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How weekly bike rides with a group of supportive women showed me a route to joy

I always thought that joyriding meant nicking cars and taking them for a spin, often when drunk. It was what some of the wayward lads did on the Chingford Hall council estate where I grew up. So, I was surprised when the Waltham Forest newsletter reported a different kind of joyriding: a cycling group that is free, for women, and that loans bikes to the members who need them. It has grown since its inception, but JoyRiders started right here in my borough where we have an infrastructure of 27km of cycle paths, known as Mini Holland.

London was edging out of the last lockdown and one of the most isolating years we have ever experienced when I discovered the group. I had returned to my roots after living in California in the hope that this country might be kinder to my youngest son. He had bounced around in the mental health system in the USA for almost a decade, where the “cure” had been worse than the diagnosis. But the pandemic hampered my plan. When my son was admitted to a psychiatric hospital yet again, only here instead of in America, I knew I needed a better road map to find my way through the pain.

I hadn’t cycled in ages, but I had loved it ever since first learning to pedal around the podium, a large concrete pad that encircled our estate. I felt safe with the two small additional wheels that Mum had mounted somewhat unevenly on my bike, despite them making me lean to one side, more like a Hells Angel passenger on a Harley than a five-year-old girl on a Raleigh Chipper.

When it was time to ride without the stabilisers, Mum ran behind me shouting, “Pedal, pedal!” and then she gave me one almighty push into a world where it was just me and my bike. It was the way she did most things, confident that I would find my way.

Mum has long gone from this earth. I am the elder now. I feel it in my joints, see it in my face in the car mirror as I drive to Jubilee Park in Leyton for my first excursion with the JoyRiders. I hope I can keep up. I hope it doesn’t hurt my back. I have already messaged Mariam, the co-director of the group, to say I am 5ft 6in tall and that I am heavy. She is leading the morning ride today and I want to make sure the bike I borrow will bear my weight. In retrospect my note is redundant. It is a sturdy hybrid Raleigh that I will be using, not a miniature pony.

Jubilee Park is waking to runners and dog walkers, and it smells of freshly cut grass. I make my way to the container where the stockpile of council-owned cycles is kept. Mariam has a softly spoken accent – a mix of her Dutch and German heritage – and a no-nonsense sense of leadership. She reassures me that my body will remember what to do. “Muscle memory,” she insists. I know that there are other things that my body keeps score of. The trauma of witnessing my son struggle over the years. I don’t say anything about this, though, nor do I say that I am gay and Jewish. It doesn’t seem relevant until the other women start arriving, many of them in traditional Islamic dress. Will it matter to them, I wonder? Is this the right group for me? Will I fit in?