A Turn of the Pedal: My Ebike Conversion Story

Good day to all! Nigel here. Now, gather around, folks, because today I’m serving a slice of humble pie, homemade and fresh out of the oven. You see, not too long ago, my trusty steed had two wheels, a pair of handlebars, and required a good old-fashioned thing called ‘effort’ to get anywhere. Ebikes? Pah! They were for the sort of people who bought treadmills for coat racks. Or so I stubbornly proclaimed from my high horse, which, incidentally, was also not electric.

Let’s rewind a bit. Picture me, a sprightly 65-year-old with the athletic prowess of a slightly overripe banana, comfortably ensconced in my ways and opinions. Yes, I’ve been known to hit a golf ball without causing bodily harm (usually), take to the slopes (gravity does most of the work), and occasionally mount my bicycle for a leisurely jaunt (read: wheezing scenic route). But electric bicycles? “Cheating!” I’d scoff into my pint, my belly offering unsolicited applause. “Laziness with a rechargeable battery!”

Well, that was me until a mate, also an ‘electric enthusiast’, threw down the gauntlet—quite recklessly, I must add, in the vicinity of my pint. The challenge? An 18-mile ebike ride to our favourite pub and back. If anything could sway a man, it’s the twin prospects of ale and proving oneself right.

The day dawned fair, my skepticism high, my preparation minimal—why bother when the bike’s doing all the work, right? But lo and behold, dear readers, as I mounted that ebike, something miraculous happened. With each assisted pedal, my disdain melted away faster than the ice in my neglected G&T. Hills seemed flatter, distances shorter, and my notorious ‘Nigel huff-and-puff’—legend in seven counties—was conspicuously absent.

By the time we reached the pub, a revelation dawned on me. This, THIS, was fun. No, not just fun—exhilarating. I was eating my words, and they were more delicious than the pub’s shepherd’s pie. The return journey wasn’t a penance; it was a joy. Who was this breezy, energetic cyclist? Had the local witchcraft club bewitched me? No, it was the darn ebike.

Fast-forward to the present, and yours truly is a proud ebike owner. Who would’ve thought? It turns out the ‘cheating’ I had bemoaned was just me cheating myself out of a jolly good time. The ebike hasn’t just dusted off my old bones; it’s brushed up my social life too! I’m now ‘Nigel the Explorer’, breezing through the countryside, zipping to the village, even doing my shopping with my two-wheeled electric chariot.

So here I am, eating crow (seasoned with humility and a dash of irony), admitting that I, Nigel, the self-professed sloth in cyclist’s clothing, was wrong. Ebikes are not for the lazy; they’re for the savvy. And if they’re for the lazy, well, sign me up for the club—I’ll be president! At 65, I’ve earned my easy rides and breezy glides.

To those I’ve wronged with my previous tirades against ebikes, I extend a heartfelt apology and a raised pint. And to those still on the fence, take it from an old dog who’s learned a new trick: give it a go. You might just find yourself, like me, putting the ‘e’ in ‘rejuvenated.’

Until the next electrifying adventure,

Nigel 🚴