Cycling Widows

A week later, the fold-up bike arrived, a spindly model with tiny wheels and a puny frame; nothing to hint at the obsession to come.

Come it did, around six months later, in the form of a bespoke Italian road bike – a substantial bit of engineering that clogged up our hall, transforming my husband’s mild interest into a full-blown love affair; he calls ''her’’ Black Beauty.

The spooky appearance of rubbery latex figure-hugging wear, nestling in the laundry basket. Specialist catalogues selling ''bib shorts’’, ''gilets’’ and Lycra shorts.

Another cycling widow complains that her husband gets up earlier and earlier to go to work: “He takes a detour through Kent before he gets to the City.” They live in Balham.