, men are always asking me how I bike in my heels and skirts, always trying to show me how to fix my bike properly and always wanting to feel good about themselves for coming to the aid of a helpless woman, without ever asking if the aid was wanted or needed,' says professional bicycle courier Katie Styer. 'It's like a perverse, absurd commitment to chivalry that has long, overstayed its societal welcome.' As a courier and the co-owner of a cooperative courier collective, Katie has cycled over 200km a week for the past four years. I’m not even a courier and I easily cycle 100km a week just commuting to and from work. I probably cycle at least 60km of that in heels. That isn’t an invitation to male attention; it’s because I can’t fit them in my rucksack.
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Of course, I’m not greasing everyone who owns a Y chromosome with the same lube here. As Katie puts it: 'Not all men are sexist cat-calling jerks. I get a lot of support from my fellow male messengers; they of all people treat me with the most respect on the road.' The person who fixes my bike is a man, the person who taught me how to change a tyre was a man, all my cross-country rides have been done alongside men and some of my best night-time wind-whipped races through the empty city streets have been with men. But, nevertheless, most times I find myself getting cut up by a taxi, boxed-in by an all-the-gear-and-no-idea cyclist, every time I have to swerve into the gutter to make room for some bore beside my pedals who is honking on about my shoes, shorts or legs, the person to blame is a man.
So, what are we to do? The most obvious answer is to just keep on cycling. According to the National Cycling Charity, 43% of the UK population have access to a bike and the number of miles cycled across the country is up 20% over the last 15 years to 5.1 billion kilometres. If we all just stick to our guns (and our handlebars) then the confidence, camaraderie and capability of female cyclists can only increase. Meaning the bullshit comments, high-speed transient mansplaining and deeply depressing sexist nature of those Tour de France podium photos – three men, in lycra, raising their fists in triumph, flanked by two decorative women dressed as if on their way to a wedding, nightclub or 1950s tupperware party – will change.
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'I've since developed a way to deter unwanted attention,' says Katie. 'I wear the meanest, most derisive, most condescending look on my face when I cycle to work. People usually don't mess with me when my eyebrows are arched and my gaze is steeled.' This, I suppose is the bike face. And I’ve been known to adopt it too. But we should also remember that cycling by its very nature is a liberating, celebratory, act. Adrenaline is not testosterone and we women don’t need to be jumped up on erythropoietin, cortisone and human growth hormone to feel our hearts pound and legs pump with a sense of freedom and achievement.
'Let me tell you what I think of bicycling,' wrote the American social reformer and women’s suffrage campaigner Susan B Anthony way back in 1896. 'I think it has done more to emancipate women than anything else in the world. I stand and rejoice every time I see a woman ride by on a wheel.'
In Egypt last year, the so-called Girls Revolution ran a brilliant campaign called We Will Ride Bicycles, which encouraged women to confront social taboos, sexual harassment and political oppression feet first and knees pumping, simply by riding their bikes. In Europe, female cycling champions like Victoria Pendleton, Marianne Vos and Emma Pooley have shifted the gears of female representation on the roads. This year, an all-female 89km race called La Course by Le Tour de France took place around Paris before the 21st stage of the Tour, and was covered in 157 countries by 25 TV broadcasters. I don’t know if that’s a triumph for feminism, but I do know that it was a two-hour triumph for the winner, Dutch cyclo-cross, road and track racer, Marianne Vos.
'We put our souls into cycling,' said the Colombian cyclist and flesh-nethered Angie Rojas. Her soul, her legs, her hopes, her ambition, her labia majora and her admirable bike face. And so do I. And so should you. Cycling is a liberating, intoxicating, joyful way to navigate through life without ever having to depend on night buses, taxi fares, trains or tests. I have cycled to the edge of the map, to the ends of the earth and stood on the shore of this wide world with nothing but two tubes of air beneath my bum and enough muscle in my legs to fell a horse. Cycling has made me a better woman and a happier person.
So come on. The last one over the crossbar is a padded arse.
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Picture: Emily Golitzin
This article originally appeared on The Debrief.