This article is part of a series called ‘A love letter to…’ where Cycling Weekly writers (usually) pour praise on their favourite cycling items and share the personal connection they have with them. In this case, our writer decided to take a more cynical stance, though if we're being pedantic, this is 'A breakup letter to shaving your legs.'
Dear shaver,
It’s not you, it’s me. Actually, scratch that. It’s definitely you. You’ve been a pain to use, and frankly, I’m just so done with shaving my legs. I’ve dedicated hours of time, energy, and my limited patience to this conviction, and now, it’s time to call it quits.
I remember the first shave, back when I was a junior racer, desperate to fit in, to be like the big leagues, and to feel like I was part of something. You were my ticket to the club. Shaving my legs was a rite of passage, a symbol of the effort I was putting in to chase those elusive seconds. And I’d like to think we made a good team for a while.
You shaved away the watt-pinching follicles, and I shaved away the extra seconds in my races. You helped me feel lean and fast, and I, well, felt like a pro when I pulled up to a race with my glistening pins. It wasn’t just about performance; it was the aesthetic, too, right? The sleek, aerodynamic look that screamed, “I’ve got this”, as I lined up to yet another third-category crit race.
But now? Now, I can barely be bothered to charge you, shaver, nor can I break the promise I made to my Arts Editor, Dan Baines, that I would never shave again – not even for a Cycling Weekly photoshoot.
So here we are, a year later, and I haven’t touched you since. I’m sorry, but I’m done with the repetitive, monotonous ritual of shaving; sitting in the bath, hacking away at my leg hair, painstakingly going back for any stray in sight. All for the glory of, what, a few extra watts? A slight reduction in wind resistance? Or, more likely, the illusion that I’m somehow still racing at my peak?
Of course, there were good times. The fleeting moments when I was fit, tanned, and most definitely faster. There was a strange sense of pride that came with those freshly shorn legs, but that’s the thing, isn’t it? It was all vanity. It was about chasing a glossier version of myself that just isn't real anymore, as my average speeds painfully remind me. You see, my reasons for riding have shifted. I no longer care about looking the part, or fitting in with the racing community. These days, I’m just here for the ride.
And that's not even to mention the stress. I'd need two hands to count how many times the battery has run out halfway through trimming my left calf. Is there anything more humbling than a razor dying mid-shave?
Cycling’s become more about freedom and less about perfection. There’s no need for me to keep pretending, no need for me to be part of some 'shaved legs club' anymore. The truth is, I don’t care what people think about my leg hair – or lack thereof. I want to have fun on my bike, not tick off some arbitrary checklist of racing expectations.
And anyway, there is something rather satisfying about dropping a rider with hairy legs these days – perhaps Primož Roglič was on to something after all...
So I bid you goodbye, shaver. You’ve served me well, but it’s time for us to part ways.
Yours,
A much happier, hairier soul.
