Night Rider

The Night Rider

In this heady corner of the globe, temperatures can reach 40°C during the day, with a humidity level of 90%. Sweat trickles through every pore. Without making even the slightest movement there is an unpleasant sensation of permanent dampness. It’s what the British might call ‘close’.

As you ride out here in daytime under the beat of the United Arab Emirates sunshine, the UV index reaches new heights. The rays work like the grill of a giant toaster, burning bare skin in a matter of minutes. The air-conditioned buildings of urban luxury here are real refuges, without which it seems impossible to survive. But further in the desert, the natives seem to master the phenomenon of heat and humidity, dressed in white, exploiting every corner of shade, every slightest draft.

In the Middle East, from June to September, riding a bicycle means using the home trainer and said air conditioning, giving up on the outdoors, unless, that is, you choose to ride at night. The idea is not so absurd, and many seize upon it to continue riding on the outside, even if it means living against the grain of the rest of the air-conditioned world. The height of extravagant infrastructure, here in Dubai, kilometres of cycle paths are illuminated throughout the night to allow cyclists to ride, transforming the adventure of a night ride into a real attraction.

It’s a fascinating notion, pedalling through under the stars when a good part of the city is sleeping. Here, to hope to ride at a reasonable temperature of 28°C, you have to roll out well towards midnight. But at this time traffic slows down, and can even disappear. The city becomes an amusement park where the night is never really present, thanks to electric beacons buzzing above, and below. But the experience seems artificial, and quite lonely, with no one else around. Despite the effort made pedalling, it feels like a dream.

Seeing the yellow road markings scroll for miles under the wheels is reminiscent of the irreplaceable feeling of racing day after day, where you have to fight against the repetition of fatigue, and the elements. Like those hallucinations that come to you when your mind seems on autopilot, when your body is nothing more than a machine, responding only to the order to roll as fast and as far as possible. Just as at the races, in this lonely atmosphere we can’t stop; sleeping is for those who don’t ride, sleeping is for the uninitiated.

In the distance the lights of the tallest towers in the world mingle with the stars. From here the halo of megawatts might be mistaken for the moon, and the moon mistaken for a street lamp. Around me the sand returns the heat it has stored-up during the day, and being in motion on the bike is the only way to benefit from a little air. As soon as you stop the machine, the atmosphere quickly becomes heavy, and as the British might say, ‘very bloody close’.

70 kilometres in a little over two hours. Not really a long outing by an ex-pro’s standards but it's almost a luxury here at this time of year. A luxury that requires staying awake, a luxury that will probably become a regretful ache or two when the alarm clock rings in a few hours from now…

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