So, let's say you want to get into competitive road cycling. Not just riding to work or smashing Strava segments at dawn, but the real deal—entering that dream gravel race, rolling up to the start line with the big wheels, the deep-section rims, the kit that costs more than some people’s monthly rent. What’s your first buy?

A new bike? A power meter? Maybe special socks? Nope. The first thing you might need is a second mortgage. Welcome to 2025, where the price of entry to professional cycling isn’t just about talent or training—it’s increasingly all about dollars and cents.

Gone are the days when you could roll up at a crit in a cannibalised secondhand carbon frame and still belong. Cycling is having an identity crisis. On one hand, you have incredible technological leaps that are pushing performance to never-before-seen heights. On the other, you’ve got a sport whose participation is rapidly slipping out of reach for the average rider. Is cycling evolving, or is it simply becoming more exclusive? Let’s talk about how we’re pricing passion out of the sport—and what a growing number of people are doing to pull it back from the edge.

Let’s start with the most eye-watering part: the bike. The flagship road bikes of today aren’t just expensive—they’re luxury items in cleat form.

Check this out: the X-LAB RT9 Red E-Tap AXS 2025 model retails for $13,499 at some Aussie shops 1. The Cannondale SuperSix EVO LAB71 isn’t far behind, hovering around $14,749 depending on the market 2. For context, you can buy a used Honda Civic for that. And get some gas.

These aren’t rare, museum-piece prototypes. They’re the machines showing up at major races. The trickle-down effect is brutal: entry-level "performance" bikes, like the Scott Addict RC 30, are still listed at $6,999—way beyond what most riders earning a median income can casually drop on a weekend hobby.

But the bike is just the front wheel of this runaway cost cart. Remember that dream gravel race you wanted to do? Let’s pick a real one: Unbound Gravel, the epic 200-mile dirt fest held every year in Emporia, Kansas. The entry fee to throw your name into the lottery for the 200-mile race? $270—and that’s before travel, food, hotel, and transporting your gear 3.

By the time you’ve flown to Kansas, booked a room during one of the most oversubscribed weekends in American gravel, rented a van, and bought emergency supplies, you’re easily looking at over $1,300 for a single weekend. No wonder racers are camping in fields or crashing in dorms at Emporia State. When the town’s population swells by half during the event, even the Airbnbs get a caffeine-fueled markup spike.

Add it up, and you’ve got a disturbing pattern: competitive cycling is looking less and less like a meritocracy and more like a glitzy country club where the admission price depends on your net worth.

This isn’t just alienating the weekend warrior—it’s creating a fundamental divide in our community. You’re either "a cyclist" (capital ‘C’, pro-shop loyalty card included) or just… someone who rides a bike.

And let’s be honest—many of the brands fueling this gear arms race aren’t exactly shedding tears. The industry loves selling the dream: "Be like the pros. Ride like the peleton. Spend like a VC." It’s a brilliant sales engine, but it’s also pushing competitive riding into the hands of the privileged few. Where’s the space for someone without a trust fund or a sponsor?

One rider on Reddit summed it up best, writing, “300 bucks for a ride on public roads?” 4. Yep. The sport is asking people to pay not just to suffer, but to pay to suffer.

So, is all hope lost? Is cycling destined to become the private hobby of the rich and the Instagram-ready? Not quite. The sport’s soul isn’t dead—it’s just fighting back, one community ride and policy change at a time.

All across the country (and the globe), groups are forming to tackle the exclusivity head-on. Take the Shifting Gears Collective, a nonprofit based in Whatcom County, Washington. Their mission is simple but revolutionary: break down barriers for women in outdoor sports. They offer free, no-experience-required programs in mountain biking, sea kayaking, road biking, and backpacking 5. No $15k bike? No problem. No mentor or racing pedigree? They’ve got you.

They’re not alone. From informal Black and Brown biker groups that grew during the pandemic to gender-inclusive gravel meetups, the rise of communal cycling is a quiet revolution. These aren’t flashy events—they’re local, intentional, and designed to make the sport less about winning and more about belonging.

"Amazing! I learned, I was challenged, I was empowered!" one participant exclaimed on their website. "I found a new hobby, and had a fantastically wild time exploring, bonding, laughing, and adventuring." Now that’s branding the big companies should be copying.

Then there’s the institutional end. In 2024, the Union Cycliste Internationale (UCI)—cycling’s global governing body—quietly adopted a Diversity Charter aimed at promoting gender equity, racial diversity, and inclusion across all disciplines 1. This isn’t just window dressing. Starting in 2026, the Women’s WorldTour will see enforceable regulations:

Equal prize money distribution

A 1:3 staff-to-rider ratio to improve support and coaching access

A minimum team budget of €1.2 million

An enforced minimum rider salary of €38,000 (about $41,000)—a lifeline for athletes who’ve long been expected to train while working side jobs

This is a seismic shift. For years, women’s cycling lived on scraps—less funding, less coverage, less travel support—all while facing the same grueling race schedules. Now, the UCI is saying, “No more.” It’s not about charity. It’s about fairness.

They’ve also launched a “Women in Cycling” network to foster leadership and mentorship, and their 2030 agenda explicitly includes diversity and inclusion as core pillars 6. Is this perfect? No. But it’s momentum.

And even the brands are inching toward a more inclusive ethos. Rapha—the poster child of premium cycling lifestyle—launched their “More Than Cycling” campaign, a refresh of their brand vision that prioritises community and accessibility over podium finishes 7.

Remember when Rapha was all about black kits, European cafes, and looking like you’d suffer elegantly up Alpe d’Huez? They haven’t abandoned that. But now they’re spotlighting women’s rides, grassroots efforts, and stories of everyday riders through campaigns like Women’s 100, a global series celebrating women on bikes. Their “She Sends” collection, co-created with pro mountain biker Kate Courtney, supports her foundation to get more girls on bikes 8.

Sure, they still charge $500 for a jersey. But now there’s a narrative running through their marketing that says: This sport is for you too—whether you race, tour, or just like the wind in your helmet.

Of course, not everyone’s cheering. To many traditionalists, these changes feel like political correctness intruding on a pure competition. "Racing is a meritocracy," they’ll argue over espresso at their local bike shop. "You train hard. You win. Period. Why should we lower standards or favour demographics?"

And, sure, on the surface, they’ve got a point. The purity of sport—isn’t that the whole appeal? To know that the fastest rider on the day wins?

But here’s the thing the meritocracy argument always misses: There is no pure meritocracy without equity. A level playing field isn’t created by ignoring inequality—it’s created by addressing it.

Let’s be real: the current system already favours those with financial stability. When you need a $12,000 bike, $300 entry fees, and a paid vacation to compete, you’re not rewarding the fittest rider—you’re rewarding the best-funded.

If we’re being honest, we’ve always had “interventions”: wildcards handed to pro teams, sponsor exemptions, entry fees that gatekeep. The debate isn’t whether we should have rules—it’s about what kind of sport we want to preserve.

The Shifting Gears model, the UCI’s salary mandates, and Rapha’s social campaigns aren’t about lowering performance—they’re about expanding the pool of talent. They’re saying: What if the next Eddy Merckx isn’t training in Belgium, but in a small Appalachian town on a used steel frame? What if she’s a Black woman who hasn’t been welcomed in the sport before?

Giving more people access doesn’t degrade competition—it enhances it. Talent is everywhere, but opportunity isn’t. Equity measures aren’t social engineering; they’re common sense.

That said, we shouldn’t discard tradition. You don’t need to hate lycra to love inclusion. Many of us fell in love with cycling because of the legends, the grand tours, the elegance of a tight peloton on a French climb. The sport’s heritage is worth preserving—even as we build bridges to include more people within it.

So, where does this leave us? Cycling is at a crossroads. One path leads deeper into luxury, where the sport becomes an exclusive enclave for a wealthy few, its elite events covered by media but invisible to 99% of riders’ daily lives.

The other path—inclusive, diverse, and accessible—requires conscious effort. It means bike companies rethinking pricing. It means event organizers creating entry-level tiers and travel grants. It means more folks supporting local groups like Shifting Gears, not just with donations, but with participation.

And let’s get practical. What if flagship bikes that cost $15k came with a donation—say, 1% of sales—to support youth biking programs? What if race entries included an “opt-in equity fee” to subsidize low-income riders? What if every pro team was required to spend 5% of its budget on community engagement?

We don’t need to vilify high-end gear or elite racing. We just need to stop pretending they’re the only version of the sport—or the most important one.

Riding a bike should not be a privilege. It should be a choice. A joyful, challenging, life-changing choice, open to anyone with two legs, a heartbeat, and the desire to move.

The question isn’t whether cycling can survive the forces of gentrification and elitism. It’s whether we want it to stay true to its roots as a sport of endurance, freedom, and human connection—or whether we’re content to let it become just another luxury commodity.

Because right now, the pedals are ours. Let’s make sure we’re all still on the same ride.