Precious Memories of Riding with Fellow Cyclists: The Camaraderie That Words Can't Express on Mountain Roads

Introduction

Cycling can be a solitary pursuit, or it can be anything but.

Among the cyclists I know, there are those who have ridden for over a decade and never joined a team or rallied riding buddies—they ride alone, think alone, and call it their form of meditation. I completely understand that need.

But in my own cycling life, some of the most precious memories are tied to “riding together.” Not because someone was pulling wind for me, but because certain people, certain moments, and certain roads combined to create a chemistry that existed only in that instant.

My first team: that group of oddballs and their unspoken understanding

I joined my first cycling team in my second year of riding—an amateur group in southern Taipei with about 15 members, aged 32 to 58, including an engineer, a chef, a teacher, a salesperson, and a mysterious older guy whose job I still can’t figure out to this day.

Every Saturday at 6 a.m., we gathered near Muzha MRT Station and rode together up Yangmingshan or along the Beiyi Highway, then had breakfast before heading our separate ways.

That team had no strict rules and no uniform kit (at first—later we ordered our own). Some rode high-end carbon bikes, some rode aluminum frames from a decade ago, and one rode a touring bike with panniers. But on the road, there was an unspoken understanding among us: the strong didn’t show off, the weak didn’t get discouraged, everyone waited if someone got a flat, and if someone got dropped on a climb, we waited at the summit.

That understanding was never spoken aloud, but everyone knew it.

The Wuling morning I’ll never forget

The time I rode Wuling with A-Kai was the most important “riding together” experience of my cycling life.

A-Kai was my college classmate. We’d lost touch for over a decade before reconnecting through cycling. We agreed to ride Wuling together, starting from Puli, just the two of us.

Along the way, we rode and talked—about stupid things we did in college, about our career twists and turns, about our kids, and about the doubts and vulnerabilities that two middle-aged men find hard to voice in ordinary social settings.

After climbing past 2,500 meters, the conversation gradually faded, and we each settled into our own rhythm. That silence was something peculiar—not awkward, but a sense of companionship that said, “I know you’re here, you know I’m here, and we don’t need to keep talking.”

When we reached Wuling, A-Kai got there first and waited by the sign. When I arrived, he handed me a can of coffee he’d carried up from Cingjing and said, “Drink up. I’ve been waiting a long time for you.”

That was the best coffee I’ve ever had—not because it was good, but because of what that waiting represented.

The unexpected connection with a stranger on the road

Sometimes, the bond formed with a stranger on the road is even more surprising.

Once, riding the Beiyi Highway, I encountered a rider going the same direction on the climb before Pinglin. His pace matched mine, and we kept a 30-meter gap between us for about 10 kilometers—neither overtaking, neither falling behind.

When we reached Pinglin town center, he stopped, nodded at me, and said, “Riding together is faster than riding alone. Thanks for giving me a target to follow.”

I paused for a moment, then said, “I was following your rhythm too.”

He burst out laughing. We shared a drink by the roadside, exchanged Line contacts, and went our separate ways. We’ve occasionally liked each other’s rides on Strava since, and crossed paths on the same stretches a few times—halfway riding partners, you could say.

That’s how bonds on the road work—light, fleeting, but real.

The moments that make me want to ride more

• At 4 a.m. before a ride, the thoughtful care in everyone asking each other, “Did you bring your supplies?”
• When someone is about to crack on a climb, the person behind says in a tone half teasing, half encouraging, “Just two more turns” (usually a lie, but it works)
• After a long ride, sitting on plastic chairs at a roadside shop, saying nothing—just existing together in silence
• When someone gets a new bike and shows up for the first ride with barely concealed excitement, like a kid
• When the strongest rider in the team unexpectedly falls behind on a climb, no one jokes about it; we wait, then keep riding, and it’s never mentioned again

These moments can’t be captured in photos, but they remind me of what cycling means far more than any ride check-in photo ever could.

Practical advice

• Finding a regular riding buddy of similar ability is better value than upgrading your gear: A riding partner who rides with you every week contributes far more to your progress than a new set of wheels.
• A team doesn’t have to be formal—three people is enough: All you need is a fixed time, a fixed meeting point, and sharing the route with each other to form an effective riding community.
• If you meet a stranger on the road whose pace matches yours, don’t hesitate to strike up a conversation: Many lifelong cycling friendships start exactly that way.
• Looking after riders slower than you matters more than overtaking riders faster than you: A rider who’s willing to wait will find more lasting joy in cycling than one who only chases speed.

Conclusion

Cycling can be solitary, or it can be anything but.

The conversations on mountain roads, the unspoken rhythm on climbs, the can of coffee handed to you at the finish—these are the things that, over all my years of riding, have made me feel that “this is worth doing” more than any personal record.

Speed records get broken, but those memories don’t.

Related Reading

• The Philosophy of Riding Solo: Freedom and Solitude on the Road
• Building a Cycling Community: How to Cultivate Your Riding Circle
• Group Cycling Challenges: The Chemistry and Division of Roles in a Five-Person Century Ride
• Solo Riding Meditation: Mental Training for the Lone Cyclist