I thought running would make me fitter. So I laced up my sneaks, hopped on the treadmill, and took off. This should be easy – I'm a cyclist in good shape, right? Wrong. My heart rate soared, I was more winded than I've ever been in my life, and the shin splints had me hobbling for days.

You rode long, or maybe you rode hard. You glide back into the parking lot and then you swing your leg over the saddle to dismount your bike. And it hurts. You feel a familiar twinge in your low back, an aching in your hips. You peruse your buddy's Strava and notice something odd… he's been secretly doing Pilates on his non-bike days. Now you're wondering if you should do Pilates, too.

When I took my very first FTP test on an indoor trainer, I had no idea what to expect. I just knew it was going to start easy and get *very, very hard fast*. So I chugged some water, blasted my favorite playlist, pointed a high-powered fan straight at my face, and pedaled until my legs turned to jelly. My reward? A whopping 78 watts.

“How do I get thighs like that?” I asked my cycling friend, referring to a woman on Instagram with amazingly thick, sculpted thighs. Her answer both amused and disappointed me: “Heavier squats,” she laughed. “Much heavier squats.” I was hoping she would say just keep cycling.

You don't need fancy gear, perfect clothes, big muscles or an expensive bike. All you need is a bike and a helmet, and boom – you're a cyclist.

Cycling isn't supposed to hurt. Yet for many riders, discomfort creeps in sooner or later. Maybe it's a nagging knee on climbs, tingling fingers halfway through a ride, or a sore back that lingers long after you've unclipped. Sometimes it builds quietly over weeks. Other times, it happens all at once in a split-second crash.

We lined up on the rail, ready to leave it all on the track in a team sprint race. The whistle blew, and we dove down the track, wheel to wheel, cadences high and our determination even higher. We gave it everything we had – until our lungs burned and our legs gave out into wobbly, noodly messes. Yet the final sprint was photo-finish close.

“You just didn’t drink enough,” he said, as he handed me a bottle of Gatorade and an ice pack for my throbbing head. And he was right. I was so taken by the thrill of the ride and the glorious country views that I forgot to sip regularly. Dehydration got the best of me.

The guilt and FOMO used to hit me like a brick every time I would turn down an outdoor ride in favour of my smart trainer. But sometimes, climbing aboard my trainer makes a lot more sense than meandering the rolling hills in my rural hometown.