The lessons I learned cycling across Rwanda

The backmarker of the peloton was Eric, a tall, stick-thin Rwandan. Under his cycling helmet he wore a baseball cap with a long peak which give the whole a fashionable Peaky Blinders look. Eric carried the peloton water supply in two rear panniers and it was also his job to ensure that nobody fell so far behind that they got lost. Which basically meant me. Even though I had chosen to ride an electrically assisted bike, I was always last.

We were riding along the base of a chain of volcanos in the north-west of the country on undulating but relatively smooth black cinder roads. The fertile countryside was densely populated with rural poor who rushed to the side of the road to witness our passing spectacle and shout greetings, or laugh, or to silently contemplate the stark difference between the lives of those bombing through on two and a half-grand bikes for the fun of it, and their own stationary shell-shocked poverty.

But I was learning. I was learning above all that the thick, almost tractor-like tyres of my bike could absorb the shock of much larger stones than I had originally thought possible. Also that if I stood up on the pedals when riding over large stones, it didn’t hurt. Having learned this, I no longer had to concentrate as intently on the road surface as before and I could survey the dramatic scenery and even engage Eric in conversation.

Before setting off, we had visited the Genocide Memorial museum in the capital, Kigali. The magnitude of the Rwandan genocide was brought home to me by an exchange overheard between our museum guide and the member of our cycling party who asked the most questions. The guide had said 84,000 corpses had been unearthed last year alone, mainly by construction work.