I first met Richard ‘Butch’ Butcher back in the summer of 2023. He’d just landed the Cycling Weekly photography gig, and I liked him straight away. This wasn’t by dint of any particularly endearing personality traits – I mean, we’d only exchanged a cursory ‘alright mate’ in the office kitchen. But there was something about this guy that I really took a shine to. And that something was his weight.
Yes, Butch was a big man. He was also old. In an office full of five per cent body fat and youthful complexion he was a breath of fresh air. Bragging similar proportions, I had finally found a kindred spirit – albeit one I’d known for less than three seconds.
With Butch being a photographer and myself a writer, it wasn’t long before we teamed up for some riding shoots. We went to Wales, to France, and even raced each other across London in a bicycle versus underground face-off. We also went to the pub and dispatched countless pints of lager and endless packets of pork scratchings but I digress.
“Spit it out,” I said to him. “What’s taken the zoom out of your lens?”
“I’ve had enough, " he quickly retorted. “I watch you guys riding up mountains, through beautiful countryside, and all I get to do is drive from place to place taking pictures. I want,” he chimed, unaware of a pending copyright issue, “to ride my bicycle.”
And so the journey began. Some 40 years since he’d last turned a pedal in earnest Butch, who now is pushing the ripe old age of 60, got hold of an e-bike secreted in the darkest recesses of Cycling Weekly’s bike locker and set to work. His mission, a simple one: get fit, lose weight, live longer. Standard.
His commutes on the Himiway were stymied as winter hit and the big man was now bereft. Butch wanted to ride, but the thought of negotiating the Reading conurbation on a rainy November morning was not an alluring one. But his fitness – due to an admirably consistent summer of e-biking commutes – had gone from non-existent to actually-really-rather-good. I suggested that to keep the momentum going he turned to the Dark Side. Zwift, I told him, will turn your legs into pistons, your lungs into church organ bellows, and your stomach into a finely sculpted work of art.
He managed about five seconds worth of pixelated pedalling before dismounting the office’s Wahoo Kickr bike. He didn’t like Zwift, he told me. He said he felt like he was riding through an episode of Peppa Pig. Too animated. Not real enough.
Rouvy was the obvious answer. And after a few short sessions of ambling around a real-world parcours, Butch was hooked. Autumn passed in a blaze of newfound wattage, winter was bisected at breakneck pace as the big man – who was getting smaller by the day – realised he’d officially been bitten by the cycling bug.
Come spring, Butch emerged from his pain cave 20 kilograms lighter. I told him to ease off – have an iced-bun, take a break – but he wasn’t listening.
His vision was blinkered. He spent the spring and summer commuting with laser-focused consistency. The e-bike was retired, replaced by a sleek Van Rysel: aero fairings, Di2, deep-section hoops – the man meant business. Hills were no longer dispatched with a click of a button, they now required brute force driven through carbon fibre soles.
In less than a year, Butch had reinvented himself. He was a cyclist. He wore Lycra. He click-clacked around the office in cleats. At 60 years old, he was in the best shape of his adult life.
Butch’s commutes tallied the best part of 20 miles per day. Base miles gone beserk. I suggested that to sign off the summer we should put his slow-twitch muscle fibres to the test: a ride out from the office into the wilds of Wiltshire and back. An imperial ton in the last of the sun beckoned…
Butch's first 100 miler was a rite of passage, and, in the end, ticked off comfortably
One hundred miles. A rite of passage. Something that cyclists can aim at and aspire towards for years. But Butch was ready for this now – although he was sceptical. “Just think of it as five back-to-back commutes," I told him. “Break it down into 20-mile chunks. Eat and hydrate. Look around, enjoy the countryside, the sun on your face, the fact that you’re a fit and healthy human being.
We rode fast away from the Reading conurbation and onto the lanes of north Hampshire. We spun up ascents with a quick cadence and dropped back down with heavy breaths and noisy freehubs. Butch sat stoically on my wheel as we pushed through the rolling contours of Wiltshire and up to Coombe Gibbet. Fifty miles done. Fast, fun, free.
The consistency of his training really shone through towards the latter stages of the ride Once again breaching the Hampshire border I didn’t have to temper my pace, Butch was in beast mode, taking the occasional turn on the front and keeping the tempo high. The man who once watched others ride was now the one leading the charge. He’d become what he’d always photographed: a cyclist in full flight.
Back at the office, we stowed our bikes and basked in a day well spent.
Butch’s cycling journey has just begun, now I suppose I’d better start learning how to operate a camera.
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