Cycling jokes

The correct number of bikes to own is N+1, where N is the number you currently have.

The maximum is S minus 1, where S is the number that makes your partner pack a suitcase.

My mum asked why I looked so upset after the club run, so I told her a guy half wheeled me for 40km.

She wanted to call the police. Honestly, I didn't stop her.

Normal person: "How was your weekend?"

Cyclist: "Well, I did four hours in Zone 2, so you might want to sit down for this."

Rule of the club run: this is a strictly no drop ride.

Terms and conditions apply to anything with a gradient.

My mate upgraded to electronic gears so he'd never miss a shift again.

Then the battery died and he did the last 60km in one gear, which he now calls "a single speed training block."

My mate says "chapeau", drinks his espresso with his pinky out, and calls drizzle "proper Flandrien weather."

He's never been to Belgium. The furthest he's been is the garden centre café.

My mate spent a small fortune to save 90 grams on his bike.

Then he celebrated with 90 grams of carrot cake at the café stop. Twice.

My mate told his wife he'd be back from his "quick spin" by lunch.

He meant lunch tomorrow, after the café stop, the bonus climb and "just one more crack at a segment."

My mate says he shaves his legs "for road rash, for massages, and for aero."

In ten years he's never crashed, never booked a massage, and gets overtaken every Sunday by a pensioner with a wicker basket.

Before I got into road cycling, I looked normal at the beach.

Now strangers at the pool ask why I'm swimming in invisible shorts and fingerless gloves.

Nothing announces a club run arriving at the café like fifteen grown adults in cleats.

It sounds like a herd of newborn deer just signed up for tap lessons.

My mate checks the wind direction before he leaves the house.

Not for safety. There's a 400 metre stretch by the retail park with a KOM that's been mocking him since spring.