There's much to learn about roadie life, I can see.

We leave home on a gloomy Marlborough morning, having farewelled the puppy and greeted our lovely house/dog sitters. Nelson, just two hours away, welcomes us with blue skies and a group of keen cyclists.

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Today's ride is a 25km shakedown tour of Nelson city on a lovely summer's afternoon. Using  a combination of cycle paths and painted road lanes, we forge a satisfyingly neat clockwise loop which takes us out on a rail trail to the Tasman Bay shoreline, through the beach suburb of Tahunanui then around the rocks and back into the city. 

Nelson is a city of commuter cyclists and we meet a number of them on the coastal path heading home to the suburbs. 

There are a couple of close calls as everyone gets to grips with riding in a bunch but as the kilometres unfold, we spread out sufficiently to allow me time to ruminate. 

And what do I come up with? Naked bikes. Real roadies apparently don't do appendages. Their bikes are lean, mean racing machines, with just a tiny bag tucked under the seatpost, used to store peanuts (I presume) and to hang their blinking rear light from. 

I like bags. I like a handlebar bag. I like frame bags and panniers. I like to put things into bags - and, more importantly - to take things out while riding. Things like masks, snacks and my camera. 

I may have accidentally brought a small handlebar bag from home,  one just big enough to carry my camera (and snacks). I may pop it onto the bike under cover of darkness. So tomorrow I may be able to take photos en route. Today was a photoless day. Fortunately, though, we were forced to stop to have a late afternoon drink at a pub. And then forced to have a group photo, so that I have some evidence of the day's ride, other than pedantic Strava.

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After the interlude at the apparently oxymoronic pub, I begin to notice another roadie practice: secret hand signals. Given that everything I know about road riding has been gained from TV coverage of the Tour de France, which comes with very useful commentary,  I quite expect to see some argy bargy in the peleton, some elbow waving even, explained away by a commentator with the ability to read the rider's mind.

Instead, I notice the riders in front occasionally pointing to the left downward. Later, a hand goes behind a rider's back with two fingers raised. I wait for the commentator to interpret these signals but someone has hit the mute button. I'm left to wonder in silence.

Here's hoping tomorrow will bring enlightenment -along with 1400 metres of elevation.