I think I’ve joined a south London cycling cult

I live in south London and Herne Hill is in south London. Ideal, I thought. I was wrong. I left the house and, seven buses and two consecutive water buffaloes later, found myself on a quiet, unassuming suburban street. Was this really it? Like an explorer in the desert, I kept going, hoping for the best but preparing for the worst.

I eventually took a right, walked down a little path, and found the oasis to be real. Within minutes, I was sitting in the sun, sipping on cold white wine, surrounded by trees, unable to hear any traffic, and watching some cyclists warm up. Things were off to a terrific start.

It made me feel quite bad about my initial cynicism. Despite having grown up in France, I’d never been interested in cycling. At best, I’d thought while browsing the velodrome’s website, it would be fun to watch people do strenuous exercise in 30-degree heat and think, “Well, better you than me.” That’s why people watch videos of spots being squeezed, right?

In fairness, it hadn’t helped that none of the races’ names made sense to me. What’s a “scratch”? Why does “Swiss tempo” sound like ballroom dancing for people with no sense of rhythm? Should I care who “Keirin” is?

As it turned out, the first race was straightforward: the first person to cross the finish line won. There clearly was some strategy at play, but it was all pretty easy to get from context, and entertaining to watch.

When someone explained that no one wants to be the frontrunner in those races, I nearly pointed out that the same is usually said about leadership contests in the Conservative party. I then remembered that regular people wouldn’t consider this to be an even remotely fun fact, and kept my big mouth shut.

Luckily, I was distracted by the MC, who soon became the highlight of my day. Though she did manage to explain some of what was going on, a fair bit of her commentary consisted of: “Yeah, I’ve got no idea who that is”, “we have … someone … in fifth place” and “I presume this is the sprint?” When I’m world king, I’ll have her narrate everything, all the time. She was excellent.

I can’t blame her for the fact that I didn’t understand what happened after the scratch. I think the wine and the heat may have been to blame. “Why is there a funky little motorbike?” I wrote down at one point, sober as a judge.

“Women on bikes chasing a little guy on a little motorbike? Then he pulls away and it looks like he’s taunting them?” I typed on my phone, using the words of someone who was, hand on heart, now in dire need of a pint of ice-cold water.

The end of the day was, you’ll be surprised to hear, a bit of a blur. What I do remember, however, is the number of people saying, “Oh, you should try it! Get on your bike! Join us!” and thinking that maybe I’d accidentally walked in on a cult.

I guess my question is, in hindsight: is it such a bad thing, to be in a south London track cycling cult? I think I may have to visit again to make sure. I’ll just sit in the shade next time.

Photograph by PA/Alamy