In praise of the early shift

Once the clock goes past ten I’m basically done. There may be some outliers to that rule, as with any rule, but essentially if I’m not doing it by ten it won’t get done. Bikes are the same. Get out early or not at all. The night before, I make a plan: when I’ll leave, where I’ll ride, how I’ll get there. In winter it’s harder. Everything is harder in the winter.

The other morning I got organised. Checked the lights, mapped the route, considered the weather. It’s cold at the moment, so the mind plays tricks: do I really want to leave? The answer, inevitably, is yes. Sunrise is at 08:00, so 07:15 leave means that by the time the fun begins there will be enough light to see the trail without squinting or swearing at roots. I like going out in the dark and coming back in the light, or vice versa. But going out in the dark and returning in the dark? That’s for the dogs, in my opinion.

Now where's that worm?

There’s something about being first out that can’t be replicated. The woods are quiet, the air crisp, the world still dreaming. Muntjac glance at me, puzzled. Fewer walkers around, fewer distractions. Early mornings are a kind of freedom: a chance to move through the day on your own terms, to set a pace dictated only by yourself, not by traffic, email, or expectation.

Even the mundane feels elevated. Pushing pedals that are still stiff from the cold, seeing breath hang in small clouds, frost crunching under tyres. There’s a rhythm to it, almost meditative, though I wouldn’t dare call it yoga — balance is dubious enough without deep breathing. But there’s a rhythm. You find your line, your tempo. Every turn, every rise, every swoop of the trail feels sharper, cleaner, because the world hasn’t yet pressed itself into chaos.

And there’s reward in the simplicity of morning. You finish a loop and the world is still waking. Coffee shops haven’t opened, inboxes haven’t filled, news feeds are asleep. You’ve already done something the day hasn’t yet caught up with. That early ride isn’t just exercise; it’s a declaration that you’re moving through life deliberately, rather than being carried along by it.

Day break in the woods

In winter, this satisfaction is even greater. The cold bites, the trails grip stubbornly, mud finds its way where it shouldn’t. But every struggle has its payoff. By the end, you feel slightly heroic, even if only in your own mind. There’s a quiet pride in finishing when streets are largely empty, in knowing that while most are still under blankets, you’ve already lived a small adventure.

There’s also humour in early mornings. Shadows stretch long across frost-covered paths. Mist rises from ditches and puddles like it’s auditioning for a gothic film. You negotiate with the cold, the dark, and the odd wild animal that thinks it owns the trail. Early mornings have a comedy if you notice — you’re half-awake, half-focused, negotiating a delicate balance between determination and the urge to turn around and go back to bed. And yet, despite all that, there’s no other time I’d rather be out.

By 09:30, if you’ve left at the right time, the world starts to catch up. Walkers appear, dog owners start circuits, occasional runners pass by, murmuring greetings. The trail becomes populated, the magic slightly diluted, but your early start has earned something those who sleep in cannot claim: quiet, pace, solitude, and the small, smug satisfaction of having already lived a chunk of the day.

Early mornings are my thing. They allow me to be the first witness to the slow awakening of the day, to carve a small slice of time that belongs purely to me, my bike, and the trail. They teach patience, anticipation, and the simple joy of moving while the rest of the world stays still. By the time breakfast is done, emails checked, and the day officially begins, I’ve already had my adventure. The woods are behind me, frost has melted, the day has begun. And perhaps, if I’m honest, a stubborn hope lingers that tomorrow I’ll get out there even earlier.