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.